It is amazing how some memories become part of our collective consciousness and stay. After so many years it becomes difficult to be sure which are fantasy or reality. Transgender storied abound with the above scenario. Although, I have my own story here and I am sure it happened.
My mother was not a seamstress. Although she was very fashion aware and always had beautiful dresses and shoes. Side point: Easter reminds me that there was always a new dress for Sunday service. Here is my memory and I am sticking with it:
In my case there was no father around and I remember one Saturdays afternoon at home with my mother like it was yesterday. I was playing with my tiny plastic soldiers in my room and she called for help.
There was a dress she wanted me to put on so she could get the hem even. This was about the extent of her sewing. I remember vividly standing on a stool with the dress on while she pined it all around. I do not recall any other clothing items being added. However, I am sure I would not have objected had this turn into a dress-up event. Why did I not ask?
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| With permission from Stana at http://www.femulate.org/ |
Exactly why this happened I will never know other than just being "mommy's helper". I was still quite a bit shorter than my mother so don't think my seven or eight years old self was that much of a help. Without doubt, I remember it as a compelling event, thus contributing to it being long remembered.
I am sure the crossdressing/transgender seed was already planted before this happened. Before this, I do remember secretively playing and becoming proficient in walking in my mothers heels. So, this event was not the spark that ignited the fire.
How about you. Do you have any similar events in your memory closet? Please share.
My mother was a superb seamstress, one of the best. For her dresses and her hand made embroidery, she won prizes at regional and state fairs. She.was a leader among women in a rural farming community, creating gorgeous dresses and separates.
ReplyDeleteI was never a dress mannequin because my eldest sister was my size all throughout childhood. I can recall Mother often fussing at my sister to stay still as she pinned a hemline. With three sisters and eighteen female first cousins, there was plenty of female finery shared around the extended family. Easter was a special holiday: new dresses in gorgeous colors with hats and ribbons and new shoes—heels for Mother and Mary Janes for all the girls. I eyed their clothes jealously but there was little that I could do about it all. Mother still sews her own clothes, bargains with merchants for bolts of cloth, and creates embroidered quilts at age 92.
I was a guy near the middle of the pack age-wise, so I had no shortage of utilitarian used clothes. Mother tried to teach my sisters her art but her eldest was such a crazy combination of scattered, clumsy, and stubborn that she never attempted to teach the others. She eschewed teaching her art to a boy, so I learned on my own. I repaired my own clothes and I altered some of the used skirts that were abundant in boxes in closets. Ironically, my fourth brother became a magnificent tailor and chef, totally without her help or encouragement
My only public foray into girls’ clothes came at age nine. Mother and her two sisters loved off-the-shoulder tops. At my request, she outfitted me for Halloween in a white creation with blue embroidery that she made for my sister. She added a cognac maxi skirt. Buster Brown shoes though, she allowed me no Mary Janes. A kerchief around my head had to do for hair. My father kept me shaved bald until I got a job at age ten, earning enough money to bargain with a barber.
So I never did mannequin duty, but I did learn to sew. Even in a world where I could look but not touch, I did cross the line on rare occasions.
Great Comment Abby. Thanks for sharing.
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