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51
happy birthday or whatever
Another one of my most memorable garments was a heavy
wool, dark brown dress with a white lace collar and an oversized
velvet bow. The dress came nearly to my ankles and looked as if
it belonged in The Little House on the Prairie all it needed was a
bonnet and Michael Landon. My mother found this outfit so ador-
able that she forced me to wear it in the summer. On a 110-degree
Southern California afternoon, the wool dress was not appropri-
ate. I itched. I sweat. I cried. Then I took it off when she wasn t
looking. Once this was at the grocery store. The ice cream SEC-
TION OF OUR GROCER S FREEZER WAS JUST BEGGING
ME TO STRIP.
ANNE! What happen to you dress?
I don t know.
WHERE IS DRESS?
It s too hot, it s too itchy. I hate it.
YOU PUT DRESS ON NOW. YOU RUN IN STORE
NAKED. I SO EMBARRASS. YOU MAKE MOMMY VERY
MAD!
My mother, so dramatic It s not like I was naked. I started
wearing an undershirt and shorts underneath the dress in order to
minimize the contact between my skin and that itchy, burlap sack.
This probably contributed greatly to my overheating, but choosing
between a heat stroke and a rash was not easy.
When I turned nine years old, I started picking out my own
clothes for school, and I salvaged a few articles that were possible
to wear without being stoned by classmates. After years of nega-
tive reinforcement, I had figured out which clothing was acceptable.
Miraculously, Tina had passed on a pair of plain, white pants, and
I was finally making friends. These white pants were unobjection-
able, unlike the red and white polka-dotted square-dancing dress
with the fifty-pound pink petticoat ( But you love pink color! ).
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Cr i me s o f Fas hi o n
My mother and I started shopping to buy clothes to supplement
the ones from my cousins. Everything I picked out in the store was
a solid color white, beige, gray, black. The wide-legged, paisley
jumpsuit didn t look so bad after a blue jacket covered half of it up.
At last, pants and shirts and dresses, absent of extra zippers and
large buttons that served no purpose, made me feel at peace.
When I started middle school, the trickle down of clothes from
my older cousins finally stopped. They had all gotten their growth
spurts, and their broad shoulders cruised at a higher altitude than
mine. By twelve years old, I still measured less than five feet tall
and weighed well under a buck. But even though I looked more
like an eight-year-old than an eighth grader, my mother decided
that it was time to dress like a sophisticated lady like herself.
What you think this skirt, Anne you like? It tweed.
Ugh, Mom, It s like totally itchy. OH MY GOSH, it has a
matching jacket TOO?
That woman pushed tweed suits like a drug. At the junior s
department at Robinson s, my mother could sniff out tweed in
a rack full of cotton separates. She didn t understand that most
junior-high girls just wanted to fit in, which meant looking like
other junior-high girls, not Jackie O. or a basement couch.
OK, ok you not like it. How about this, you like? She held up
another skirt.
Mom, that s tweed too. Stop it. You re totally embarrassing me!
By twelve years old, I had developed my own sense of style,
which was to lack it. I wore nothing that would call attention to
myself. I refused to follow any trends I was afraid I would follow
them incorrectly or at the wrong time. I had spent enough time
under the scrutiny of my peers, and I just wanted to remain under
the radar. No more confusing translations displayed proudly on
sweatshirts, no more anachronistic clothing, no more jumpsuits.
53
happy birthday or whatever
Anne you look so boring. You wear same thing every day,
shirt and pants and tennis shoe. I fall sleepy when I look at you.
What are you talking about? How about this? I picked a shirt
off the sales rack.
Anne that has no style.
Sure it does, it s black and has a collar. Pretty stylish right?
Oh, my only daughter look like boy! I think maybe I die!
Shopping had become an exhausting, exasperating routine for
us. She wanted me to dress with finesse, to be a fashion-minded
daughter of a fashion-minded mother. It was important that I
looked good now that I was older, partly because it reflected on
her parenting skills. Daughters who are stylish are organized, obe-
dient, and Ivy League-bound. Daughters who look like boys are
indolent, rude, and start fires at school.
Anne, why you not wear dress? She held up a yellow dress
with a lace skirt.
Because I don t want to wear an ugly dress.
What you mean? Dress is pretty!
No it isn t. It looks like a tablecloth. There are so many dresses
here, and they are all like totally ugly.
She held up a flower-print dress, which I deemed childish. She
held up a black dress, which I called depressing. She held up a
white lace dress.
You re kidding, right? Am I getting married?
Anne, I think no one marry you. You have so much excuse!
You make Mommy life very hard. She held up a simple, blue T-
shirt.
Oh nice, I like the pocket.
She rolled her eyes and took out her wallet. Even if she bought
me a tweed suit or a wedding dress, there was no way I would
wear it to school, or anywhere else for that matter. I was too old
54
Cr i me s o f Fas hi o n
for her to dress me, and she was too tired to argue with me about
clothes.
In high school, a petite button-nosed girl named Alyson Spilker
introduced me to vintage stores. Alyson had blue hair, a nose ring,
and a quirky sense of style that I admired. She wore outlandish
pants, colorful hats, and big silver boots. She made her own shirts
out of tights and created her own jewelry from wires and beads.
Alyson was charismatic and charming, and as we became closer,
Aardvark s Odd Ark and Hidden Treasures replaced my mother s
cavernous, cloned department stores. I discovered that shopping
could actually be pleasant, and I realized that used clothing from
other people as long as they weren t my cousins could actually
look good. Alyson and I would paw through dusty clothes, and she
would always find the most misshapen dress or the most chaotic
sweater in the store and laugh.
Oh my God, can you even imagine wearing this? She held up
a purple sweater-dress. It s like someone was knitting a sweater
and said, hey, I wonder what ll happen if I just keep going?
I ve worn worse things.
Through Alyson, I developed a style of my own sequined
sweaters from the fifties, geometric scarves from the sixties, coats
from the seventies, and select pieces from the eighties. Hiding in
plain shirts, pants, and tennis shoes wasn t necessary as I gained
more confidence. I never wore anything too eccentric, only clothes
with just enough inventiveness to make me feel comfortable and
noticed without feeling out of place. The clothes were unique and
affordable sophistication at a sensible price. I guess I did learn a
little from my mother.
Anne, why you always wear old clothes? Why not buy
new?
Because the old stuff is cool.
55
happy birthday or whatever
But it old, you look like homeless!
No, I don t. Homeless people wear trash bags.
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