Welcome to the inaugural edition of COOTIE KID!

It’s the newsletter I just started because I have lots of very important things to say. Kidding! My brain is trash. Wanna buy it? Make me an offer.

You’re probably asking yourself “What is Cootie Kid about?”. You and me both, girl. For now, let’s say a mix of things. Perhaps a story. Maybe something helpful, interesting, or insightful. Updates on the projects I’m working on. Hopefully not a rambling incoherent manifesto but give it a few years. Don’t fret, I promise not to overload your inbox. One tidy newsletter delivered every other month (or so) in a non-annoying manner. Sounds nice, right?

I figured I’d start by explaining where the name Cootie Kid originates. It’s a question I get every so often since I began using it as my website a few decades ago. Some assume it's just a giggly moniker I came up with to be fun and kooky. Others find it strange and perplexing or misread it as Cookie Kid. At last, I'm here to reveal the truth! Settle in, my children.

When I was in 3rd grade, I moved. My parents found an empty lot in a town they liked, snatched it up and planned to build their dream house. But soon after, my mom's arthritis had become increasingly difficult and living in a two-story house became untenable. Plans were scrapped but the house we were living in had already been sold everyone scrambled to figure out the next move. I won’t bore you with the logistics but the long and short of it is that for about a year we lived in a few different places, and I attended a few different schools. When the new house was finally done, we officially moved in on New Year’s Eve and I started at my new elementary school right after the holidays.

Being the new kid halfway through the year was fine with me. I was a jaunty little chatterbox who had no trouble making new friends. The process would no doubt be easy peasy. My previous schools were welcoming places where everyone mingled and played without fear of rejection. Obviously, my new school would be the same. No need to be nervous. Besides, I was a child model who’d done a handful of local commercials! They’d be crazy not to get on board. But sadly, on my first day, after being introduced to the class, I was met with a disinterested reception. No smiles. No hearty welcome. It was very clear I was an invader who did not belong. Oh well! Didn’t matter to Little Mister Eastgate Mall (Me. That’s me. I was Little Mister Eastgate Mall). The teacher directed to my seat, and I began my charm offensive. I’ll admit, small talk isn’t my favorite, but I thought asking a few simple questions about classroom etiquette to get the lay of the land was a solid ice breaker. The girl sitting next to me with the threateningly large bow in her hair didn’t think so. She just stared at me with a foul look on her face as if she couldn’t believe I had the audacity to speak to her. It was as if was a diseased outsider, living on the outskirts of town, happily picking through trash like a Dickens character, never knowing just how bad I had it. As I continued to roll out my sparkling personality, I was met with an increasingly chilly reception. What I failed to understand is that, at this school, boys and girls didn’t mingle. They weren’t friends. And my attempt to be pals with a girl? Scandal!

“I don’t have cooties, you know…” I said to the girl with the threateningly large bow. I may have rolled my eyes. Let’s say I did. It doesn’t matter anyway because, in my desperate need to overexplain myself, I unknowingly unleashed a beast. I uttered a word that opened Pandora’s Box just quick enough for a new sobriquet to fly out.

Cootie Kid.

The girl with the threateningly large bow found it funny that I would assert lack of cooties so strongly and consequently gave me a nickname right there on the spot. She was tickled by her cleverness too. It was the first time I’d seen her smile. The title immediately caught on. The new kid branding had been replaced. And so soon! I was officially Cootie Kid now and my classmates found that hysterical. I think they liked it because they thought it was an unintentional self-own or something. A “whoever smelt it, dealt it” kind of thing. Whatever that means. Either way, my new nickname rolled off the tongue so much that, at one point, a group of kids gathered on the playground before school to serenade me with chants of “Cootie Kid! Cootie Kid!” as I rode in on my bike. Cruelty would grow to become a hallmark of my classmates. Just ask the child psychologist that came to speak with us a few years later!

By the end of elementary school and throughout middle school, people moved onto calling me newer, more hateful names but Cootie Kid etched itself into my brain. When I was in college it started to feel like a badge of honor. The mark of a survivor. In the back of my head, I told myself that I wanted to use it somewhere, somehow. When I moved to NYC to pursue my acting career, I made it my website. And now it’s the name of the newsletter you’re currently reading. Is this me taking power back? I don’t know. Maybe.

What’s next for Cootie Kid?

Who knows? Let’s find out together, shall we?

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