My mother would buy us school
clothes in August and again for Christmas. Never in between nor after the
holiday, and certainly not because a growth spurt had sent the hem lines
soaring above our ankles like a plane above the horizon. Mamma would simply
remove the stitching and let the hem hang low -- if she did anything at all.
Most of the time, she didn't seem to notice, though other people did.
There was once the school
counselor who offered me a bag of someone's second hand donations. She called
me into the office and closed the door tightly behind me.
Softly, gently, she
began, "Someone gave me a bag of clothes, and I was trying to
determine who to give them to." She said this while slowly opening
the black trash bag treasure trove of woolen skirts, ruffled blouses, and 4
inch wide belts.
I had hoped my face did not
betray me and give away my revulsion to the old faded linens.
"I hope you don't mind me
asking you," she continued. "You don't have to take these if
you don't like them."
Yes, I thought,... I was off the hook.
"Do you want them?" she
plied.
Ever so slowly I shook my head
left and then right, while squeaking out an embarrassed, "No thank
You."
Once home I was immediately
greeted at the door by my mother.
"Where are the clothes they
gave you?"
You see, Mrs. Marlie had called my
mom early in the day to get permission to give them to me, so I really did not
have the choice that I thought I did. My mother, livid, went on a rampage
about me being inconsiderate. I was to never turn down anything offered
to us. "Money don't grow on trees!"
I was ashamed for the second time
that day.
A week later, I saw my best friend
wearing one of the skirts.
After that incident, I had become
rather adept at accepting these gifts and was learning to pair them quite
stylishly, or so I thought.
About a year later, Mrs. Sharpley's
daughter gave me some thick beige leather square-toe boots. I never owned
leather before, so I could not wait to wear them. And though they were a little
big, I happily stuffed the toes. Next I paired it with a beautiful burgundy 3/4
leather coat with buttons as big as fifty cent pieces and lapels that stretched
all the way to the middle of my shoulders. I was finally in style and was
wearing designer quality gear. I dreamed of the compliments that would be
hurled my way.
However, instead of shout-outs and
compliments, I began to notice smiles behind hands and hushed toned whispering.
Instead of fighting the usual crowded hallway to get to my locker, the kids
seemed to part before me like the red sea. I did understand quality clothing,
but I had no concept of the term "out of style." Though it was close
to 1980, my boots were from the early 70's, and my coat looked like something
from the Black Panther era of the late 1960's.
By the time I had made it to 10th
grade, I was working every summer and used my money to buy the appropriate gear
-- clothes that coincided with my era. But even that was not enough to save me
from being the center -- think bullseye-- of attraction.
I spotted the suede belted boots
from aisles away and could not believe my luck. The one inch crepe sole boots
that were filled with beige faux shirling (crushed pile) would be perfect to
keep my feet warm while walking around the school's campus. My favorite part
was the belt that kinda half tightened them around my calf yet was loose enough
to leave the top part flopping down just below the knee. I loved those
boots.... Until that day when I realized the chanting I had been hearing coming from
every window of the male dorm was aimed at me in a tone and rhythm much like a
cow mooing, "Boots! Boots!"
You see, I was by then attending a
boarding school and the only thing remotely stylish had to come from a magazine
called L.L. Bean (which I had never heard of, and once I caught a glimpse of, I
realized that I could have never afforded it anyway.) It was the magazine of
the rich filled with preppy gear. and since I was attending a prepatory boarding
school (on a scholarship of course) everyone else was wearing those hideous
rubber and leather duck shoes and boots. Not faux suede from Zayres.
Needless to say, from that day forward I
rode out the rest of the harsh Ohio winter in weathered beat down penny
loafers. Even those were black, with a nickel in the slot instead the customary
burgundy, with a penny, because I thought silver looked better in my pleather
knock-offs.
I suppose this is why I was
so upset with my son this morning. Unlike my mother, I buy clothes at the first
sight of ankle or tight thighs. I watch the male students to see how they dress
making note of the cool outfits. I buy Addidas, Nike, and elite socks. I make
sure each shirt has matching shorts. Yet, at 6:30 in the morning after I
have spent time digging out the correct pant to match the colored coded shirt,
and ironed and hung them on his door, my son arrived downstairs wearing
wrinkled clothing with odd patterns of mismatched colors: lime green
and black striped shorts with a red and blue crumpled top.
So, yes I was frustrated. I
demanded that he switch back because he clashed. He, on the other hand
was angry that I would not let him pick his own clothing. He actually claimed
that he hated to match because matching was "not cool." He wanted nothing more
than to trade his color coded outfit for one that vaguely resembled a brightly
colored rainbow after a storm. But our storm had not passed, it was raging
right there in our living room. And I knew in my heart that I needed to let him
win. So, I did.
In hindsight, I suppose the real
conflict was not in mismatched clothing, nor was it in his fight for
independence. It was in me wanting to protect my son from the harsh words
and taunts of his peers. Mean words of a childhood long passed -- that still
haunt me to this day.
