By Callie R. Feyen
@calliefeyen

“Ya stare, ya glare, ya constantly try to compare me
But ya can't get near me” —Shock G, “The Humpty Dance”

“And why do you worry about clothes?” —Jesus Christ

Since World War II, instead of caps and gowns, boys wore navy suits and red ties, and girls wore white dresses and carried a dozen red roses to the Oak Park and River Forest High School graduation. My dress fell to my ankles, it cinched—just slightly—at the waist. It dropped at my neck at a respectable slope—just enough for a necklace to rest on my skin but certainly not enough that, you know, it would hang in places it wasn’t supposed to hang.

My mom and I found the dress at Laura Ashley, a store on Michigan Avenue across from Water Tower on Chicago’s Magnificent Mile. The dress was a stepping stone to the glory that I knew my eventual wedding dress would be, and I loved it. I looked like the Other Boleyn Girl.

That same afternoon, I found the dress I chose for PROM: an all sequined, electric blue, spaghetti-strapped, hem a half-a-foot from the knee, piece of material. It fit like a surgical glove.

“You’ll need electric blue heels,” is what my mom said when she saw me step out of the dressing room.

“Can we get those at Nordstroms?” is what I said.

Later that day, I modeled the dresses for my dad. My brother was there, too and maybe birds weren’t chirping and squirrels and deer weren’t walking by but they may as well have been because that’s the scene I had set when I showed them the white dress.

Upon reflection thirty years later, I think I should’ve put the blue dress on first. If all of nature sang when I presented the white dress, it screamed in terror when I walked downstairs in the blue one.

My dad, a man who I’m pretty sure is nicer than Jesus, said something like, “Grace,” and I don’t mean he prayed although that’s probably what he wanted to do. Grace is my mom’s first name. Grace as in, “What is happening right now?” Grace as in, “Where did my little girl go?” Grace as in, “Help.”

My brother answered the call. “You’re not going to let her wear that,” he said. God, bless my brother, Geoff. Bless all siblings who put themselves on the line daily, speaking what they believe within their depths must be said and then going into the mental, emotional, and usually physical battle that ensues.

I don’t remember all that was said after this, but I know I turned the house into an ABC After-School Special. Phrases like, “you don’t own me,” “you don’t get to tell me,” screeched from the lungs of my 18-year-old self. I stomped up the stairs—something that was impressive given that the dress swaddled me like a cobra going in for the kill.

I wore that dress to PROM.

Is this a confession? I am unsure. I loved that dress. I felt powerful in it. I felt strong in those heels. God, I felt amazing. I believed I was amazing. Is it wrong to think this way? Should I get rid of the photo of me in that dress, my arms flung around my best friend Celena—both of us striking a “We Own This Night” pose—because when I look at it, it is a reminder that I have been wonderfully and fearfully made? Is this photo an icon?

One of my daughters owns a lacy red bralette, and I have feelings about it. First, jealousy. I am not blessed with the ability to wear bralettes. For me, they are bra-won’ts. Second, confusion. When did she buy this? Where did she buy this? What was she thinking when she bought this? These are questions I yelled to my husband whilst holding the lacy red bralette in my hands in front of him, and also in front of the meeting he was conducting with the National Oceanic and  Atmospheric Association, and while I’m here: Lord, can we stop Zoom?

“I do not know the answers to these questions, Callie,” is what Jesse said, and so I washed my daughter’s bralette. I put it in the delicate cycle, and laid it on the top of the dryer to dry, running my hand over it thinking it is the size of the onesies I used to put her in but with much less coverage.

Lord, my daughters sing along to the Mama Mia soundtrack, to Taylor Swift, and to One Direction as though they are singing hymns. Help me to remember I sang along to Salt-n-Pepa, “The Humpty Dance,” and, “Booty Call,” with the same conviction. Help me to remember the night on Vieques Island, Puerto Rico when I heard Shock G’s voice declare, “Alright stop what you’re doin’,” and I was in the bathroom and I did stop what I was doing because dear Lord I would not miss a chance to dance on the shore - on the shore You created - of the Caribbean Sea with Celena - again - as we yelled into the salty air, “See, so yo world I hope you’re ready for me!”

But God, there is so much I don’t understand. Why is the style to wear sweatshirts a billion sizes too big and pair them with shorts that may as well be underpants? What is the difference between a shirt and a sports bra? Can You reach out to Lululemon and require them to lower their prices? These are tough questions, I know, and so in my confusion, in my pleading, I also thank you Lord, for high-waisted jeans. Right now, they are my peace that passes all understanding.

I just need to catch up. That’s what I keep telling my girls—usually in the morning when they come downstairs and I flinch because Lord Jesus it’s a lot of midriff in the morning, and so I put my hands in the air and say, “You gotta let me catch up! I just need to catch up!” when what I really want to do is scream, “MY EYES! MY EYES!”

Let me not forget the electric blue spaghetti strapped dress and the matching high heels, and let me not forget the body suits that snapped at the crotch, the pale yellow t-shirt that could’ve been a toddler’s and I wore weekly the summer of ‘94. Let me not forget my favorite pair of shorts, the ones I loved because they were ripped and frayed, the ones I wore for four years in high school, the ones I could not part with, so my mom sent them with me to college with band-aids on the tears.

Let me not forget, Lord, that Hadley’s first prayer request was for Amelia Earhart to be found, or that once when Harper saw her cousin Mabel’s lollipop fall out of her mouth and onto the street, Harper ripped hers out and threw it onto the street, too. Help me to remember how hard Hadley makes me laugh with her Voldemort impersonation, or that Harper is the slyest, most sarcastic person I’ve ever met and when she laughs it is with her whole body, and it is pink bubble gum popping, and sometimes I worry that she will die from delight.

Help me, Lord, to trust and believe education can happen when belly buttons are exposed, and that cleavage is not a sin, and thank you Lord, for grace. It is grace that helps me believe that there are an infinite amount of styles to try, an infinite amount of ways to express oneself. It is grace that says a white dress is not penance for an electric blue one. It is grace that sends us off with the right shoes, and it is grace that allows us to consider that maybe the more genuine angels don’t wear white. 

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.