I could be anything I wanted all week, until Sunday morning. On Sunday morning, I belonged to god. And by god, I mean my mother. On Sunday morning, I agreed to wear dresses, and have my hair curled, and shimmy on tights and fancy shoes. I agreed not to run in the sanctuary, or tackle the boys in the fields beyond the chapel. I agreed to sit, quietly, and with attention, during my father’s sermon. (Jamie was permitted to sleep, and usually snored, but more was demanded of the older sibling, and the girl.)
I dreaded Sunday. Dreaded having to sit with the curling iron perched fractions from my skin. Dreaded the terrible pull of tights up legs. The awful, awkward, half nakedness of dresses. I dreaded the pretense. The farce. If God knew me, and loved me, what the fuck difference did it make if I wore my jeans and baseball shirt? The one with the green sleeves. Or my baseball cap. The dirty, fitted one. Or tackled the boys on the fields.
Why pretend to be some other kind of girl?
But pretend I did. Under my mother’s thumb, and then later, under my own. I wore makeup, carried a purse, adopted coyness when it served me. I played the girl.
And then, I found a closet full of boy pants. Wide legged, button flies, shredded at the hem, cut to fit ski boots. They hung at my waist, had to be rolled up. They roughened my look. Started something. Or relit something. Reminded me to drop pretense. To be authentic. Comfortable. Daring. Contradictory. A woman, yes, and more importantly, myself.
