memories of my clothes

My simple black dress reminds me of my many days at the Abbey. I wore it the very first time I came as an adult, and I had felt suddenly self-conscious when I realized that the monks of this place also wore black robes, not the brown ones I’d always seen in the movies. I wondered if they thought I was trying to blend in, then laughed at myself. I still like to wear it when I come, just to feel a little bit Benedictine.

My purple tank top tucked into my linen shorts was a summer favorite until that day in Portland. There were three of us picnicking together with a view of the city when I accidentally made eye contact with a man across the path. He came over and told us he wanted to introduce himself, but didn’t want to be creepy. He didn’t succeed as his eyes stayed fixed on me, getting my name and forgetting to ask the names of my companions. After two minutes of forced small talk that I managed despite running self-defense strategies in my head, he said he had to go but that it was so nice to meet me. Before I could stop it, my mind started lecturing me, demanding to know What did you do to bring that on? Was your collarbone too defined? Is this dark purple color seductive? Am I showing too much skin from my thighs to my bare shoulders? Even as the feminist in me told my friends that he had no right to make me uncomfortable like that, the child in me cowered in shame, wanting to cover myself and hide. And the feminist turned and saw the child and anger boiled in her, anger that somehow this child had still learned that it was all her fault, despite all the efforts to fight it. Whenever I put on that tank top and shorts, that feminist has to take the child by the hand and remind her that she has the right to look beautiful, that she is not a stumbling block. 

That same tank top with a pair of linen pants takes me back to the little upstairs bathroom in my friend’s home in Dayton, Ohio. We had slept in that beautiful, sunny, summer Sunday morning, and Brenn had been on the phone when I left my room. I liked my outfit a lot when I looked in the mirror, and figured my friend would too when she knocked on the bathroom door. My cheery “good morning” was met with a pained smile, and she said, “Did you hear what happened?” Someone shot up a bar around the corner last night; the neighbors had heard it while we slept; eight people were dead. I read the news quickly as Brenn got ready to leave, and we headed to a coffee shop where people gathered in confused silence, everyone with a knowing look. I wished I’d worn black instead of this fun, summer outfit. But no one should have to plan their clothing choices around mass shootings.

Understandably, I was determined to get more use out of my “Make Empathy Great Again” t-shirt, hoping for something, hoping that maybe those words would change the world, at least a little. I wore it to the county fair, the gathering place and annual highlight of all our local cowboys, rednecks, 4-H kids, NRA-members, Bible-thumpers, and cotton-candy eaters. I knew these fairgrounds like the back of my hand, knew which booths were new and which old ones were missing. I’d entered so many categories and won so many ribbons over the years, I’d ridden the rides (except the haunted house) and shown sheep and watched my friends in the talent show, but somehow now I felt like an outsider. Probably it was the “F*** OFF, WE’RE FULL” bumper sticker I’d seen on the drive in, driving through a largely Hispanic neighborhood, that made me hate what our flag had stood for far too many times. Standing in line for pizza, an older white man watched me for a solid minute, contemplating something. When I finally made eye contact with him, he gestured with his chin toward my shirt and said, “I don’t know if I could feel that way.” I don’t remember what I managed to say in reply, but it wasn’t what was in my head: then maybe you are the problem. No one else commented on my shirt the rest of the event until I passed the only black man I saw the whole night; he smiled at me and said, “Nice shirt.” 

That long, loose, flowy shirt and black tank top combination will always take me back to the first time I went out in public without a bra, and felt like I was sticking it to all the unjust powers in the world, even though no one could tell. 

That navy dress I borrowed from mom will make me remember the time I did my own hair and makeup for a wedding, and felt good about it.

That short, blue, speckled t-shirt dress that Macaela found for me at a thrift store will bring back memories of the surprise birthday gathering we threw for mom.

And the old green sweater over the soft red t-shirt, combined with bed-head and crusty morning eyes, will remind me of the videos I sent to my sweet toddler buddies who I knew didn’t care if I’d washed my face yet. 

Perhaps my closet is actually a journal.