image, long brown hair and all.
Even though mom’s clothes were on the mature side for a high-schooler and a decade out of style, I wore them with pride. But I feared Dad’s reaction. Would he yell at me? Would he tell me I couldn’t raid my mother’s side of his closet anymore? To be on the safe side, I wore her clothes in secret, changing into jeans and sweatshirts before Dad could see me when I got home from school.
I remember the first time he saw me in one of my mother’s outfits. Most days, he was either still in bed or up in the shop when I got home from school. I wouldn’t see him until he came down to microwave himself something for dinner unless I went up to the shop to say hi or use his computer for an assignment. Hiding what I wore to school was a piece of cake. Until the day I let myself into the trailer to find him on the couch, lacing up a pair of work boots.
That morning, I’d chosen one of my mother’s more conservative ensembles, a denim miniskirt with a gauzy peasant blouse just sheer enough to hint at the bustier tank top beneath. The suede boots with fringe down the sides came up to just below my knees and had a three-inch heel. A woven suede belt the same shade as the boots completed the look. Even though I was just a kid, I knew I looked twenty in that outfit.
Dad looked up at me and blinked.
I’m pretty sure my heart stopped while I waited for his reaction.
After a few seconds where we stared at each other in silence, he returned to lacing up his boots. When he finished, he said, “You wear that to school today?”
I nodded.
Without a word, he walked by me and left to go up to the shop. He never said anything to me about my new look, so I kept wearing my mother’s clothes, almost exclusively, all through high school.
Now that my suitcase was empty, I stood before my closet and looked at the two very different wardrobes hanging within. The wild clothing of my past hung to the left. The much more conservative clothing of my present hung to the right. Once, looking at my mother’s stuff in my closet had filled me with happiness. Dressing like her had helped me feel closer to her.
Everything changed after the assault.
Until that night, I had reveled in the attention my wardrobe brought me. Despite the names people called me—Trailer Trash, Mandy Homerun, Miniskirt Mandy, and my personal favorite, Biker Barbie, I never lacked for friends and boyfriends. Because I was generally happy, if not exactly popular, it was easy to let those nicknames roll off my back.
By the time I turned eighteen, a few months from graduation, I felt invincible. I felt attractive. I discovered that if I was willing to perform certain sexual favors, boyfriends didn’t mind that I wouldn’t go all the way. At least they wouldn’t mind much.
I learned that a hand job or blow job would buy me one more phone call, one more date, one more week of being able to call myself someone’s girlfriend. There was a certain power in the dynamic, even if in hindsight I knew it wasn’t a healthy one.
Then three men assaulted me and took away all my power. Suddenly, those unflattering names stopped rolling off my back. Each one was a direct hit. Right to my heart.
I couldn’t bring myself to wear my mother’s old clothes any more. I could barely force myself to go to school. The only reason I got out of bed each day and faced the judgmental looks of my peers, who seemed to assume I’d left the party with those men by choice, was the acceptance letter from Arcadia University that had appeared in the mail a week later. I’d applied to the summer program after a particularly painful breakup, but to actually enroll required a final GPA of 3.5 or higher.
I finished with a 3.56 and hit the road to Philadelphia, relieved to leave Newburgh and the painful memories behind. I also left my high school wardrobe behind. Now here it was, demanding my attention.
I shivered, realizing the room had grown too cold for comfort.
Even though mom’s clothes were on the mature side for a high-schooler and a decade out of style, I wore them with pride. But I feared Dad’s reaction. Would he yell at me? Would he tell me I couldn’t raid my mother’s side of his closet anymore? To be on the safe side, I wore her clothes in secret, changing into jeans and sweatshirts before Dad could see me when I got home from school.
I remember the first time he saw me in one of my mother’s outfits. Most days, he was either still in bed or up in the shop when I got home from school. I wouldn’t see him until he came down to microwave himself something for dinner unless I went up to the shop to say hi or use his computer for an assignment. Hiding what I wore to school was a piece of cake. Until the day I let myself into the trailer to find him on the couch, lacing up a pair of work boots.
That morning, I’d chosen one of my mother’s more conservative ensembles, a denim miniskirt with a gauzy peasant blouse just sheer enough to hint at the bustier tank top beneath. The suede boots with fringe down the sides came up to just below my knees and had a three-inch heel. A woven suede belt the same shade as the boots completed the look. Even though I was just a kid, I knew I looked twenty in that outfit.
Dad looked up at me and blinked.
I’m pretty sure my heart stopped while I waited for his reaction.
After a few seconds where we stared at each other in silence, he returned to lacing up his boots. When he finished, he said, “You wear that to school today?”
I nodded.
Without a word, he walked by me and left to go up to the shop. He never said anything to me about my new look, so I kept wearing my mother’s clothes, almost exclusively, all through high school.
Now that my suitcase was empty, I stood before my closet and looked at the two very different wardrobes hanging within. The wild clothing of my past hung to the left. The much more conservative clothing of my present hung to the right. Once, looking at my mother’s stuff in my closet had filled me with happiness. Dressing like her had helped me feel closer to her.
Everything changed after the assault.
Until that night, I had reveled in the attention my wardrobe brought me. Despite the names people called me—Trailer Trash, Mandy Homerun, Miniskirt Mandy, and my personal favorite, Biker Barbie, I never lacked for friends and boyfriends. Because I was generally happy, if not exactly popular, it was easy to let those nicknames roll off my back.
By the time I turned eighteen, a few months from graduation, I felt invincible. I felt attractive. I discovered that if I was willing to perform certain sexual favors, boyfriends didn’t mind that I wouldn’t go all the way. At least they wouldn’t mind much.
I learned that a hand job or blow job would buy me one more phone call, one more date, one more week of being able to call myself someone’s girlfriend. There was a certain power in the dynamic, even if in hindsight I knew it wasn’t a healthy one.
Then three men assaulted me and took away all my power. Suddenly, those unflattering names stopped rolling off my back. Each one was a direct hit. Right to my heart.
I couldn’t bring myself to wear my mother’s old clothes any more. I could barely force myself to go to school. The only reason I got out of bed each day and faced the judgmental looks of my peers, who seemed to assume I’d left the party with those men by choice, was the acceptance letter from Arcadia University that had appeared in the mail a week later. I’d applied to the summer program after a particularly painful breakup, but to actually enroll required a final GPA of 3.5 or higher.
I finished with a 3.56 and hit the road to Philadelphia, relieved to leave Newburgh and the painful memories behind. I also left my high school wardrobe behind. Now here it was, demanding my attention.
I shivered, realizing the room had grown too cold for comfort.
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