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The Costume


On June 8, 1968, Robert F. Kennedy’s funeral was broadcast on television, equal parts sombre and spectacle.  His widow dressed half of their 10 children in black, because they were sad and half in white because they were happy that he was in heaven. This fact stood out in my eight-year-old head and a year later when my beloved grandfather died, I insisted on wearing my black and white dress to his funeral, even though it was, by then, a size too small.

That June day, 51 years ago, my mother was also mesmerised by the scenes on the television.  This was unfortunate as she was trying to cut my hair at the same time.  With one eye on the fuzzy black and white, and the other on me, she cut a slanted line across my forehead, then over-corrected, and then cut a third time, leaving me with freakishly short bangs before short bangs became a thing.

My bangs were so short that they were a factor in July.  My brother and I were forced to spend the first two weeks of our summer vacation back inside a classroom, for bible school.  This meant meeting children who lived in town.  Girls who could walk to school instead of taking the bus.  Girls who didn’t have to help bring in the hay or herd pigs.  Girls who took tap dance and ballet lessons and had their hair cut by professionals who paid attention.

These girls were exotic to me. Particularly Cindi, a beautiful china doll with porcelain skin, rosy cheeks and huge dark eyes.  Once, I’d seen her at a travelling circus show, holding on to her father’s hand.  Pretty and pampered.  Oh, how I wanted to be like her, instead of a pudgy pig farmer’s daughter with a hideous hair cut. My girl crush was on.

Bible school usually wrapped up with a pageant. In 1968 the theme for our pageant involved us depicting children from all over the world.  Mostly this would be achieved through costumes.  The adults were sensitive enough that they did not put any children in blackface, but not sensitive enough that they didn’t make the girl with the Mao Zedong hair-cut represent China.

As our class enthusiastically discussed the show, Cindi volunteered her oriental silk costume from a ballet recital. Perfect, the teacher declared.  Friday Cindi handed me her beautiful and delicate ensemble: black pants and a flowered blouse that buttoned to the top. It was wrapped in tissue paper and smelled of lotus blossoms.  Or what I thought lotus blossoms might smell like. 

As I changed into Cindi’s costume in the girl’s bathroom, I prayed fervently that it would fit and that I would not soil it during the performance.  Only one of my two prayers was answered.  All I had to do was walk out on stage with the rest of the class, sing along to one song and walk back off. I love to sing and I’m not afraid of an audience.  You might even call me gregarious.  But that day, I was terrified, so terrified, I wet myself.  I would say I peed my pants, but they weren’t my pants.

It wasn’t a lot of pee, but I knew. My humiliation complete, I raced to change into my own clothes, crumpled Cindi’s costume into a ball and handed it to her without making eye contact.  Other children were celebrating the true start of summer, I just wanted to get away as fast as I could.

Cindi is now one of my dearest friends. She still looks like a china doll but is remarkably even more beautiful on the inside.  For nearly 50 years we have shared secrets, foibles, loves, careers, weddings and menopause, but I have never told her I peed in her China Doll costume. Until now.


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