Unbreak My Heart: A Memoir by Toni Braxton Page A

snowstorm hit Severn. As the temperature dipped into the teens, my big opportunity arose. “Mommy,” I whispered just before bedtime, “do you think I could wear pants tomorrow? It’s supposed to be very cold.”
    “You got pants?” Mommy snapped.
    “Yes, because Felicia gave me a pair,” I admitted. “I have them in my drawer.”
    Mommy studied my face for several seconds. “No you can’t,” she said. “You know we don’t wear pants around here. Put on two pair of tights if you’re that cold.”
    The following day, the snow continued falling. I don’t know where my courage came from, but I again asked my mother if I could wear the jeans. She ignored me. Then on the third day of the storm—on a morning when the wind chill factor was in the single digits—I repeated my request. My mother, who was combing Towanda’s hair for school, was in my room.
    “Mommy, can I wear the pants today?”
    She glared at me. “You want to wear the darn pants?” she finally shouted. “Then wear the darn pants!” She then stormed out of my bedroom and into hers—and I thought she was going to call my father.
    Before Mommy could change her mind, I went over to the dresser and pulled out the Levi’s. As I put them on, I repeated to myself, “I’m not going to feel guilty.” Because of what I’d been taught, I truly believed I’d go to hell if I wore the jeans. But that fear wasn’t strong enough to eclipse my exhilaration. Once I buttoned the Levi’s, I then put on a plaid button-up top and brown leather boots with tassels on the front. I arranged my hair into a snatch-back, a layered style with two pink combs at the sides of my head. I then glided over to my bedroom mirror and peered at my reflection. For the first time in my life, I felt fashionable.
    When Mommy spotted me on the way out the front door, she didn’t say a word—but her chilly gaze told me she disapproved. I rushed out and made my way to the bus stop. I saw a few of my classmates huddled together, trying to keep warm. “Who’s that?” someone said as I approached. Once I got close enough for them to see my face, one of them yelled out, “Oh my God—Toni Braxton got on pants!” All I could do was stand there and beam. Once I boarded the bus, everyone stopped, stared, and drew in a collective gasp. “Wow,” said a kid in the front row, “she’s wearing pants!” In that moment and for the rest of the school day, I felt famous. And above all else, I felt like I fit in.
    The next morning, I put on the same jeans. In fact, I wore them every day until it was summer. At school, a girl named Cheryl came up to me in the hall. “I ain’t sayin’ no names,” she said, “but someone told me you wear the same pants every day.”
    I smirked. “I have several pair of the pants,” I lied. She gave me a look that said, “Yeah, right.”
    After I’d worn the pants for a whole week, Mommy intervened: “I said you could wear those pants for one day because it was cold.” That’s how my modeling spree ended.
    In a sense, that episode marked a beginning. Six weeks later, my mother actually bought me a pantsuit. “You can only wear it when it’s cold outside,” she told me. Later that same year, she also bought me a tube of lip gloss and pale pink nail polish. “This is only for special occasions,” she said. I wasn’t sure what “special occasions” she had in mind, but I wasn’t going to argue it. Little by little, my mother was changing. For me—the awkward religious girl who’d never felt cute—that shift couldn’t happen fast enough.
    I LOVED TELEVISION . By the time I was in junior high, our family owned four TV sets that Dad had brought home from Korvettes. We had one in the family room downstairs (a color console!), one in my brother’s room, and another in my parents’ room; the fourth was in the kitchen. I eventually moved the kitchen TV into my bedroom, which is where it stayed. By then, my parents still weren’t allowing