ABSTRACT
When my girlhood model, Trotzkopf—the German-speaking heroine of teenagers, somewhat akin to our Bobbsy Twins—entered her teens, she alternately was “shouting to the skies and distressed to death.” I had identified with her enthusiasms and was certain that I never would be prone to irrational ups and downs. Because I was a refugee, I assumed that my thoughts were driven by these circumstances alone, and never attributed my moods to my overly sensitive psyche, or to teenage insecurities.
