Judy Blume was everyone’s “other” mother. Well, she was when I was growing up, that is. Her stories fit perfectly into our lives, explaining to us, in a way the school hadn’t yet, what was happening with our bodies, why it was happening and if everyone was going through the same things. We didn’t want to approach our parents about certain topics or thoughts, especially concerning matters of our attraction toward the opposite sex. Judy Blume made it alright to hold that opinion. What her characters went through, we went through.
She was read by both boys and girls. We needed her voice. We needed her guidance.
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