Jerry Spinelli’s young adult novel Stargirl highlights the kind-hearted quirkiness of a high school girl who calls herself Stargirl. But the novel’s action centers more around the reactions of her Mica High peers when the formerly homeschooled Stargirl shows up, serenading kids with her ukulele, celebrating those who are usually ignored, and—more controversially—even showing support to the school’s rivals during a state basketball tournament. By focusing on the reactions of Stargirl’s peers even more than Stargirl’s strangeness, Spinelli argues that conformist rejection of individualism says more about conformists than about the person being rejected, and also that individualism’s positive effects often appear long after the fact.
At first, though Stargirl’s individuality is unsettling and disruptive to Mica High’s conformist environment, her peers mostly see it as harmless and even, eventually, as good. As narrator Leo Borlock explains, “Mica Area High School […] was not exactly a hotbed of nonconformity. There were individual variants here and there, of course, but within pretty narrow limits we all wore the same clothes, talked the same way, ate the same food, listened to the same music. […] If we happened to somehow distinguish ourselves, we quickly snapped back into place, like rubber bands.” Everyone more or less conforms to one another, and each student has a habitual place that’s neatly distinguished and makes sense within the context of the whole. Stargirl, however, with her obliviousness to conventional norms and comfort with her own “normal,” disrupts all this: “We wanted to define her, to wrap her up as we did each other, but we could not seem to get past ‘weird’ and ‘strange’ and ‘goofy.’ Her ways knocked us off balance.” Stargirl upsets Mica High’s carefully delineated social hierarchy in a way that’s hard for her peers to articulate. The students’ inability to categorize her throws doubt on the way they categorize themselves, too. At first, this disruption even has a positive effect on life at Mica High. “It was wonderful to see […] Small gestures, words, empathies thought to be extinct came to life. For years the strangers among us had passed sullenly in the hallways; now we looked, we nodded, we smiled. […] We discovered the color of each other’s eyes,” observes Leo. As students begin to copy Stargirl’s openness and kind gestures, they begin to discover more about themselves at the same time. Though Stargirl at first seemed like a problem to be solved, overturning “normal” at Mica High, now her disruptive presence seems to be fixing something that had been lacking among its students.
When Stargirl’s behaviors transgress certain social conventions, however, her individuality comes to be seen as threatening—in particular, it offends school spirit in such a way that her peers feel rejected, ostracizing her in turn. After the state basketball tournament, when Stargirl cheers for the opposing teams and sympathizes with an injured rival, Mica High students begin to find Stargirl’s uniqueness disquieting. She’s mobbed with angry, uncomprehending questions (“Why can’t you be normal?” “[I]s something wrong with us [that] you gotta be so different?”) during the school’s Hot Seat interview show and is subsequently shunned by the entire student body. Stargirl’s refusal to fall in line with social norms (only supporting one’s own team) separates her from her peers more than her unusual clothes and lunchtime ukulele playing have done. Her peers, in fact, interpret that refusal as a rejection of themselves. When Stargirl remains oblivious to the student body’s pointed ignoring of her, Leo tries to explain that she should care more about others’ opinions if she hopes to be accepted: “Stargirl, you just can’t do things the way you do. […] You can’t just wake up in the morning and say you don’t care what the rest of the world thinks.” Stargirl meekly replies, “You can’t? […] But how do you keep track of the rest of the world? Sometimes I can hardly keep track of myself.” Stargirl’s bafflement suggests that her open, undiscriminating way of interacting with the world is connected to her comfort with who she is, and, conversely, “everyone else’s” preoccupation with conformity suggests they have a fundamental discomfort with themselves.
Though Stargirl never does find a stable place within Mica High society, her legacy has long-term ripple effects after her departure, suggesting that nonconformity does have a positive impact, even if it’s not apparent at the time. Stargirl initially tries to conform, adjusting her style, using makeup, and even trying to adopt a “normal” girl’s laugh, but it doesn’t win her approval from her peers. Leo explains, “She constantly quizzed me about what other kids would do, would buy, would say, would think. She invented a fictitious person whom she called Evelyn Everybody. ‘Would Evelyn like this?’ ‘Would Evelyn do that?’” Stargirl’s “normal” persona fails because it comes from Stargirl’s desire to fit in, not from her honest self-expression. Despite a brief triumph at the Ocotillo Ball, when she leads some of her classmates in a freewheeling dance across the surrounding desert, Stargirl disappears soon after, suggesting that there simply isn’t a place for her—or for individualism in general—within a typical high school social order. Yet, years after her disappearance, Stargirl’s memory produces a gradual change at Mica High, as acts of kindness, solidarity, and outright quirkiness become more common among the student body. For instance, “at every [basketball] game, when the opposing team scores its first basket, a small group of Electrons fans jumps to its feet and cheers.” This suggests that the conformity of Mica High really did need fixing, but that the change necessarily occurred over time, not all at once.
To some extent, Stargirl remains a puzzle in the book. She disappears from Mica High as abruptly as she first appeared, and the origins of her oddness (she even comes from a fairly “conventional” family) are unclear. Spinelli gives her an intentionally far-fetched, fantastical aspect that prompts readers to ask questions about how they would react to such a newcomer, and in turn to question their standards for normalcy and acceptability.
Related Themes from Other Texts
Individuality and Conformity ThemeTracker
Individuality and Conformity Quotes in Stargirl
Mica Area High School— MAHS— was not exactly a hotbed of nonconformity. There were individual variants here and there, of course, but within pretty narrow limits we all wore the same clothes, talked the same way, ate the same food, listened to the same music. Even our dorks and nerds had a MAHS stamp on them. If we happened to somehow distinguish ourselves, we quickly snapped back into place, like rubber bands.
Kevin was right. It was unthinkable that Stargirl could survive— or at least survive unchanged— among us. But it was also clear that Hillari Kimble was at least half right: this person calling herself Stargirl may or may not have been a faculty plant for school spirit, but whatever she was, she was not real.
And each night in bed I thought of her as the moon came through my window. I could have lowered my shade to make it darker and easier to sleep, but I never did. In that moonlit hour, I acquired a sense of the otherness of things. I liked the feeling the moonlight gave me, as if it wasn’t the opposite of day, but its underside, its private side, when the fabulous purred on my snow-white sheet like some dark cat come in from the desert.
It was during one of these nightmoon times that it came to me that Hillari Kimble was wrong. Stargirl was real.
We talked until dark. We said “adiós” to Señor Saguaro. On our way out, Archie said, more to me than to Kevin, I thought: “You’ll know her more by your questions than by her answers. Keep looking at her long enough. One day you might see someone you know.”
In the Sonoran Desert there are ponds. You could be standing in the middle of one and not know it, because the ponds are usually dry. Nor would you know that inches below your feet, frogs are sleeping, their heartbeats down to once or twice per minute. They lie dormant and waiting, these mud frogs, for without water their lives are incomplete, they are not fully themselves. For many months they sleep like this within the earth. And then the rain comes. And a hundred pairs of eyes pop out of the mud, and at night a hundred voices call across the moonlit water.
It was wonderful to see, wonderful to be in the middle of: we mud frogs awakening all around. We were awash in tiny attentions. Small gestures, words, empathies thought to be extinct came to life.
You never knew when it would happen. Maybe you were a little ninth-grade nobody named Eddie. As you’re walking down the hall you see a candy wrapper on the floor. You pick it up and throw it in the nearest trash can— and suddenly there she is in front of you, pumping her arms, her honey hair and freckles flying, swallowing you whole with those enormous eyes, belting out a cheer she’s making up on the spot […] People who never even saw you before are smiling at you and slapping your back and pumping your hand, and suddenly it seems like the whole world is calling your name, and you’re feeling so good you pretty much just float on home from school.
Then came the boos. She didn’t seem to notice.
She did not seem to notice.
Of all the unusual features of Stargirl, this struck me as the most remarkable. Bad things did not stick to her. Correction: her bad things did not stick to her. Our bad things stuck very much to her. If we were hurt, if we were unhappy or otherwise victimized by life, she seemed to know about it, and to care, as soon as we did.
A hand reached into the picture and grabbed the mike[.] Becca Rinaldi’s angry face appeared on Camera Two. “Why do you cheer for the other team?”
Stargirl seemed to be thinking it over. “I guess because I’m a cheerleader.”
“You’re not just a cheerleader, you dumb cluck”— Becca Rinaldi was snarling into the mike— “you’re supposed to be our cheerleader. A Mica cheerleader.” […]
Stargirl was leaning forward, looking earnestly at Becca Rinaldi, her voice small as a little girl’s. “When the other team scores a point and you see how happy it makes all their fans, doesn’t it make you happy, too?”
To the person who expects every desert to be barren sand dunes, the Sonoran must come as a surprise. Not only are there no dunes, there’s no sand. […]
What you notice are the saguaros. To the newcomer from the East, it’s as simple as that. The desert seems to be a brown wasteland of dry, prickly scrub whose only purpose is to serve as a setting for the majestic saguaros. Then, little by little, the plants of the desert begin to identify themselves: the porcupiny yucca, the beaver tail and prickly pear and barrel cacti, buckhorn and staghorn and devil’s fingers, the tall, sky-reaching tendrils of the ocotillo.
“An unusual girl,” he said. “Could see that from the first. And her parents, as ordinary, in a nice way, as could be. How did this girl come to be? I used to ask myself. Sometimes I thought she should be teaching me. She seems to be in touch with something that the rest of us are missing. […] You know, there’s a place we all inhabit, but we don’t much think about it, we’re scarcely conscious of it, and it lasts for less than a minute a day […] It’s that time, those few seconds when we’re coming out of sleep but we’re not really awake yet. For those few seconds we’re something more primitive than what we are about to become. We have just slept the sleep of our most distant ancestors, and something of them and their world still clings to us. For those few moments we are unformed, uncivilized. We are not the people we know as ourselves, but creatures more in tune with a tree than a keyboard. We are untitled, unnamed, natural, suspended between was and will be, the tadpole before the frog, the worm before the butterfly. We are, for a few brief moments, anything and everything we could be.”
She was bendable light: she shone around every corner of my day.
She taught me to revel. She taught me to wonder. She taught me to laugh. My sense of humor had always measured up to everyone else’s; but timid, introverted me, I showed it sparingly: I was a smiler. In her presence I threw back my head and laughed out loud for the first time in my life.
She saw things. I had not known there was so much to see.
She was forever tugging my arm and saying, “Look!”
I would look around, seeing nothing. “Where?”
On weekends and after dinner, we delivered many potted violets. And CONGRATULATIONS! balloons. And cards of many sentiments. She made her own cards. She wasn’t a great artist. Her people were stick figures. The girls all had triangle skirts and pigtails. You would never mistake one of her cards for a Hallmark, but I have never seen cards more heartfelt. They were meaningful in the way that a schoolchild’s homemade Christmas card is meaningful. She never left her name.
“I love fillers!” she exclaimed.
“What are fillers?” I said.
She explained that fillers are little items that are not considered important enough to be a story or to have a headline. They’re never more than one column wide, never more than an inch or two deep. They are most commonly found at the bottoms of inside pages, where the eye seldom travels. […] A filler doesn’t need to be “news.” It doesn’t need to be important. It doesn’t even need to be read. All it’s asked to do is take up space. A filler might come from anywhere and be about anything. […] It might mention that so-and-so’s cat is missing. Or that so-and-so has a collection of antique marbles.
“I search through fillers like a prospector digging for gold,” she said.
I saw. I heard. I understood. I suffered. But whose sake was I suffering for? I kept thinking of Señor Saguaro’s question: Whose affection do you value more, hers or the others’?
I became angry. I resented having to choose. I refused to choose. I imagined my life without her and without them, and I didn’t like it either way. I pretended it would not always be like this. In the magical moonlight of my bed at night, I pretended she would become more like them and they would become more like her, and in the end I would have it all.
Stargirl’s face went through a series of expressions, ending with a pout and a sudden sobby outburst: “I’m not connected!” She reached out to me and we hugged on the bench in the courtyard and walked home together.
We continued this conversation for the next couple of days. I explained the ways of people to her. I said you can’t cheer for everybody. She said why not? I said a person belongs to a group, you can’t belong to everyone. She said why not? I said you can’t just barge into the funeral of a perfect stranger. She said why not? I said you just can’t. She said why? I said because. I said you have to respect other people’s privacy, there’s such a thing as not being welcome. I said not everybody likes having somebody with a ukulele sing “Happy Birthday” to them. They don’t? she said.
She looked magnificently, wonderfully, gloriously ordinary. She looked just like a hundred other girls at Mica High. Stargirl had vanished into a sea of them, and I was thrilled. She slid a stick of chewing gum into her mouth and chewed away noisily. She winked at me. She reached out and tweaked my cheek the way my grandmother would and said, “What’s up, cutie?” I grabbed her, right there outside the lunchroom in the swarming mob. I didn’t care if others were watching. In fact, I hoped they were. I grabbed her and squeezed her. I had never been so happy and so proud in my life.
We swung around back to the parking lot and— yes— there was a car, and another car. And people, three of them, shading their eyes in the sun, watching us. Two of them were teachers. The other was a student, Dori Dilson. She stood apart from the teachers, alone in the black shimmering sea of asphalt. As we approached, she held up a sign, a huge cardboard sign bigger than a basketball backboard. She set the sign on edge and propped it up, erasing herself. The red painted letters said:
WAY TO GO,
SUSAN
WE’RE PROUD OF
YOU
The car stopped in front of it. All that was left to see of Dori Dilson were two sets of fingers holding the sides of the sign. We were close enough now to see that the sign was trembling, and I knew that behind it Dori was crying. There was no confetti, no kazoos. Nothing cheered, not even a mockingbird.
“Don’t you think maybe you should back off a little?” I said. “Don’t come on so strong?”
She smiled at me. She reached out and brushed the tip of my nose with her fingertip. “Because we live in a world of them, right? You told me that once.”
We stared at each other. She kissed me on the cheek and walked away. She turned and said, “I know you’re not going to ask me to the Ocotillo Ball. It’s okay.” She gave me her smile of infinite kindness and understanding, the smile I had seen her aim at so many other needy souls, and in that moment I hated her.
Shortly after, as the Serenaders gratefully played “Stardust,” Hillari Kimble walked up to Stargirl and said, “You ruin everything.” And she slapped her.
The crowd grew instantly still. The two girls stood facing each other for a long minute. Those nearby saw in Hillari’s shoulders and eyes a flinching: she was waiting to be struck in reply. And in fact, when Stargirl finally moved, Hillari winced and shut her eyes. But it was lips that touched her, not the palm of a hand. Stargirl kissed her gently on the cheek. She was gone by the time Hillari opened her eyes.
The high school has a new club called the Sunflowers. To join, you have to sign an agreement promising to do “one nice thing per day for someone other than myself.”
Today’s Electron marching band is probably the only one in Arizona with a ukulele.
On the basketball court, the Electrons have never come close to the success they enjoyed when I was a junior. But something from that season has resurfaced in recent years that baffles fans from other schools. At every game, when the opposing team scores its first basket, a small group of Electrons fans jumps to its feet and cheers.
