Clarissa explained it all for our generation

By Erin Brodbeck
Collegian Editor
November 8, 2006

I’ll never forget the day I decided that I hated my entire wardrobe. I was seven years old and had spent every day wearing either a school uniform or something my mom laid out for me. Then I met Clarissa Darling. My younger sister and I passed our childhood sprawled on the living room rug watching cartoons like Doug and Rugrats, which were both fine shows, but I was in second grade and in need of a more mature form of entertainment. When I caught an all-day marathon of Clarissa Explains it All on Nickelodeon, my life was changed forever.

After seeing Clarissa decked out in tall patent leather Doc Martins and huge hoop earrings, I realized how clueless I was about fashion. My closet lacked color, variety, ripped jeans, striped knee socks! I needed a makeover and I needed one fast. During a commercial break, I scurried to my bedroom and pulled together the most Clarissa-like ensemble I could find: black leggings worn under a pink cotton dress. My mom asked me what I was so dressed up for, and upon rolling my eyes at her, I became a teenager at the age of seven.

Clarissa was Carrie Bradshaw for the pre-teen set. She was smart, pretty and on the cutting edge of fashion. She put together daring outfits, combining colors and patterns I never thought possible. She collected hubcaps and displayed them on her bedroom walls. She even had a computer in her room—-virtually unheard of in 1993.

I identified with Clarissa’s problems. Her parents were caring but clueless. Marshall was usually preoccupied with his bizarre architecture, and Janet grew squash in the backyard. Her younger brother, Ferg-wad, was a conniving brown-noser, and our heroine never did get a car like she always wanted.

Clarissa’s life might not have been picture perfect, but every show had me wishing I lived in that unbelievably cool room with the picture window. I wanted to hear Sam’s ladder hitting the sill, punctuated by the guitar riff that signaled his arrival.

A decent part of my childhood was spent trying to Clarissa-fy my wardrobe on limited funds and under my conservatively dressed mother’s watchful eye. I bought ridiculous looking dangly earrings, stole rings from my sister’s Pretty Pretty Princess game and cut holes in old jeans. I kept waiting for a camera crew to show up so I could tell a captive audience all about my fascinating life.

So maybe I never got to greet Sam, feed Elvis the alligator or be the editor in chief of the Thomas Tupper Times like my childhood hero, but I still find myself humming the “na na na-na na” theme song every time I put together an outfit, hoping I can come up with something as bold as one of Clarissa’s creations.

brodbecke1@lasalle.edu