Pink Jacket

Herself speaks:

The winter after I turned 11 encompassed a New England snowstorm that became known as The Blizzard of ’78. The first evening, my father fatefully proclaimed, “Oh, those are big flakes – they’ll stop soon.” As the precipitation moved into the next day, however, it was clear that omniscient Daddy might be wrong for the first time. Snow, snow and more snow, fast and hard. Schools and businesses were closed. Driving was prohibited. The world, it seemed, shut down.

Our house was perched two-thirds of the way up what seemed in our young minds to be an incredibly steep hill. To our enormous delight, the absence of any cars on the roads meant that we could use the street as a play area. It was truly a winter wonderland. Ensconced warmly in my brother’s hand-me-down snowsuit, I frolicked in the drifts and sped right down the middle of the street on my sled.

Eventually, businesses re-opened, although driving was still banned. One afternoon, my brother and I noticed a woman making her way slowly up our hill with some groceries. He and I sled down to her and offered to help drag the packages back to her house, and she delightedly accepted. We worked hard and proudly carried the brown paper bags into her kitchen for her, thrilled with our act of helpfulness. One of her family members entered the kitchen, and the woman thankfully proclaimed:

“These two nice boys helped bring the groceries home.”

My heart sank. I knew she was grateful. But couldn’t she tell I was a girl?

My brother and I left the woman’s house and went home to inform our parents of our good deed. Yet the telling wasn’t as exciting as I had hoped. It was tainted by the woman’s innocent mistake about my gender.

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Spring approached and the snow thawed somewhat. It was still chilly out, requiring jacket and hat, but still pleasant enough that I could put a leash on our elderly dachshund, Fritz, and take him for a stroll about the neighborhood. Fritz and I had just made our way past the Elementary School and were heading back up the hill towards our house when some kids appeared behind me. I did not know who they were. They taunted me, throwing tiny balls of leftover snow. One hit Fritz in the flank, and he yelped. I scooped him up in my arms and quickened my pace. The kids continued to hurl insults and snowballs after me.

And then, one of them called out my brother’s name.

Tears welled in my eyes as I shouted, “I’m not HIM!” over my shoulder. I sprinted home.

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I had never been a particularly feminine child. I preferred stuffed animals to dolls. I enjoyed climbing trees. I disliked pretend tea parties. Yet after that winter, there grew within me a longing, quiet yet intense. I wanted a jacket that would help people to identify me properly as myself. As a girl.

Pink would have been nice.

It seemed so important, yet simultaneously so frivolous. My jacket was perfectly good; there was no reason to ask my parents to waste money. Most of all, though, I could not find it within myself to put into words why I wanted a different coat. I didn’t want to tell anyone about the errors other people had made, and about how much it had stung. To do so would be to relive the injuries, to reveal what bothered me most. So I kept quiet.

In a few more years, puberty provided some relief to my plight. I attempted to display the bit of cleavage I had developed. I was allowed to pierce my ears, and eventually, to wear a bit of lip gloss. I carried a purse. I worked hard to achieve the big hair so popular with teenage girls. I packed away the memories of those old misidentifications along with my worn stuffed animals.

I never did ask for a different jacket.