The Dress

          Once, when I was eight, my mother took me shopping. We didn’t have a lot of money, so back-to-school outings were a rarity—usually, we were instructed to keep all notebooks till they were completely full and we used pencils until our knuckles erased the graphite— and we almost never even looked at the clothes. I still don’t know why, the summer before third grade, my mother looked me in the eyes, took one last sip of her beer and said, “put your shoes on; we’re going shopping,” her words slurring together ever so slightly. I hated riding in the car when I knew she had been drinking, but anytime any of us kids said anything, she’d get real close and tell us to “shut up. I’m an adult and I’m fineee.” The last word always hung in the air longer than the others; the “e” elongating and eventually trailing off as she snatched the keys off the hook and looked at us expectantly.

          That day we went shopping, I had been in my room pilfering through everything I owned to decide what I was going to wear for the first day of school in less than a week. Unlike my brother, I had always generally cared about my appearance and I wanted my teachers to know that I was serious about school and wanted good grades; I wanted to be a teacher—warm and plump and loving. As I pulled out drawer after drawer and plucked socks and underwear and shirts and shorts, my stomach knotted and gnarled in my belly; I hated absolutely every piece of clothing I found. The fit of them was fine as I hadn’t really grown in years, but they repulsed me. They were boy clothes and though I looked like one in every way, I knew that I wasn’t, not really.

          Too restless in my room, I walked into the kitchen to get water I saw little June sitting on the floor banging her Barbies together as Mom nursed her “afternoon tea” even though we all knew it wasn’t.  June was only one and a half, but seeing her bash those dolls together—their beautiful hair tangled and ratty—felt like a squeeze to my heart. I couldn’t stop myself, I had to save those poor, fair-skinned, long-haired creatures from June’s sticky grasps. Mom was already tipsy; I could tell by the way she was humming “Baby Got Back” and swaying her head from side to side and I rescued the dolls from June who began to shriek.

          “Jeffery! What have I told you about June’s toys?” she stood up quickly, hobbling a little as she yanked the Barbies, still filthy, still frizzy, from my hands to give them back to the screaming baby.

          We’d had the conversation many times—with Barbies, with coloring, when I proudly exclaimed that I wanted to be Black Widow for Halloween last year—that I knew what she was really saying was, “you are not a girl, so you better stop acting like it.” I looked down at my feet and felt the warm prick of tears rush to my eyes. I was so used to this dance we did; I needed a few seconds to breathe through my nose before I could raise my head again to look in her eyes. I mumbled my apology to her and gave June a pat on the head before going back to the disaster that was my bedroom.

          Per my mother’s insane and impulse decision-making, something in this exchange led her to want to shop. When she told me to put my shoes on, I looked at June on the floor before looking back to my mom with a question knitted between my eyebrows. Before I opened my mouth to vocalize my concern, Mom said, “Corey’s here; he’ll watch her” and headed for the door, leaving a wake of destruction in her path as always. Before scrambling after her, I found my brother, twelve-years-old and nose deep in his iPhone and told him Mom and I were going out and June was in the kitchen. He grunted a, “hmph” as Mom honked the horn and I rushed outside.

          The trip was short and awkward; our beat-up van felt every gust of wind and coupled with Mom’s poor decision to drive, I had to remind myself to breathe and not imagine us upside down in a ditch. She took us to Macy’s, her favorite store in the rundown mall near our house and when we parked, she told me I could pick one new back to school outfit, but it had to be one “for boys.” The knot that had started in my stomach tightened and I did my best to pull the corners of my mouth upward into a polite smile before muttering my agreeance and gratitude. As we walked into the store, a bright pink, fluffy, sequined gown glittered in the sunlight and I was mesmerized. I couldn’t look away; the dress hugged the form of the mannequin so beautifully and the sparkling of the beading was the most gorgeous thing I had ever seen. Mom didn’t realize I wasn’t right behind her and when she found me frozen and starstruck, staring at the dress, she marched back toward me, her face red with anger.

          “Jeffery. No. You are a boy. You don’t like pink, you don’t like dresses, you don’t like dolls.” I could smell the foul odor of the beer on her breath as she leaned in and grabbed my wrist. “Your clothes are over here.”

          She led me away from that dress and when I finally tore my eyes away from the gown, they were leaking. I hung my head and muttered; I am a boy. I don’t like dresses. I don’t like dolls and felt my heart fall out. 

Written for Master of Arts in Professional Creative Nonfiction Writing at the University of Denver; Spring ’21