So Mighty, So Deadly, So Bershon

Behold the perfect "Bershon", delivered with silent rage by Ms. Sarah Brown, circa early 1990s: "It was the last day of 8th grade, and my mother had the nerve to try and take my picture before I flounced out of the house with my yearbook and purse. This face says, 'GOD! I am WAY TOO BUSY having a mouthful of braces and a hot-rolled ponytail to smile for you, Mom! GOD!'"

I did it. You did it. We all did it.

Any female who grew up in Western Culture did it.

No doubt any female growing up in other cultures did it, perhaps under the cloak of their burqa or into the folds of their sari.

What did we do?

BERSHON, baby. We did Bershon.

The long time blogger and universally loved Sarah Brown deserves the credit and any academic citations for characterizing the look, the 'tude, the "Oh my GOD, do I HAVE TO?" mystique of Bershon. Though she did not coin the actual term (for which Sarah attributes to those "cool girls in middle school rolling their eyes and saying...like, ohmyGOD, whatever, I’m SO BERSHON." in her introduction to the flickr set, "I'm So Bershon"), it is Sarah's concise defintion in her estimable blog, Que Sera Sera that stands as the last word on the subject:

...the spirit of bershon is pretty much how you feel when you’re 13 and your parents make you wear a Christmas sweatshirt and then pose for a family picture, and you could not possibly summon one more ounce of disgust, but you’re also way too cool to really even DEAL with it, so you just make this face like you smelled something bad and sort of roll your eyes and seethe in a put-out manner.

Christmas sweatshirt. Two simple words that, when combined, has the power to trigger those ugly flashbacks of posing unwillingly for the family holiday picture.

But, you fought back. You were determined to ruin that Kodak moment for time immemorial. So, you deployed the bitter adolescent's most powerful weapon, that poison dart of youth's contempt, the Bershon:

Classic Bershon deftly executed by a young Eden Marriott Kennedy of fussy fame. Note the jaunty Fair Isle sweater, first cousin to the dreaded "Christmas sweatshirt".

Sarah's three year old blog post continues to serve as the universal reference point for all matters Bershon. A Technorati search of this post reveals a bounty of Bershon related links and its vast teenage wasteland of bloggers in their permed hair youth sneering at you from scanned portraits of sullen glares.

As my editorial duty to BlogHer readers, I plunged into the icy waters of the Bershon blogosphere and surfaced bearing these chilly specimens:

I actually sucked in my breath and shuddered involuntarily when I encountered the adolescent Alice Bradley in this quintessential beaut of a Bershon, revealed in a recent finslippy post. It looks like a lovely summer day in that pic, but Alice's frosty countenance says, "Baby, it's cold outside."

The always awesome graduation shot, complete with the Bershon stare-down in its full flower. The disdain is palpable. A worthy contribution to the genre by Tracie of the hysterically funny emotionaltoothpaste ("Once it's out, there's no getting back in the tube.")

Watch out! Updo and date (with eyes closed!) coming at you via the obligatory pre-prom photo op! This truly killer Bershon was culled from the flickr photostream of blogger Heather L. Hunter/This Fish Needs a Bicycle. Pondered Heather of this occasion du Bershon: "I don't know why I look so unhappy... I mean, who with such a hairdo could be anything but thrilled?"

I agree wholeheartedly with BlogHer stalwart Mary Tsao that Bershon can appear as early as pre-school. Here's Mary's daughter Emily, giving Bershon x 6. That's a lot of attitude, and she's only three.

Finally, my 15 year old daughter Molly continuing the proud tradition of Bershon into the 21st century. While the rest of the group chats merrily on the blanket, Molly avoids eye contact, my camera's lens, and pretty much anything to do with our beach party. She just doesn't want to be there. Now, that's Bershon.

And so, BlogHers, what of your Bershon past? Where are your Christmas sweatshirt/junior prom/high school graduation/candid snapshots of Bershon gloom? Share the misery and post those "ohmyGod MOM!" portraits. You'll have plenty of company.