Was I a difficult child? I never thought so until I looked at my childhood through the clothes I wore. Some would tell a different story. There is a point to this, readers, if you are good enough to bear with me.
My mother had incredible taste if not much money. I was probably too well dressed as I never remember anyone with an outfit like this one, brown wool with brown velvet trim, head-to-toe. I must have appreciated its fairy-tale quality as this was not the cause for a Battle Royale.
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| Michelle-in-Wonderland |
Oh, but there were a few. Only one was a knock-down-drag-out tearful affair that I won but quickly realized I had lost. More on that later.
THE AFFAIR OF THE ZIPPER
As a young child escalators in department stores frightened me, and zippers frustrated me. While I eventually learned how to go up and down the one, I couldn't master the other. I wore a snowsuit— heavy poplin jacket with matching pants, padded like a fat suit. Quasi waterproof, worn whether it was snowing or not. It was Cleveland. In the winter.
Zipped up by my mother when I left for school, I could not zip it myself at recess or when it was time to go home. I tried; I watched how other kids did theirs. Unlike the escalator I didn't think the zipper would eat me alive, but I couldn't get the knack. Ultimately the teacher had to zip me. This became annoying enough for her to send a note home.
Next thing I knew my clever-with-a-needle mother had gone to work. Where there had been a zipper was now a row of (just a little too) big green buttons. Teacher was happy. I eventually taught a jacket zipper who was boss, but to this day breathe a small sigh of satisfaction when it zips.
SCORE: WIN
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| Thanks, Mom |
GOING STRAPLESSAlthough I did have a pair of jeans, in my late '40s-early 50s childhood, girls mostly wore skirts. Mine always had matching shoulder straps. The jeans got a pair of suspenders. What I've never really had were shoulders, and you need those to hold stuff up. The straps were always slipping down.
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| This is a hold-up. |
When you think about it, what were they really for? Those pants were not going to fall off my body. Either was the skirt, securely fastened as it was around my waist. Perhaps they were a conceit of children's fashion. But I know I lobbied for their removal for years, or so it seemed. I think the happy day arrived when we moved to the suburbs where no one wore straps.
SCORE: WIN
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| 'Twas the fashion... |
SWEATER WEATHER
My mother followed a few rules along the line of you can't go swimming for 30 minutes after eating. Another was you can't go out without a sweater if it's under 70 degrees. I grew up in Cleveland, remember? Seventy degrees can be a long time coming. There was always a temperature check before leaving the house. Under 70? Must wear sweater. You would think I would play along only until out of sight then rip off the sweater, but I never did. I believed that mothers knew everything and could see beyond the block.
SCORE: LOSS
THE PASSIVE AGGRESSION OF CHOCOLATE
Consecration is a ritual in Judaism to celebrate the beginning of a child's Jewish education. It's similar in feeling to First Communion and usually occurs in Spring. Consecration perhaps lacked the gravitas of Communion but still called for a special dress, and it needed to be white. A true communion outfit would be out of the question of course, but 1940s dress-up frocks were over-the-top frilly. That's what I wanted but not what I got.
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| Not me or mine |
My mother not only had taste she was downright clairvoyant. In the age of dresses designed by the likes of Fifi LaRue she channeled Ralph Lauren, 40 years ahead of him. My Consecration outfit was a knee-length white wool pleated skirt worn with a short-sleeved crew-neck white sweater (think the pullover piece of a twin set), a string of pearls and white Mary Janes. Though no one asked, I was disappointed and felt out of place surrounded by the other girls, walking fire hazards in their frilly dresses.
What followed was an act of passive aggression in the first degree, so unconsciously executed it took years to realize what I'd done and a few more to regret it deeply. No pictures exist of this outfit because I ruined it before they could be taken.
The big treat after Consecration was lunch at our favorite restaurant, Stouffer's (and yes the same Stouffer's that lives on in frozen foods). There was chocolate ice cream for dessert. Did the spoon slip? Did I do it on purpose? The result was chocolate ice cream down the front of that white sweater. I could see the disapointment in my mother's eyes, but I only remember her saying, "Well, that will never come out." The outfit disappeared, never to be worn or spoken of again.
SCORE: WIN BUT ULTIMATELY BIG LOSS
YOU GET WHAT YOU DESERVE
Twice a year we made the trip downtown to see Miss Alice in the children's department at Halle Bros. Mother always knew what I needed. That year it was a casual short coat. This was beginning to be called a "car coat" as I guess it was easier to maneuver behind the wheel. At age ten, since I wasn't driving, it would be called a "topper". The one she liked was cherry red wool, not too heavy, very tailored, with a little swing in it. Ralph Lauren again.
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| Think red... |
I know I really liked it, but I was a bit unhappy. We'd moved again, this time without my father. I'd had to give up my bedroom and started a new school. I didn't have the words to express how I felt other than to reject that red topper outright. I insisted I wanted a fuzzy cocoon in the most bilious shade of boiled celery. It might have looked good on Shirley Temple in that movie where she played the poor little rich girl. It looked terrible on me.
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| Think green bile... |
My mother naturally pointed that out, thinking that would end it, but obviously this was not about the coat. I insisted, with tears, and not just whimpers. A therapist would say at that moment I was letting it all out and punishing my mother at the same time. In the middle of my meltdown I could see Miss Alice out of the corner of my eye, frozen to the spot. What could she say???
In the end I got the boiled celery fuzz ball, but it was not a triumph. My mother avoided all mention of the coat or the incident. I think I wore it twice, for the first and last time. We never saw Miss Alice again.
SCORE: LOSS AND LESSON LEARNED
And last, dear reader...
YOU CAN HAVE IT BOTH WAYS
Over time things greatly improved with my mother. I adjusted to a new life in a more citified part of town. My sister got married, and I had my own room again. At age 13-almost-14 I had begun to take serious interest in fashion. Amazingly I found my tastes more aligned to my mother's. But there was still a hurdle: the gentle battle of "that's too old for you".
Seventeen was actually showing black sheath dresses for teens in their editorial pages. I'd found one that was not particularly slinky (sleeveless with a scoop neck and a red cumberbund). I was allowed to have it, but I knew my mother much preferred a baby pink sundress with a full skirt that I'd matched with a wide-brimmed pink sailor hat.
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| Audrey did do it better... |
That summer she planned a vacation for the two of us, a week in New York City. I'd already fallen in love with Manhattan from afar and could hardly wait. This trip was predicated on some wonderful bargains she'd found—a summer rate at the Waldorf Astoria where kids under 14 were free*—and a clutch of coupons for buy-one-get-one-free dinners at Stouffer's restaurants (which had just opened in New York).
There was a problem. Although I didn't look very mature, I would have just turned 14 when we were due to arrive, and Mother didn't want to stir up trouble with the front desk. We decided I would wear the pink sundress and sailor hat to check in. I must have looked like an oversized Eloise, but no one questioned my age.
That night, as we left the hotel for dinner, I was wearing the black sheath. We both felt very proud of ourselves, my mother for surely pulling a fast one on the Waldorf and me for making my debut as a New Yorker wearing black.
SCORE: WIN, WIN
All this meandering down memory lane has me thinking even as very young children we have strong ideas about clothing (though too young to think in terms of fashion). We know what we want or don't want but may be powerless to express that in even the simplest terms. While writing this I was reading Vanessa Friedman in The NY Times and came across a sentence in her review of the current New York Fashion Week:
A picture may be worth 1,000 words, but nine words can say it all.
* I dimly recall a time when hotel rates were dependent on how many occupied the room and when infants were free but children half-price.
