When I was in second-grade my mom used to dress me in these outfits that starkly demonstrated her eighties sensibility. I wore all kinds of dresses with abstract patterns. Extremely feminine and sometimes ostentatious by themselves, I usually had a headband, a fun little pin, or some other fly accessory to match.
You can imagine how good the dresses looked with the haircuts my father gave me. It's possible he thought that if he kept all the hairs on my head down to two centimeters, maybe I'd morph into a boy after a few working days. It's also possible that the only thing keeping me from total androgyny were my strange but glammy outfits, stating beyond the shadow of a doubt that I was a girl.
Sometimes even the dresses didn't help. Wearing my abstract purple, orange and green ensemble (my mom's favourite), I once held the door open for an elderly couple at the grocery store. Patting my shod head as she passed, the wife beamed and cried, "Thank you, young man!" Oh, how I burned deep inside.
The dresses had other setbacks, too.
I used to stare at this group of girls at recess. They hung out together in class and huddled in maddeningly secretive circles at recess. They never swung on the swings or climbed the jungle gym. This struck me as an extremely attractive form of self-control so by the time I was in second-grade I wanted to forego the coarse and easy pleasures of the tanbark for the elusive world of girls in giggling groups.
I tried to follow them and join in their whispers, generally to no avail. They were impenetrable. Miserable but unwilling to go back to normal recess activities, I relegated myself to leaning against the wall and looking obnoxiously sad.
They humoured my stares and sometimes laughed in my direction. I generally assumed they were laughing at my hair. It was pretty stupid hair. But one day they all walked over and, showcasing their exclusivity with linked arms, stood facing me in a very intimidating line.
"Angela," the smirking blonde one began, "we think you dress too nice for school."
"My mom dresses me," I said. I would have visibly reddened if I weren't so brown, but unfortunately I was and so the subtle change was lost on them.
"Well," said the smirking brunette (who lived a few doors down from me and used to play with me all the time before this insanity took over), "you need to tell her she dresses you too nice."
"Yeah!" said the raven-haired one. "And, if she didn't dress you so nice, we'd play with you."
The blonde one (clearly the queen bee) drove the last stake in: "Tell your mom she's stopping you from having friends."
Then they walked away laughing.
I was mortified. I went home and I told my mom she dresses me too nice. Knowing full well I had no fashion sense of my own and therefore no personal basis on which to develop an opinion of any kind about my clothes, my mother demanded to know who told me this. I explained I had no friends and that a group of very pretty girls (including the one who lived down the street and used to play with me but didn't anymore!) told me that if she'd stop dressing me so nice then they'd play with me.
My mother's lips tightened. Then she said, "They're just jealous." It was a very adult thing to say, something that flung my life-changing child angst to the winds, eons away from her periphery. In other words, it was totally unfair.
Still more unfair was the way she conducted herself (meaning me!) afterward. She went shopping. And not only was I dressed better than ever, I was more alienated than ever. Alas: unfit to play tag with the boys at the risk of fatally skinning my bare ashy knees, unfit to climb the jungle gym or swing on the swings at the risk of my skirts flying up, I remained unsuited to the too-cool be-jeaned girls who huddled in their elusive and magical sects. It was indeed a miserable world.
The end.
Well, not really. In actuality I got over it pretty fast. I developed an affinity for rollie-pollies and became a solitary but great collector. I made friends with some outcasts who freaked me out for the most part but who at least would hang out with me. I invented invisible friends who all thought I was super-cool and super-fun and who were pretty cool and fun themselves. I took to wearing a green trenchcoat and tried to camouflage myself against trees, just to see if I could.
The experience wasn't an ideal introduction to socialization. It was a low period in my life, but it was also one of exploration and transition.
If my daughters or sons ever run home to me, sobbing into my lap because of some similar social mishap, I'm going to say the same thing my mom told me - with a few affectionate amendments. I'll hold their little faces between my hands and say, "They're just jealous." I'll kiss their eyelids and their temples and noses and lips and say, "I love you, and you are the most beautiful creature to ever exist."
I'd like to think it'll suck for awhile to hear these words from me, even with the kisses, but then they'll grow up. They'll be strong in their solitude, more confident and self-assured. There will be unique problems, granted, but they'll be open-minded with others because of the pain they experienced as kids. And the trade-off will have been worth it.
That's the hope, anyway.
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