by Bob Purssell
Both the turtleneck and the jeans were tight. That was good, very good. For an instant, I feared the cuffs of the jeans would not fit over the top of my boots, but with a little fiddling, they did. Standing in front of my mirror, I examined the new-look me. Pleased, no ecstatic, I exclaimed, “Yes!”
I savored the moment and then critically examined myself. I wasn’t the complete package; I wasn’t an Elizabeth Sue, but I wasn’t a dork either. The good part: I had a long, lean look. The bad part: I didn’t have any curves.
I concluded: You might not be gorgeous, but at least you’re not a complete blah.
* * *
I know we will argue. She won’t compromise. Before we have said a word, before we have said anything hurtful, I hate the idea of arguing with my mother.
However, I can see no alternative.
Before going out to do battle, I check myself one last time in the mirror. I adjust the set of my jeans; I smooth a wrinkle from my turtleneck; I buff a smudge—more imagined than real—from my boots; I comb my hair just so; I put on my lipstick. When everything is as perfect as perfect can be, I sigh and leave to find my mother and begin the battle.
From where I stand in the hall, I can see my mother’s left foot as she sits in her reading chair in the living room. For a moment, I freeze. I can retreat. I can come up with another way of showing her my new outfit. I can chicken out.
But I don’t.
After saying a prayer, I step into the living room and say, “Mother, this is what I bought.” Knowing full well that her reaction will be negative, I don’t bother to ask, “Do you like it?”
My mother puts down her book and looks over her reading glasses. Without speaking a word or making a gesture, she surveys my outfit.
“I knew you wouldn’t like it.”
My mother nods.
“Well, I think it’s very flattering.”
In a calm voice, my mother says, “You’ve made a mistake; but you can correct it. Send them back to wherever you bought them and get your money back. Then buy some nice clothes.”
In an instant, I become infuriated. In a loud voice, I declare, “No, I’m not sending them back! This is what I want, and I think they look good on me.”
“Don’t defy me, young lady.”
“I have a right to wear clothes I like.”
“The clothes you are wearing are provocative.”
My mother was right. My outfit was as provocative as anything that socially timid I could wear. I reply, “All the other girls wear clothes like these,” knowing all the while my intent is to look meaningfully different.
“No daughter of mine is going to wear those kinds of clothes. Now take them off and send them back.”
“NO, NO, NO. I WON’T; I WON’T; I WON’T.”
For the first time in my life, I begin to argue vehemently with my mother. As we fight, I increasingly have an out-of-body experience. Words, hateful words, come from somewhere and pass through my mouth. As I say mean things, I wonder, why am I doing this?
The yelling lasts for a million years; at least, that’s what it feels like. In all the shouting, I make some good points: “You should trust me” and “I know more about teen fashion than you do.” I make some bad points: “I’m not a girl; I’m a freak of nature” and “So what if I look provocative. There’s nothing wrong with that.” I make some awful points: “Mother, you’re more interested in your stupid ideas than me” and “Stop being a goddamn Nazi and let me dress like a girl.”
Furious at my last outburst, my mother snarls, “Go to your room and stay there until you’re prepared to apologize.”
In a huff, I head upstairs, glad that I don’t have to argue anymore.
* * *
Feeling miserable, I lie down on my bed, close my eyes and, feeling numb, wish I am somewhere else. After some time has passed, I get up, take off my new clothes and put them back in their boxes. I do not intend to return them. Rather, I am preparing to hide my new things so my mother can’t get her hands on them.
After missing dinner, I go downstairs, find my mother, and apologize. She gravely accepts my request for forgiveness and then informs me that we are going to the mall Saturday to buy me some “nice clothes.” I come within a millimeter of exploding, but somehow I hold myself together. When I get the chance, I run back to my room, slam the door shut, lie on my bed, and cry in frustration.
With my mother in a no-compromise mood, I know I have to hide my things before she looks for them. That night, during the early morning hours, being quiet as a church mouse, I take my boxes of new clothes to the garage and hide them amongst the go-kart parts.
* * *
The next day, my mother tells me she wants my new jeans so she can return them. I refuse to tell her where I have hidden them. We argue, and when I go ballistic, my mother again sends me to my room.
The following morning, my mother orders me to come home directly after school and not to attend hockey practice. I retaliate by getting back into bed and refusing to get dressed. My mother comes into my room, and we have yet another shouting match. This time she can’t order me to my room because I am already there. Furious, she leaves, and after some coaxing from my father, I get dressed and he drives me to school. That afternoon, I ask the girls’ ice hockey coach to excuse me from practice because I have an upset stomach.
Rather than fight with my mother again, I avoid her the next morning by leaving for school an hour early. Knowing my mother has a hair appointment at two, I call home precisely on the hour and leave a message that I am going to the mall and will not be home for dinner. I then turn off my cell phone. At 8:30, my father finds me in the food court. When I get home, my mother demands an explanation. Rather than fight, I run to my room, slam the door shut, and refuse to open it when my mother knocks.
* * *
Saturday morning at breakfast, my mother confirms her intention of taking me to the mall. This is the ultimate embarrassment. She intends to drag me about like a ten-year-old child. In my room, I put on a pair of loose-fitting jeans that were perfectly okay a week ago but are now anathema.
My mother calls out, “Let’s go, Barbara.”
I don’t reply. Scared of another confrontation, determined to assert myself, I sit on the floor near my bed, feet folded, arms wrapped around my body.
I can hear my mother’s footsteps as she climbs the stairs. Moments later, there is a knock on my door. Terrified, I sit in silence, awaiting the inevitable.
My back to the door, I cannot see my mother enter my room. Ignoring my behavior, she, without a hint of irritation or rancor, says, “Barbara, come along; time’s a wasting.”
“I’m not going. You can do anything you want to me, but I’m not going.”
“What’s gotten into you?”
“I don’t want any more dorky clothes.”
“What do you mean by dorky?”
“Dresses make me look ugly.”
In a gentle, conciliatory tone—very different from her previous confrontational approach—my mother disagrees, saying, “That’s not true.”
I yell, “Yes it is!” and then plaintively ask, “Why can’t I be a girl?”
Not getting it, unable to understand my frustration at not being truly female, she replies, “You are. You’re a very beautiful girl.”
Frustrated, frustrated beyond words, I want to scream at my mother. I want to make her understand that not menstruating is an incredible embarrassment. I want to make her understand that looking more like a guy than a girl is an incredible embarrassment. I want to make her understand that getting good grades does not mean you are doing well in school.
However, this time I remain silent.
My mother tries. I must give her credit for that. She might well be listening to me, maybe even understand what I am feeling. However, today, I want her to feel my pain. I want her
to experience the frustration of everyone ignoring how you do feel because they know how you should feel.
Solicitous, conciliatory my mother asks, “What’s the matter, child?”
Although I desperately want to explain all, I steel myself and maintain a stony silence.
My mother asks several more times, in different ways, what is troubling me. I keep my silence. Finally, she stands up and tells me, “I can’t help you if you won’t let me,” and withdraws.
* * *
That Saturday evening, my father knocks on the door to my room and asks, “Mind if I come in?”
I desperately want someone to talk to; I need someone who will listen to me. Sitting on my bed, hoping he will come in so we can talk, I tell my father, “It won’t do any good.”
“Will it do any harm?” he gently asks as he opens the door.
Not expecting him to ask that kind of question, I sullenly answer, “It won’t help.”
My father sits down on the edge of my bed and asks, “What’s going on?”
I begin to explain about the jeans and dresses, but my father puts up his hand. I stop, and he asks, “What’s really going on?”
Starting with, “I hate being a toothpick,” I tell my father how I feel about my beanpole body. Finishing my explanation, I plead, “I can’t wear clothes that Mother likes. Why can’t she understand that?”
“Well,” replies my father, “you and she have different ideas. Your mother thinks you’re a very pretty girl, so it’s hard for her to understand why you’re so upset.”
I protest. “But I’m not pretty, I’m skanky.”
My father stiffens. His expression becoming stern, he says, “That’s not a nice way to talk.”
Rebuked, realizing I had overdone it, I whine, “You know it’s true.”
“No, I don’t, so please don’t ascribe your thoughts to me.” Again rebuked, I remain silent. My father asks, “Your mother said you weren’t happy with the gynecologist.”
Surprised she had even noticed, I tell my father, “He thinks ‘Bonnie’ is doing okay.”
“Did he answer any of your questions?”
“No … it was a waste of time.”
After shaking his head, my father changes the subject and asks, “Is this affecting you at school?”
For a moment, I think of how the sarcastic girls at school would answer. How they mock their parents and describe them as being, like, soooo dumb. However, I love my father too much to hurt him. Therefore, in my disjointed way I try to explain how I feel about my being a freaky non-girl. He listens, asks questions, but makes no suggestions. Finally, having exhausted my thoughts, I stop.
“And what’s this about a picture?” he asks.
I take the picture of the model down from my bulletin board and show it to my father. “That’s what I want to look like.”
My father studies the picture and then asks, “You do know they often enhance these pictures.”
Surprised, I exclaim, “Enhance?”
“The editors don’t feel the models are beautiful enough, so they make legs longer, busts bigger, that sort of thing.”
Stunned by this revelation, amazed my father would know such a thing, I blurt out, “They do?”
Not answering my question, my father switches the subject. “Okay, assume you were calling the shots, what do you want?”
Stunned again, I realize that I had only thought about what I didn’t want, not what I wanted and needed. After a couple of goofy attempts on my part to explain my desires, my father says, “I appreciate your telling me what’s on your mind. While I think about all of this, why don’t you work on what you need to be happy? When you’re ready, we can talk some more.”
* * *
Lying in bed that Saturday night, I tried to answer my father’s question. What did I need? What would make me happy? What could my parents do to help me? They couldn’t do anything about my delayed menstruation, and they couldn’t make me popular at school. It was so hopelessly bleak. All they could do was let me buy the clothes I wanted to wear. And even that was an impossibility; my mother would never agree to such a thing.
Sunday, after church, a discouraged, frustrated me found my father in his workshop. He put aside his woodworking project and listened as I asked, “Mother’s upset, isn’t she?”
My father nodded his head.
“Maybe it would be best if I just did what she said?”
“And that would be?”
“Wear dresses and skirts so she’ll be happy.”
“And then you’ll be unhappy, right?”
I whined, “Even when I say I’ll do what you want, it’s not good enough.”
Looking me straight in the eyes, my father asked, “How many other put-upon teenage girls do you think will play the victim today?”
I knew I couldn’t win against my father, so I decided to stop talking. Determined to be stony silent, I waited for my father to speak. His gaze never wavering from my face, he too kept silent. Time went by, and finally, I asked, “Aren’t you going to say anything?”
“I’m waiting for you to answer my question.”
I loved my father so much that I hated being a little shit to him. With a shrug, I gave in for real. “I don’t know; lots of girls, I suppose.”
“Do you like playing the victim?”
Beaten, I answered, “No,” in a small voice.
Opening his arms, my father beckoned me. That was always his trump card; I could never resist a hug from my father. Even though I wanted to feel sorry for myself, I could not suppress a feeling of hope. Releasing me from his hug, my father reassuringly asked, “Now tell me, what do you want?”
“Because I’m so thin, I only look good in pants. That’s why I wear jeans.”
“But you can’t wear jeans everywhere.”
“If I wore nice pants, not jeans, would that be okay?”
“An interesting idea,” replied my father with a grin.
Feeling like a light from above was shining down on me, I asked excitedly, “Can I show you something in a catalog?”
After my father nodded, I told him, “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” I then ran up to my room, got the catalog, and dashed back to my father’s workshop. There, surrounded by tools, car parts, and the things of his masculine world, I showed my father the black boot-cut pants that I would die for.
As he studied the pants of my dreams, I ever so cleverly offered, “If I had these pants, I wouldn’t need the jeans.”
“That would please your mother.”
Consumed by my desire for the black boot-cut pants, I pleaded, “You’ll let me have the pants, won’t you? Oh, please, please let me buy them.”
“On one condition.”
Filled with angst at the possibility of not getting the pants I so desired, terrified my father would impose some incredible burden, I blurted out, “Condition?”
“You have to do more to patch things up with your mother.”
Ready to agree to virtually any condition, I plaintively asked, “How?”
“Didn’t your mother say something about you needing a suit?”
After cleverly saying, “Oh, that,” I got my father’s drift. Slowly, I tentatively proposed an idea. “If I got the suit that Mother wants me to get…?”
“A peace offering, that’s kind of mature for a teenager, isn’t it?”
Unable to stop from smiling, I nodded that I got it.
My father leaned forward and voce sotto suggested, “Let’s you and I keep the pants a ‘state secret.’ We can talk after you get things straight with your mother.”
* * *
That afternoon, without the slightest explanation for my reversal of position, I breathlessly told my mother, “Let’s go shopping. I need to buy some skirts and a suit.”
Probab
ly wondering if her daughter had hit her head in a fall, undoubtedly aware I had an ulterior motive, my mother agreed. Off we went to the mall.
Not wanting to argue, I was on my best behavior. However, in spite of my efforts, we had a close call. Right at the beginning, when we were looking at suits, my mother more than suggested I get a hideously baggy skirt that was everything I hated. Luckily, the saleswoman worked some of her magic and convinced my mother to let me put on a pencil skirt, which even I had to admit was fabuloso. After that, she was okay, and we did our mother-daughter thing. That was cool, because for some reason, unlike previous times, she didn’t insist I buy dorky stuff. Instead, she let me pick out a second pencil skirt in light gray that went with the black jacket from my suit.
After shopping, while we were having a soda, even I had to acknowledge the suit was flattering. Considering what I had been expecting, this was cool, very cool.
Remembering my father’s admonition to patch things up, just before we finished our drinks, I announced, “I’m returning the jeans.”
My mother responded, “I won’t ask why; I’ll just say thank you.”
On the way out of the mall—much relieved that my mother and I hadn’t argued—we walked past a store window that had mannequins dressed in pantsuits. When I slowed to glance at the display, my mother told me, “Your father is always after me to let him buy me one of these.”
With some regularity, my father bought my mother things, including jewelry and clothing. I liked his clothing choices because they had more style than my mother’s super conservative choices.
“Father likes to buy you things, doesn’t he?”
“Yes. He’s very generous.”
“You should do what he says.” Then, because it was the truth, I cautiously added, “You’d look good in a pantsuit.”
My mother replied, “You’re very kind … but you know me and pants. I couldn’t.”
I thought about pressing my mother to reconsider, but I decided to drop the matter. Having argued so much lately, I didn’t want to chance another confrontation. When she said, “I have to get home and cook dinner,” I stepped away from the window.
