White Girl Problems

by Babe Walker

  My dad almost fell out of his chair. “What the motherfu—”

  “Dad, stop,” I continued. “Listen, I don’t know what happened—my shaman, Steve, says it may be bad karma from a past life—but I was born with a Basquiat between my legs, and I need to have it fixed before I go out into the real world, aka immediately after I graduate high school. It’s imperative that I have this surgery, Dad. I was going to wait until you asked me what I wanted for graduation, but seeing that someone has trouble keeping her thoughts to herself . . . ,” I trailed off, glaring at Mabinty, “I had to go ahead and tell you now.”

  Mabinty threw her hands up. “Don’t look at mi, child! It nah mi fault that yuh tink yuh gotta roast beef sanwich in yuh draws.”

  “Oh, that’s just great,” I muttered. “Mabinty, are you stoned?”

  “Mmm hmm. So what? Check yuhself, Babe Walker.” She turned and left the room.

  I looked at my dad. “See how cruel people can be? I need this surgery, Dad. Please give me the vagina I was meant to have! Please give me this gift.”

  To say my dad was appalled by my request would be an understatement. He stammered a few versions of “No” and a few versions of “No bloody fucking way” and told me he was going to get me a car, then advised me to take my body issues up with my therapist, Susan.

  Susan had been well aware of my situation for a few years now, and she’d been quick to diagnose me with vaginal dysmorphic disorder. Basically she spun some bullshit about how I perceived my vagina differently than how it actually appeared. Funny, because I had tried to show her my vagina once, but she refused to look at it. So technically she’d never even seen my fucking vagina, so how the fuck would she know? The nerve of some people.

  I needed someone who was on my side. Someone who could vouch for me. I couldn’t fight the battle alone any longer. Genevieve was out of the question—there was no way I was going to give her the satisfaction. Roman was the only other option, and besides, he’d already experienced my meow-meow when we’d had sex sophomore year, so I knew he’d have my back. We were shopping for graduation outfits at Burberry with my dad when I decided to broach the subject.

  “Romeo, can we talk about my vagina for two seconds?” I asked.

  “No fucking way.”

  “Okay, cool. Do you think I need a labiaplasty?”

  Roman choked on his gum, “a labiawhat?” He looked worriedly at my dad, who was ten feet away browsing through some ties, and then back at me.

  “A labiaplasty,” I explained, raising my voice slightly, hoping my dad would hear. “Plastic surgery on my vagina to make it cuter and chic-er and more . . . me.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my dad glance over at us.

  Roman started slowly backing away from me. “No, Babe. I don’t think you need that.”

  I followed him into the menswear section, raising my voice even more. “Really? You’ve seen my vagina, though. It’s out of control! It doesn’t belong on my body. I think something went wrong in the womb, because I ended up with a devil where an angel should be. I’ve Googled it! It’s a type three according to Genevieve.”

  “Babe, you’re scaring me,” Roman said, visibly sweating.

  “Exactly!” I said, practically shouting now. “So you agree, my vagina is scary?”

  “No! I never said that!” Roman was terrified. “Honestly, Babe,” he said under his breath, “I never got a good look at it. I was wasted the night we had sex. I turned you over and fucked you like a dude, remember?”

  “Just admit it, Roman!” I yelled. “My vagina is hideous. Be real with me! I can take it!!!”

  “Barbara Walker! Stop carrying on with the vagina stuff for God’s sake!” my dad shouted. “Nobody wants to hear about the problems you’re having with your bloody axe wound! And stop picking at Roman. There’s no way he’s ever seen your vagina. Look at him. He’s a poof!”

  The entire store went silent. A saleslady stood next to my father, slack-jawed and horrified.

  “I’ll take these three ties,” my dad said to her, composing himself. “And a suit. 40R. You choose the color. And some shoes . . . doesn’t matter which kind. Charge it all to this.” He handed her his Amex Black Card. “Babe, you’ll bring the stuff out? I’m going to get the car from the valet. Cheers.”

  With everyone in my life refusing to acknowledge my needs, I turned to the one person who I knew would never cast judgment on anyone’s desire for plastic surgery: my grandmother, Rose, aka my Tai Tai.

  TAI TAI n 1) term used in Eastern cultures for supreme wife (implying a situation where a man is wealthy enough to have several “wives”) but no longer strictly interpreted; now applies to citizens of the world who are wealthy; a tai tai is a privileged lady of means 2) literal translation: Supreme of the Supreme; implies respect 3) replacement for the word “grandmother,” as it does not imply old age.

  I Skyped with her from LA, while she was vacationing on her yacht in the South of France.

  “Tai Tai,” I pleaded, “my vagina is ruining my life. Dad doesn’t get it. Susan doesn’t get it. Nobody gets it! Nobody gets me!”

  “Darling girl, can you accept your flower for what it is and move on? Have you spoken to your shaman about this?”

  “Yes. He tried to cleanse my aura but couldn’t get all the orange out.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “I know. It’s bad. He thinks I must have been a gargoyle in a past life. I have to get a labiaplasty. You need to help me.”

  “I don’t know, darling. How does it work?” she asked.

  “They laser off all the excess skin and sculpt your vagina into a masterpiece. Come ON! Tons of girls get nose jobs, and breast implants, and chin reductions, and their ears pinned back, and eyebrow lifts, nipple reductions and Botox. Unlike those idiots, I actually need this.” I was on the verge of tears.

  “What if I get you that crocodile Birkin you wanted instead?”

  “No.”

  “You must be serious about this. The Birkin question was a test.”

  “I know. But I am serious.”

  “What if you wait until I get back from France and we get matching labiaplasties?”

  “Tai Tai, don’t,” I sighed. “I seriously don’t know how much longer I can walk the earth with the vagina I have now. Please. I’m begging you.”

  “Fine, my love. Let me make some calls and I’ll get you a list of reputable surgeons. But don’t tell your father. And stop frowning. It smushes your forehead. Love you.”

  “Thanksies. I love you too.”

  Tai Tai faxed me her list of references, and the next week, I scheduled a slew of appointments with various plastic surgeons around LA. These consultations were an essential part of my process of vaginal rebirth. My first appointment was with Dr. Larry Medford, a surgeon in Century City who closely resembled a garden gnome. Stature aside, I figured that his small hands would provide the necessary dexterity to get the job done. I was nervous at first, but when he entered the room, I was instantly at ease.

  “Miss Walker, what can I do for you today?” he asked.

  “My vagina is a wild bird that must be tamed. I need a labiaplasty.”

  “Okay, let’s have a look.”

  He examined me, and then much to my surprise said, “I’m a little unclear. Where is the problem area?”

  “Are you blind?! It’s a mess down there, and I’m trying to employ you to clean it up. I thought you were an f-ing doctor.”

  “I am a doctor, Miss Walker, and your vagina looks fine to me. I honestly can’t see what needs to be fixed.”

  “I will NOT sit here while you stand there and lie to my face. Good-bye, sir!” I gathered my things and left his office in a huff.

  I called my grandmother and left her a voice mail. “Nice try with Dr. Medford. I know you called ahead and told him to tell me my vag looks normal, but just so you know, your plan didn’t work. Bye.”

  My next appointment was in Santa Monica with Dr. Penelope Wakefield, a s
urprisingly chic woman with an equally chic office and staff. Everything was going smoothly until she took a photo of my vagina and started altering it in Photoshop into her interpretation of what the “after” should look like post-surgery. Our aesthetics weren’t gelling. She may have been chic as shit, but I wasn’t about to walk around with some teeny little porn-star mini-vagina. It needed to be streamlined with a hint of character. Halfway through the consultation I gave up trying to communicate my vision and stared at her until she left the exam room. Then I hung out and read People, Us Weekly, and an issue of Cosmo to make sure I got my money’s worth for the cost of the appointment.

  My final appointment was with Dr. Hale Shaw, a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon who was kind of a hunk for being in his eighties. I got up on the exam table and hastily explained my situation:

  “Look, I am literally at my wit’s end and you have got to help me. This vagina is all wrong. It may be on my body, but it doesn’t suit me. It’s not working for me. We don’t get along. Help me. I need this labiaplasty. I DESERVE THE GIFT OF CHANGE!”

  “Okay, Miss Walker, calm down. Let’s just see here . . .”

  He took out a mini ruler and started to take some measurements. “I can see the problem very clearly. This vagina is too much of a free spirit, correct?”

  “Yes . . . ,” I said, somewhat suspiciously. “I mean, I’m a free spirit too, but I don’t want my vagina to reflect that.”

  “You’d like it to be more of a natural beauty, am I right?”

  “It’s like you took the words right out of my vagina. Let’s do this.”

  “Okay,” he said. “We’ll need to run some blood work and analyze the results, which will take about seventy-two hours. Then you’ll come in for a pre-op appointment and medical counseling . . . so, why don’t we schedule your surgery for next Tuesday?”

  “I’ll give you ten thousand dollars to do it now,” I said.

  “Barbara, these are the standard procedures you have to go through if you want the surgery.”

  “Fine. We can do it your way if that makes you happy. Just please, as soon as possible. I’m suffering. And don’t call me Barbara.”

  “You’re in good hands,” he said.

  The following Tuesday I experienced true redemption. Dr. Shaw and his nurse put me under, and eradicated that monstrosity of flesh that had lain beneath my La Perla undies all those years, and turned it into the Gisele of vaginas. All for the bargain price of $6,000.

  After the stitches dissolved, it was clear that Dr. Shaw had worked his magic and liberated my body. Babe Walker: Reborn. I immediately e-mailed the before and after photos to Genevieve, who refused to admit that there was a difference. That was fine by me, because I knew she was just jealous. I win!

  My major in college was picking my major, with a minor in being really bored.

  My dad should have listened to me when I told him that college was not my thing. Instead, he insisted on learning a $200,000 lesson the hard way. That’s the thing about college—you pay a ton of money just to realize that everyone is a fucking moron.

  I always envisioned myself as a college dropout. Most creative types are. If you can get away with it, it’s kind of chic. I just didn’t think I would end up dropping out of college five times in three years. It’s not like I’m proud of myself—far from it. Do you think I enjoyed going to five different universities and only earning one year’s worth of credits? Absolutely not.

  Not to brag or anything but I’m, like, really pretty. One of my first memories is someone asking me if I was a model. I think I was three . . . who knows? Point being, I am the kind of person that people respond to. I’m also a total free spirit, which means I have difficulty with structure and discipline. All these elements of my personality, coupled with my bone structure, meant that I could only be one thing: an actress.

  I realized my calling at the tender age of fourteen, but I put it on the back burner because I definitely didn’t want to be a child star. I mean, do any of those people maintain relevance past their late twenties? Have you seen a recent photo of Amanda Bynes? I wanted career longevity, and I wanted to let myself grow up out of the public eye. By the time I was eighteen, I knew it was time to pursue my acting career. While all my friends were filling out their college apps, I was practicing my Academy Award acceptance speeches and performing scenes from Girl, Interrupted in my bathroom mirror.

  I scheduled a meeting with my high school’s college counselor, a round woman with a Pomeranian face and a banana smell, named Paula. I told her all about my plans, and instead of congratulating me on my career ambitions, Paula asked if I had told my father that I was planning on skipping the whole college thing for now.

  “Why do I need to go to college? Lots of important celebrities never went to college. Angelina Jolie never went to college. Johnny Depp never went to college. Leo never went to college!”

  “Leo who?”

  “Leonardo DiCaprio, my fucking soul mate!!”

  “Babe, you should consider your options. Lots of actresses pursue a college education as something to fall back on in case their career doesn’t pan out.”

  “My face and body are both in a really good place right now, so that’s virtually impossible. I’m out of here. See you at the Academy Awards, dream killer.”

  I realize now that I may have overreacted, but I can’t deal with the jealousies of old people whose lives have passed them by. Not for me. That night, I decided to arrange a dinner with my dad and my Tai Tai to discuss my future. We were out to eat at Matsuhisa, enjoying wagyu tataki (Google it) and sipping on ice-cold sake when I decided to unveil my five-year plan.

  “What college applications?” I said. “Just kidding, Dad. I’m totally planning on going to college once my acting career has taken off and the time comes to rehab my image as a smart and studious woman. Like Natalie Portman,” I lied, studying my manicure. I had zero intention of going to college, but I figured that problem would solve itself once I was too famous to attend school. “I’m just holding off for now, you know?”

  “Hold on a minute. You mean you haven’t filled out a single fucking application?” asked my dad.

  The thing about my dad is, he studied law at Oxford and started out representing musical acts like the Sex Pistols, the Clash, and Elton John. He was a very wild guy until he had me. Then he moved to America, settled down in LA, and joined one of the top entertainment law firms in Hollywood. Basically he’s been really motivated his entire life and would not stand for his only child skipping college altogether.

  “Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad—when you’re an actor, every life experience is like filling out an application for your next job. So, yes. I have filled out my applications. And I got in, full ride, to Babe University. And, hello! Why do you think I spent twenty hours in the dry sauna last week? I’m eliminating toxins so I can glow in my headshots.”

  Needless to say, the rest of dinner didn’t go too well. My dad immediately put down his chopsticks and started to go to town, lecturing me on the importance of an education, plus it was all said in his stupid British accent, so it was extra rude. When he brought up the fact that Genevieve was going to Stanford, I had to explain to him that she had to go to Stanford because she wasn’t as pretty as me and therefore wouldn’t have the same opportunities in the “industry.” Then I reminded him that Roman was skipping out on college. (A lie—he was going to UCLA, but I was really losing this argument, so I had to do what I had to do. Sue me.) But he wouldn’t budge, so I excused myself mid-sentence and went to wait in the car. I think Tai Tai was secretly on my side, because a few minutes later she came out to console me.

  “Babe, darling, I get it. You and your father are butting heads because you’re so similar. But this is a fight you’re not going to win, isn’t it?”

  “Tai Tai, how the F am I going to be an actress if you and Dad force me to go to college? The best actresses are rebels who didn’t go to school and were too poor to eat.”

 
“Pussycat, you can be an educated woman and starve yourself and still be just as interesting and beautiful as all those white trash celebrities.”

  “Doubtful. You guys are really sucking right now. And also, if college is such a huge deal, then you’re gonna have to figure out how I’m gonna get in, because it’s way past the application deadline. And also, lest you forget, my grades are fecal. What idiotic school is going to accept me?”

  University of Southern California

  My dad made a call to his golf buddy, who happened to be the dean, and there I was—stuck going to USC. This was fine by me, because I figured I’d just live with my dad and commute to school. Also, let’s face it—everyone knows USC is basically a rich-kid day care. I mean, a quarter of the kids in my high school’s graduating class ended up there, including this one guy I thought was actually retarded, but as it turns out he was just stoned 24/7. So I figured I’d deal with going to classes until my big break, then abandon ship.

  I enrolled in the Performing Arts program, and selected four classes for fall semester: Acting 1, Elements of Theater, Voice and Speech, and Chinese 1 (to fulfill my foreign language requirements). On my first day of school, I missed the first Chinese class entirely when it took me two hours to commute to campus. Turns out, USC is in a part of town reserved for drive-by shootings and Del Tacos. I didn’t want to deal with explaining my absence to the professor, so I ended up dropping Chinese altogether. I figured it was best to have a light load, so three classes it was. Fine. I love odd numbers.

  Side note: Did you know that performing arts majors are mental? They’re all in a constant competition to out-loud each other. I have never met so many bright-eyed and bushy-tailed weirdos in my life. Where does their energy come from? Don’t they realize that this is LA and the majority of them are on the path to permanent waiterdom? It’s so depressing. For them, not for me. And you know what? Acting teachers weird me the fuck out. They’re always talking about your craft, and using your body as an instrument, and living in the moment, and breathing, and feeling. This was supposed to be a college, not a yoga retreat.