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Cut From the Same Cloth

All illustrations by Myfanwy Tristram

Myfanwy Tristram | Longreads | September 2019 | 14 minutes (3,863 words)

 

A clatter at the door. A small package plops through our letterbox.

It’s come a long way. I can see that by the sticky labels, foreign postmarks, and scrawled scripts of postal workers around the world.

I text my daughter: 'Your wig has arrived from Japan.' After a moment, I text again: 'A phrase I never thought I’d find myself typing.'

This was never in the parenting manual.

But back to the housework.

I enter my bedroom to find the area around the mirror overrun with her makeup, her dirty laundry in pools on the floor. That girl leaves a trail of destruction.

Admittedly, this is not a remarkable complaint for any mother of a teen. Where mine differs from the grumbles of parents through the ages is that among the detritus to be picked up and put away are:

Wig caps, tossed aside and draped wherever they may land

fake eyelashes, like furry caterpillars on the bathroom sink

and the endless, infuriating, discarded colored Band-Aids that I seem to find everywhere - stuck to my work clothes, on the soles of my shoes, under the sofa... even deep in my own bed

This last year has been a revelation as my daughter blossoms into her own, rather extreme, sense of style. Liberated from parental tastes by pocket money and cash earned from neighborhood dog walking, she trawls the thrift shops and returns home triumphant with unusual clothing. She’s 14. Still in need of parental comfort, food, finances, but beginning the process of becoming her own standalone self. And what a self it is.

She’s pushing her school’s uniform rules to the limits. "Light" makeup is permitted... but here we have bright red eyeshadow and black lips. Skirt rolled up to be as short as possible. Shoes must be black. Fortunately, Doc Martens are black..once you've gone over the stitching with a Sharpie. Clip-on horns - well, hair clips are allowed. Hair has to be a "natural" color so she dyed it jet black. First day of the hols and out came the bleach and crazy color. The blazer is compulsory, but stays scrunched up in the backpack until she's in the school gates. Tights with "accidental" ripped holes [Close up on eye and nose] Band-Aid "Bean brow" - half shaved off Stickers or painted motifs Tip of the nose colored red (quite cute)

Trouble is...I can’t really complain, because at age 14, I was also breaking the school rules.

In fact, when regarding my wayward, outrageously dressed girl, I find myself experiencing a peculiar combination of pride and envy.

Both may be a sin, but pride in one’s child is an acceptable part of parenthood.

Envy, while recognized in psychology and culture, most certainly isn’t.

Fine: I’m proud of this fierce individual that appears to have inherited my own peacock inclinations. Not so fine: I find myself envious that she has a period of wild experimentation ahead of her — and a figure that means she fits into pretty much every thrift store find.

So, uncomfortable with this disagreeable feeling, and at risk of falling into the parental cliché of “you’re not going out dressed like that!” I realize that there’s just one thing to do. I need to try and understand more about where the crazy looks are coming from. Instead of sighing heavily at the mess and fruitlessly asking, once again, for her to just try and keep it in check, I sit down and ask her to give me a beginner’s guide to her style. She is delighted to assist.

Her influences come from the internet, from fast-spreading pictures on Instagram, from crazy hairstyles on TikTok. Teens’ fashion inspiration is now global, grassroots led, with the commercial interests falling over themselves to catch up.

We scroll through her favorite accounts, and I meet the strangers whose fashion tips and product endorsements indirectly result in those Band-Aids in my bed:

@ohbowie 562K followers, @yung_bishop 65.5K followers, @vrisknya 21.1K followers, @Rosemaryonette 70.8K followers, @artsydoodle 38K followers, @Safiya Nygaard 8.1M subscribers, @Punker_irl 1.1M followers, @Piaisevil 508K followers (Follower counts increasing by the day.)

These vloggers and Instagrammers, familiar friendly faces to their subscribers, set the fashion. All of them are from the U.K. or U.S., but they have something in common — they’re all looking to Japan.

I understand the appeal. I myself was responsible for introducing her to Japanese culture in toddlerhood, as we shared our enjoyment of Studio Ghibli and the adorable magic realism of Totoro and Ponyo.

Next came a wider exploration of anime and manga. She and her schoolmates swapped tips and learned from YouTubers who filmed themselves playing games like Doki Doki Literature Club and Danganronpa.

Then it was cosplay, the art of dressing like one’s favorite characters, whether with painstaking DIY costumery, or by buying outfits online, ready-made, from the Chinese kitchen table industries wise enough to surf the wave of this crazy fad as it hit the West — and able to do so thanks to global capitalism and the world wide web.

My daughter’s childhood environmental beliefs, despite my entreaties, were swept away. Her carbon footprint is forgotten in the desire to summon just the right hair clips or wig from the other side of the world.

Because then came the call of Harajuku. And that was just too strong to resist.

HARAJUKU (also in Japanese)

Since the 1980s, Japanese teens have flocked to this area of Tokyo to buy, and show off, their extreme fashions. It began with Rockabilly enthusiasts who came to dance, with music, moves, and outfits taken wholesale — ironically — from the West. Back then, fashion influences traveled in the other direction.

And then one day, as Shoichi Aoki, editor of the street photography magazine Fruits notes, something new emerged. Art school students, and girls in particular, were leaving behind the monochrome outfits that had previously been their norm. Now they were displaying a grassroots style that was completely unprecedented: yellow hair, platform shoes, ultra-bright color combos, and exciting, crazy mismatched clothing.

Thirty years on, the area of Harajuku has been taken over by big, multinational high-street stores, and true inventiveness is now to be found in its backstreets, Ura-Harajuku. But that hasn’t remotely dented its popularity abroad — which explains a lot about the state of my bedroom floor.

As with any long-lived subculture, Harajuku fashion has split into different genres, all of which my daughter explains to me with far more passion that she’ll ever apply to her school lessons:

Lolita Girls leads to Gothic Lolita or Kodona. Harajuku kimono style. Decora, has some things in common with Fairy kei. Yami kawaii ('sick cute'), not to be confused with Yume kawaii ('dream cute').

As I learn of these styles, I understand so much more. It’s exciting to see my daughter with all these creative possibilities before her: the opportunity to take what she likes, mix and match, and add a little something to make it her own. And it’s something I recognize very well.

In the ’80s, while Harajuku style was in its infancy, over here in the U.K. I was a teen myself, entirely oblivious of Japanese culture.

In the West, our pop scene was setting the high-street fashion:

Even the heartthrobs on the posters all over your 11-year-old niece’s bedroom, like Duran Duran or Spandau Ballet, were dressed in New Romantic style: billowing sleeves, flamboyant hair, lush satins and scarves, cravats, beads, and baubles. The look was inspired by the English Romantics of the 19th century: Byron, Shelley, etc, but these were the new romantics with access to the modern benefits of hairspray and crimpers. They expressed themselves through opulent clothes, accessories, hair, and makeup -- men just as much as women. They described themselves as hedonistic. Tutting dads called them 'poseurs' ... and worse.

But this was the mainstream. And if there’s any doubt about that, you only have to look at Lady Diana’s wedding dress: taffeta, lace, and enormous puffy sleeves. Definitively new romantic -- and you don’t get more 'establishment' than the royal family.

If the mainstream figures are already dressing in quite extreme fashions, those who want to show that they are different have to find another way to dress, different music to listen to, new ways to scandalize the elderly neighbors.

And here in the West, the various movements of the ’70s evolved, in the ’80s, into their own divided, intertwined subcultures. New romantic grew from glam rock, was shaped by the rise of the synth, and its forerunners paraded their outré looks at London’s Blitz and Wag nightclubs. This was the look that the high-street shops decided to mass-produce, and it was quite the norm to see big kitten bows, taffeta silks, and pearl necklaces on even the squarest kids. This was the default look by the time I was developing an interest in clothes.

The recipe for New Romantic: Glam rock. Add synths. Incubate in nightclubs.

Not far behind, goth was evolving from ’70s punk and post-punk, and also discovered the possibilities of electronic music machines. Its devotees favored the seminal Batcave club.

The recipe for Goth: 70s punk rock. Add a sprinkling of synth and drum machines. Leads to post-punk and new wave. Incubate in nightclub.

Now this was more like it. Far from the big city, in rural Devon in southwest England, my only option was to read of this from afar — in The Face, i-D, and Smash Hits magazines. Yet the minute I saw the goth bands, I knew that I had found my own look. It would help me express that I was different. Special. That I rejected the dull blandness of everyday life.

That spark in my daughter’s eye when she sees a new Harajuku look? This was the same impulse.

But for me, there was no internet, of course. No handy websites to allow me to piece together a goth look and pay for it in one go at checkout. Our looks were far more thrown together, with a mixture of ingenuity and serendipity.

Figure 1: Hair: dyed (usually black), crimped, backcombed and hairsprayed. A-line skirt, dyed in a bucket, then split down the side seam...all the better to display leggings, also split down the side seam, then laced with ribbon. If you're really lucky, you might find an Adam Ant style jacket in the antique shop. Bullet belt from the army surplus shop. We sent off for pixie boots through mail order - the more buckles the better. Figure 2: Silk scarf tied to belt loop, dad's suit trousers, Chinese slippers from the martial arts studio, studded belt, Batwing spider web knit. Figure 3: A leather jacket was the thrift shop holy grail. Once you had one, you could paint your favorite band's name on the back. Old felt hat from your gran. Get your mum to knit you a stripy mohair sweater. Doc Martens were still mainly work boots. Figure 4: Ballgown from a jumble sale. Sew the skirt hem to the waistband to make a puffball. Fishnet tights could be repurposed as sleeves. Armfuls of silver bracelets. Stripy tights.

Time passes. And now: Here I am at 50, my daughter 14.

At her age, it is fairly straightforward to dress differently, always assuming you can dodge the wrath of your school; but that’s far in the past for me.

Growing up and taking new roles, new responsibilities, means making decisions about how you present yourself. It boils down to this: Do you want to be the goth at the school gate? The outsider at that job interview?

My body has changed, too. Sagging flesh and a growing waistline have made me less inclined to let my clothes shout “look at me!” lest folk shout back, “We’ve looked, and we find you displeasing.”

I work from home: There’s little need and less time to spend hours on my hair or makeup. At the same time, I find it hard to give up the idea of dressing to display a sense of self.

Should I have stayed faithful to my gothic roots? It’s not unknown: You do see the occasional goth family with a pushchair and a kid in a Bauhaus onesie.

Fair play to them: Dealing with an infant and getting your look together each day — that can’t be easy. Myself? As a woman who came to motherhood relatively late in life, I had already set aside my more outrageous costumery as I navigated the first steps of a career in conservative office workplaces.

I graduated from the backcombed hair. I even spend good money at salons these days. My trousers have no rips. I’ve conformed — and find myself looking for other ways to express myself.

Meanwhile, age plays a part. As you enter the second half of life, it’s easy to feel that you’re not supposed to stand out. Just as you’re not supposed to show too much leg, or cleavage, it’s all part of the process of desexualization that the older woman is generally expected, in our society at least, to go through.

Because I had my daughter later in life — at age 36 — her blooming into a gorgeous, expressive experimental teenager has hit right at the same time as I’m staring into the barrel of menopause, and the attendant signs of aging that have traditionally been seen as unattractive. Let us not digress too far into the patriarchal belief that aging men become more attractive, while women must fight against white hair, wrinkles, and bingo wings.

After all, men face their challenges too. Aging male goths might have to contend with the loss of their teen pride and joy, the mane of hair — its decline hopefully not exacerbated by the crimpers and hairspray — and, like music journalist Simon Price, find more creative ways of still keeping the look alive.

The Simon Price approach to male pattern baldness

Things just aren’t as clear as they were when I could take a sample from the goth rulebook, and anything went so long as it was black.

These days, one has to try and express individuality with style, maybe a soupçon of quirkiness. But not too much — that can be unbecoming for women of a certain age.

The acceptable face of middle age: Quirky glasses (to show character). Interesting print (please don't write me off). 'Forgiving' cut: loose over the tum. Upper arms covered.

There’s no one more finely attuned to this than a teen regarding a parent: My husband was recently told, in no uncertain terms, that his striped rainbow T-shirt — colorful but well within the bounds of respectability to my eyes — was too embarrassing for my daughter to be seen beside.

She herself was dressed, that day, in full Harajuku style.

In 1945 psychoanalyst Helene Deutsch, a colleague of Sigmund Freud, painted a very gloomy picture of menopause as a “gradual loss of femininity,” claiming that:

Speech balloon: 'Mastering the psychologic reactions to the organic decline is one of the most difficult tasks of a woman's life.'

At the time, she was 61 years old herself.

She had my attention: After all, the “organic decline” is just around the corner for me. Phrased like that, it sounds like a barrel of laughs.

So on I read … and found something that struck rather an unwelcome chord. Psychologist Terri Apter interprets Deutsch’s theories like this: “Women observe a daughter’s adolescent bloom as a sign of their own decline. In middle age, a woman is pushed out of the sexual limelight, and as she sees her daughter achieve the first blush of maturity, she grows envious.”

Whew — that was a bit too close to home.

But is this inevitable? Deutsch was writing in far more patriarchal times, when a woman was far more likely to be seen primarily as a wife and mother, and to have lost all purpose when those functions were no longer needed.

Let’s turn to today’s sociologists. I was delighted to come across the words of Julia Twigg, who studies embodiment and age, pointing out that our judgment of the aging woman is something decided by society itself:

There are rules in later years around what’s appropriate - and by and large that’s defined in terms of what’s not appropriate. It’s a set of rules about what you shouldn’t be wearing, such as a “short skirt”, a “low neck”, an “over-sexy dress” for women. Some of those changes in dress are about actual physiological change - as we get older as women, busts get larger and lower, and our waists become less sleek. So if you’re designing clothes for an older woman, you need to change your cut slightly to make them flattering and make them fit. That’s an example of responding to real changes - but responding by pushing the neckline high, covering up with sleeves and things like that are responses to cultural valuations and judgments that say that the only flesh that should be visible in society is that which is young.

That academics are pointing out the negative attitudes we have toward aging, and especially in women, is one sign of change. It also means that we can push against it if we don’t like it.

But older women also have another source of hope. Just as the internet is inspiring our children, it also lays out an alternative path for aging a little less gracefully.

A remarkable roster of role models has arisen, showing that there is no need for the older woman to succumb to societal pressure to fade into the background. In fact, these ladies do quite the opposite. Ari Seth Cohen’s photographs collected in the book and associated blog Advanced Style celebrate their exuberance. Some have risen to fame. Some were famous already for achievements in their field, and have declined to retire gracefully.

Deutsch might have dismissed these women thus:

Speech balloon: Modern fashions and cosmetics help the ageing woman to behave like a girl in puberty. Narcissistic self delusion makes her painted face appear youthful to her in the mirror.'

But they refer to themselves quite differently:

Iris Apfel, born 1921: The way I dress may be ‘different’ or ‘eccentric’ to some who feel the need to label, but that’s of no concern to me. I don’t dress to be stared at; I dress for myself. There’s nothing wrong with wrinkles. When you’re older, trying to look years younger is foolish, and you’re not fooling anyone. Fronted a MAC cosmetics advertising campaign -- age 90. Ilona Royce Smithkin, born 1920, artist. I had no feeling of aging. It’s always just been another day. Zandra Rhodes, fashion designer, known for her bright pink hair: I am tired of good taste. I want to do everything wrong. Dame Vivienne Westwood, fashion designer, born 1941. I don't notice anybody unless they look great, and every now and then they do, and they are usually 70. Her early designs set the 'pirate' look for the New Romantics. Anna Piaggi, born 1931, Italian fashion journalist and muse to Karl Lagerfield. What is to be avoided at all costs is the twinset look.

So … there’s another option. A whole new subculture to explore. The subculture of the older, expressive, break-all-the-rules women.

Shall I try to out-outrageous my daughter?

For all I say I’m envious of my daughter’s freedoms, perhaps the older woman has more leeway, more agency.

My daughter still has to navigate the competing demands of her parents entreating her not to wear outfits that will show her knickers when she bends over, while learning, and assessing the legitimacy, of the anti slut-shaming movement.

At this moment in time she’s pulled between school’s rules on how she’s allowed to present herself, and her desire to be like the extreme dressers she sees on Instagram.

Then there’s a tension between the endless bounty to be found in thrift shops, and the limitations of restricted storage space and the frustrations that explode from me when she brings “just one more top” into the house.

I’m glad I’ve poked and prodded at this ugly feeling of jealousy and come to understand exactly where it’s come from — and that there are options other than sinking into a societally approved sea of beige.

Gaining a deeper understanding of the styles and influences that set my daughter alight has made me far more understanding about those stray fake eyelashes I keep finding around the house.

I won’t forget my own forays into extreme fashion. They may even make me, temporarily, a more favored parent: I can pass tips on about hair crimping and experimenting with scissors, stencils, and sewing machines.

While recognizing that squicking out people my age is part of the point, I’ll try to curb any harmful excesses on her part, like tattoos and tongue splitting, at least until she reaches adulthood.

And meanwhile, I’ll continue to tread my own line, expressing myself without embarrassing her during this sensitive teenage period. Since we’re in and out of charity shops so much, who knows what I’ll find in the larger sizes while she flits through the tiny ones?

For all my struggles with expressing myself, it feels like I’ll never be ready to give it up.

And the real answer is — of course — to find the joy in it all, both as a mum, and as a woman.

Reader, I dyed my hair purple

Thanks
To my daughter, for sharing her fashion knowledge.
To Professor Janet Sayers, for helping track down Helen Deutsch quotes.

* * *

Myfanwy Tristram is an illustrator with a special interest in graphic memoir. She lives in Brighton on the south coast of England, and has been recording her life through the medium of comic strips since the Eighties.

Editor: Cheri Lucas Rowlands

Art Director: Katie Kosma

What’s Happening to My Body?

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Devorah Heitner | Longreads | September 2019 | 15 minutes (3,869 words)

My mother always said she had thunder thighs. On one visit home, I found a picture of little Cindy at about age 10, long before she was my mother. In the picture, her thighs, solid like mine, are turned outward, in first position. I studied the picture, noting how the blue costume cast a pallor on her pale skin. Her arms made an oval above her head. Her brown eyes looked big and nervous. She was not smiling. Maybe all the girls took ballet in the ’50s, in Little Neck, Long Island. The picture doesn’t give the impression that she was begging to do this.

The huge breasts that would later try to kill her hadn’t emerged yet. Just a small rise underneath her leotard. Holding the photo made me recall the sensation of my own breasts budding, stretching me from the inside, my nipples constantly sore, and rubbing, and wrong.
Read more…

After Three Children, Reclaiming My Body and My Mind

Illustration by Tiffany Baker

Ukamaka Olisakwe | Longreads | September 2019 | 22 minutes (5,546 words)

Nurse Ruth’s face was set in tense lines of seriousness as she probed my cervix with a metal instrument. I knew this procedure by heart, having been through it five times in the past 17 years: dilate the cervix, measure the uterine cavity, insert the intrauterine device.

But Ruth was frowning. The last time, another nurse said the depth of my uterine cavity was too short. Twelve years ago, after the birth of my third child, I learned that my retroverted uterus had yet to properly settle itself nicely inside my pelvis and that my cervix had partially descended into my vagina.

Now as Ruth brought out the instrument and gazed at the blood smear on the tip, I trained my eyes on the crumple of her brow and tried to decipher what she wasn’t saying. In another life, I would not set my foot within a 10-mile radius of this place. But here I was, 36 and frightened, and I willing her to say something positive; I willed her to say that childbirth hadn’t ruined me that much.

But she didn’t say those words. Instead, she worked until I could no longer endure the discomfort of metal scraping against the soft of my womb. Because my cavity was still so short, Ruth suggested an alternative contraceptive — a progestin implant. She feared my uterus would expel an IUD if she went ahead and inserted it.

True, the last IUD had snapped and poked at my insides all night until the following morning when I found a doctor, who pried open my cervix and got it out. The one before that, my body began to act strangely and I experienced unexplainable vaginal bleeding whenever sex was vigorous.

“I have heard terrible things about the implant,” I told Ruth. “I hear it can reduce me to the biblical woman with the issue of bleeding who was healed by Jesus.” She laughed, despite the seriousness of the moment, but then she had positive and convincing things to say. She invited me to the clinic’s family planning seminar scheduled for that week. She gave me an emergency oral contraceptive for the time being, and we agreed to have the contraceptive inserted into my arm at my next visit.

I smiled and thanked her. Then I cried all the way home, ignoring the curious looks of concerned passersby, some of whom paused, as Nigerians are wont to do, to ask what made me cry.
Read more…

Shithole Country Clubs

Longreads Pick

Nina Sharma wrestles with her father’s support of Donald Trump, his membership at Trump National Golf Club Bedminster near her family’s home in New Jersey, and his suggestion that she hold her Afro-Indian wedding there.

Published: Aug 26, 2019
Length: 21 minutes (5,264 words)

Hot for Teacher

Getty / McSweeney's Publishing

Courtney Zoffness | Longreads | Excerpted from Indelible in the Hippocampus: Writings from the Me Too Movement | September 2019 | 10 minutes (2,795 words)

What did they want? More than anything? Violent things. Unattainable things.

More than anything, she wanted to taste blood, said one student.

More than anything, he wanted freedom, said another.

Your characters need to have desires, I’d explained in the previous class. Drama arises when people struggle to get what they want.

Their first writing assignment of the semester at this midsize East Coast college: compose a short fictional sketch that begins with wanting. Compelling, complex fiction, I’d said, grows out of desires great and small. Their opening sentences offered proof.

More than anything, she wanted a baby.

More than anything, he wanted things to return to the way they were.

Read more…

Rock Me Gently

Kevin Winter / Getty, Danni Konov / Getty

Soraya Roberts | Longreads | August 2019 |  9 minutes (2,273 words)

I have no reason not to believe Rolling Stone when it calls cover star Harry Styles a “21st century rock star.” He certainly looks like one: shirtless, tattooed, his hair a tousled mess, and a smile that may not say big dick energy but definitely says he knows what to do with it. He could be 1977 cover star Peter Frampton, when he was named “Rock Star of the Year.” There’s even a tagline to the left of Styles’s nipple promising sex and psychedelics. But then you start reading, and the setup begins to break down. Sure, he has a reputation for fucking a lot, but it all sounds very consensual and age-appropriate. He also seems unfailingly polite, not to mention sunny. I mean, he gets sad — his new album is “all about having sex and feeling sad” — but he’s not broody and doesn’t seem like he’d ever trash a hotel. This is a guy who appears to sort his problems out the way therapists tell us to: friendships, meditation, even work. “I feel like the fans have given me an environment to be myself and grow up and create this safe space to learn and make mistakes,” he tells the magazine. He describes himself as vulnerable and loose (the mushrooms and weed can’t hurt). Rolling Stone describes one moment as “rock-star debauchery” but all he did while tripping was bite off the tip of his own tongue — the only person he bled on was himself. As for everyone else, he just wants them to feel loved. “I’m aware that as a white male, I don’t go through the same things as a lot of the people that come to the shows,” he says. “I’m just trying to make people feel included and seen.”

The classic ideal of the rock star — the depraved renegade with infinite hotel bills, addictions, and infidelities — is dead. The charismatic young white man (it was usually a young white man, sometimes several) who rebranded selfishness as revolution has been overthrown, taking with him a part of the individualist, white, patriarchal capitalist system he came from. In his place, new rock stars, sometimes white and male, often not, have sprung up to nurture rather than destroy — instead of shutting us out, they let us in. Read more…

Better Late

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Summer Block | Longreads | August 2019 | 11 minutes (3,179 words)

 
Here I am again, the only 40-year-old in the orthodontist’s waiting room. Dr. F works out of a strip mall in North Hollywood which, like every other business in North Hollywood, is across the street from an acting studio and a transmission repair center. In the waiting room a sullen teenage girl is frowning at her phone while her little brother drums the back of his heels against his seat. Four receptionists sit behind the front desk, each wearing perfect teeth and an embroidered lab coat, pointedly ignoring the drumming. Three large high-definition TVs are always on, and always playing Moana — but only the sad parts.

I have a significant overbite and a large gap between my two front teeth. As a child I wanted braces the way some girls want a pony. I was poisonously envious of all my friends’ braces, obsessed with the arcane magic of it: the little flat packets of wax, the seashell pink boxes of tiny rubber bands. Because my parents could not afford braces, I stopped smiling instead. In the last photo I’ve found of myself with teeth visible, I am 7 years old, posing beside my baby sister in a pale purple Laura Ashley dress, grinning a gummy, snaggled smile. In every photo since, my lips are tightly sealed, like a baby refusing a spoon. I’m not smiling in my senior pictures, nor at my college graduation, nor on my wedding day.

For years I planned on fixing my teeth when I could afford it, but by the time I finally could, I felt it was too late. I feared correcting an orthodontic mess as bad as mine would change the shape of my face. Would I still look like me when it was through? Did I want to? More than that, I couldn’t imagine living without constant low-level embarrassment about my teeth, like the roar of silence in a room after someone turns off the TV. I was used to my teeth. In some ways, I even liked them, in the way that all of us secretly treasure even the worst facts about ourselves just because they’re ours. Still I daydreamed about braces sometimes, about looking back at all my childhood photos and finding me in them now, smiling.

* * *

I didn’t learn to swim until I was a teenager. I didn’t learn to drive until I was 24. I didn’t learn to ride a bike until I was 37 and I got into graduate school 18 years after I finished my BA. I didn’t have my period until I was 17; I was still losing baby teeth in junior high. I didn’t drink until I was in college, and didn’t do drugs until after I’d left. I got my first tattoo at 30. I rode a water slide for the first time last summer; I played baseball for the first time last month. I didn’t find my first friend until I was in fifth grade, and I found my true love when I was almost 40.

* * *

At my first Invisalign consultation, I offered up an eager, toothy grin. The hygienist took my photo, printed it out, and stapled a copy to my chart, so whenever I return for checkups, I see it there. My hair is thin and friable, the color of damp straw, my neck ropy and straining. I look like an emu.

At my initial consultation, I explained to Dr. F that I was hoping to fix the large gap between my front teeth. Dr. F assured me brightly that the gap was just one of many, many things wrong with my teeth. A series of 3-D images and X-rays revealed that I had both a significant overbite and a crossbite, the latter responsible for the slight visible asymmetry of my chin. I had a major gap between my two front teeth, of course, but the spacing of my teeth was uneven throughout, crowded on the bottom and rangy on top. Several of my teeth were twisted, most uneven, and I had a chip in my front left. My front teeth were too big, or my gums too small — the effect was very horsey either way. 

I sat through this litany of my many imperfections, my face set in a tight, conciliatory grin.

“Your gums show too much when you smile,” he said.

My teeth were supposed to be done last July, but I’m still waiting. Forty-year-old teeth are stubborn.

I was made to sign a stack of waivers and disclaimers acknowledging what Invisalign could and could not do for my teeth. Invisalign is a purely cosmetic fix, not a structural one. Invisalign can shuffle your teeth within your jaw like Scrabble tiles in their tray, but it cannot change the alignment of your jaw itself. Traditional metal braces would go further to fix some of the issues with my teeth, if I chose them, but they are more effective on adolescents whose bones are still malleable. My bones had spent 39 years solidifying into their present shape. At this point I’d need major jaw surgery to correct my overbite, Dr. F explained, and even then it wouldn’t change the size and shape of my palate.

“I thought there were palate expanders and things, I remember when I was a kid —”

“Oh yes,” Dr. F interrupted cheerfully, “you can fix absolutely anything when you’re young.”

* * *

My father has held many different jobs in his life, from taxi driver to short-order cook, shipping clerk, retail salesman, janitor. When he met my mom he was working at a factory that made drapes. Eventually he fell into being a purchasing agent and he worked for various manufacturing companies until, at age 63, his employer outsourced all their manufacturing overseas and pushed him into early retirement. But he couldn’t really afford to retire, and so he went to work as a substitute teacher. It was simply expedient, at first, but he loved being a teacher and he was good at it. Kids loved him, fellow teachers loved him, parents loved him. He went back to school to get his teaching credential to become a full-time elementary school teacher. He was the happiest I’d ever seen him. At 63, after a lifetime of jobs that were simply jobs, he had found his calling.

I tell this story all the time — because I’m proud of my father, but also because it comforts the listener, and it comforts me. I usually sum it up with some pat sentiment like, “It just goes to show, you really can do anything at any age!” 

* * *

When my children were with their dad, Zac and I would stay downtown in the industrial conversion loft he shared with three roommates and a cat he loved like a baby because he’d never had a baby. The building was a hulking concrete and brick shell choked with vines, its interior walls thrown together by the many resident architecture students. We’d order pizza and go sit up on the roof, where his neighbors gathered on summer nights for concerts and parties, or just to look out over the rooftops of the city and feel good about Los Angeles. 

Then we’d climb down a ladder through the ceiling to his bedroom, a concrete cube only a few inches wider than his bed. His clothes hung from an exposed metal rack, and a small air conditioning unit was mounted unsteadily into the small window above our heads. The room was dark and cool — freezing in winter — and cars rolled over the 4th Street bridge all day and night.  

* * *

Invisalign is a system of clear plastic aligners, each a mold of your teeth, that you wear at all times except when eating. Every Sunday night I put in a new set of aligners, top and bottom, one slight correction closer to perfection. Every two months I return to Dr. F’s office to pick up my next set of eight aligners, each in its own resealable plastic bag. My treatment plan was supposed to take 18 months, or 78 little plastic bags.

This is my 48th week of Invisalign and the gap between my two front teeth is definitely closing. When I’m wearing the retainers, the space almost disappears, and I get a little preview of what I’ll look like when I’m done. I am still, for better or worse, recognizably me.

* * *

The truth about my dad is somewhat more complicated. He does love teaching, and he is great at it. But he’s 70 now, still taking night classes, still attending training workshops, still working with a mentor. He works the equivalent of three full-time jobs. He is subject to age discrimination in hiring, to exhaustion and chest pains and second-guessing. Not to mention the decades he spent doing things he didn’t love until he found, belatedly, the thing he did. 

* * *

It didn’t occur to me that Invisalign would hurt, perhaps because they were just flimsy plastic sleeves and not metal braces. The day I had them put in, Dr. F filed down some of my teeth and cemented anchoring brackets onto others, without any anesthesia. My jaw ached from holding my mouth open for so long. Then there was the actual movement of the teeth themselves, a part of me that hadn’t moved since infancy now subjected to a sudden geologic violence.

When I got back to our house after my first appointment, I was starving but it hurt too much to eat. Zac took a bite of a Snickers bar, chewed it up, and spat it into my mouth.


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Zac had three children but no babies. He was 29 and I was 37. He said that with or without babies, he’d still choose me. I said he might change his mind. We went on a 14-mile hike and we argued about it the entire way, 7 miles up and 7 miles down. 

The night of the company Christmas party, I made a joke about how we’d probably never have kids, and he went outside crying. I caught up to him in front of a tequila-themed sports bar whose patrons were sloshing off the patio and we fought while people all around us shouted at the TVs. We were blocking the valet line, him still crying and me begging him to come back inside, while the black-jacketed valets carried on indifferentl around us, edging SUVs right up to the backs of our knees. At last we made it into our Lyft and we spoke to our bedroom ceiling until the room lightened into dawn.

* * *

The last time I spoke to my dad on the phone, he was thinking of going back to manufacturing. There are a lot of temporary jobs in Reno now, he said, and he has the experience. He loves his students and the work he does, but the administrative wrangling is wearing him out. He got his certification through a program called ARL, or Alternative Route to Licensure, and now it turns out some routes are better than others.

* * *

Today, Moana was bidding her dying grandmother farewell, on mute, while Dr. F frowned over my incisors. There was a gap between the tooth and the aligner that would necessitate new X-rays, new scans, and everything starting all over again.

My teeth ache a little now all the time, under a steady and unrelenting pressure just this side of ignorable. The aligners force a pinched, disapproving expression that ages me 10 years. Then there’s the business of taking them out for every snack, every drink, every meal, and keeping them clean. Nothing makes you feel more like an old lady than slipping your teeth out of your mouth, except perhaps leaving them to soak in blue liquid in a bowl on the bathroom counter.

With all the extra brushing and flossing I do now, I have plenty of time to inspect my teeth. Before all of my ire was directed toward that one gap, but now that it’s improving, I’ve started really looking at all the other problems with my teeth, the problems Invisalign can’t fix. My front teeth are too long and my incisors too pointy. My teeth are too yellow. When I smile my eyes scrunch up too much and my sharp nose points like an arrow directing attention toward my asymmetric chin.

Still, I’ve been smiling more often, though tentatively, and not in a way I would exactly describe as natural. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to smile as effortlessly as people who’ve had four more decades of practice. At times I doubt whether Invisalign has done anything much at all. Are they like Dumbo’s feather, simply giving me the confidence to bare the teeth I might have bared all along? I suppose that might be considered an uplifting ending, but then Dumbo’s feather didn’t cost him $3,000.

* * *

We did everything at once. There wasn’t time or space to date casually, get serious, move in, calm down, get married and then have a baby. The first years we had so much living to do: moving once and then moving again, getting a pet, burying a pet, having sex until 2 in the morning and waking at 6 to pack the lunches, the ovulation test kits and love letters and the fractious night driving, the family vacation where all three children vomited in the car. Sometimes I think it’s easier to have young children in the early days of a relationship, when the fresh intensity of your attachment can mitigate all the stress and exhaustion. When the house is asleep I put my head on his chest and he sings to me, his low voice sounding far but not distant.

‘Oh yes,’ Dr. F interrupted cheerfully, ‘you can fix absolutely anything when you’re young.’

Strangers constantly stop us on the street to tell us we look so happy, excuse me, but they’ve just never seen such a happy couple before. 

The night we moved in together, into a three-bedroom rental house in Burbank, I cried because I wished I could have done all of it with him the first time. I sat on a hard-backed chair in the living room because we didn’t have a sofa yet. Zac moved in with only his books, his computer, and clothes. I had taken only a fraction of my things with me in the divorce, but still I had so much stuff: potted plants and a slow cooker, a sugar bowl from my old wedding registry, a box labeled “kids’ artwork,” plastic tubs of Christmas ornaments, and a 3-foot-tall wooden dollhouse.

That night Zac wandered into the empty living room in the middle of brushing his teeth. Through foam, he said, “I missed you.”

* * *

We got married at 3 in the afternoon on a warm day in June, 89 degrees and unusually humid for Los Angeles. I had ordered a dress for the occasion, pale blue tumbled with sprays of little red roses, but by the time it arrived I’d already grown too big to wear it, so about an hour before the ceremony I pulled on an old jersey dress with gray and white stripes that stretched over my pregnant belly like a dizzying optical illusion. My sister and her boyfriend flew down from Reno to be our witnesses.

Zac wanted a proper wedding, but I wasn’t sure. “I already had a wedding.”

“But I didn’t.”

We drove to the Los Angeles County Registrar’s office in Van Nuys. The office looked like a DMV, with linoleum floors and snaking lines of people clutching forms in their sweaty hands. The walls were painted avocado and lemon meringue, the colors of appetizers in a 1950s cookbook. A sign read “Birth, Marriage, Death” with an arrow pointing down the hall.

The couple in line ahead of us brought along a group of relatives, all dressed up and holding armloads of flowers. They went into the chapel for about 15 minutes and emerged looking excited. 

When it was our turn, we went in to find the justice of the peace, a short, energetic woman with dark brown curls wearing thick glasses and a black robe. She stood in front of a heart-shaped metal arch swathed in pale green tulle and fake flowers; on the wall behind her, little puff balls of orange, white, and yellow tulle hung from what appeared to be a giant coat hanger. The only other furniture in the room was a small table, covered in a white tablecloth and decorated with a vase of plastic flowers, and an empty office trash can. 

The wedding chapel was in a side room with its own door, but the partition wall stopped about two feet from the ceiling, so we could still hear the grumbles of the people on the other side, requesting certified copies of their birth certificate.

The justice of the peace asked if we had prepared any vows. We answered no and she politely carried on, as though she’d accidentally raised a sensitive topic and was now trying to tactfully change the subject. She asked if we had any rings to exchange. We said no again, and she made a comment about how we didn’t need rings — our real gift was the baby-to-be.

She asked us to hold hands and gaze into each other’s eyes, something we both found acutely embarrassing. She declared us man and wife. My sister took pictures and then we all went to Disneyland.

* * *

Our baby is named Margaret Héloïse. She was born on September 21 when I was 39 years old. September 21 is the start of a new season, but it’s a late season, too.

* * *

If you want to really surprise someone, try proposing to them a month after you’ve gotten married. We went out to dinner and Zac gave me his great-grandmother’s ring.

This summer we will have our second wedding. In the course of one year I will have gotten married, gotten engaged, had a baby, turned 40, and then gotten married again. Beatrice, 10 years old, has named herself a “junior bridesmaid,” a concept she read about in a bridal magazine. Five-year-old William will be the ring bearer, and we’ve dubbed Margaret the Baby of Honor. Arthur, 8, wants to pull her down the aisle in a wagon covered in flowers. 

My teeth were supposed to be done last July, but I’m still waiting. Forty-year-old teeth are stubborn. Each time I go in I tell Dr. F they’re good enough, but Dr. F is a perfectionist. The space between my two front teeth, the one that started all this, looks OK to me, but my crowded bottom teeth resist rearrangement. 

I’ve started printing out photos of me and Zac together, smiling. They’re mostly selfies, mostly not very good ones. Neither of us likes to have our picture taken, and it shows. But here’s one of us smiling in front of redwood trees, one at the beach. Some from his old apartment, one trick or treating with the kids. There’s one of us smiling at the Los Angeles County Registrar’s office, one at Disneyland, and a picture of me with Margaret, a few minutes old, wet against my chest — and I’m grinning wildly, artlessly, showing all my teeth.

* * *

Summer Block has written short fiction, poetry, and essays for The Awl, Catapult, The Toast, The Rumpus, and Electric Lit. She is writing a book about Halloween.

Editor: Cheri Lucas Rowlands

‘The Survivor’s Edit’: Bassey Ikpi on Memory, Truth, and Living with Bipolar II

Space Frontiers/Hulton Archive/Getty Images

Naomi Elias | Longreads | August 2019 | 24 minutes (6,573 words)

 

Bassey Ikpi remembers the Challenger explosion; she can recall the exact moment it happened, in 1984. She can remember, in exquisitely painful detail, how she felt watching that tragic accident unfold on live television, in 1984. Yet Google and the history books tell us it happened in 1986. “What is truth,” Ikpi asks, “if it’s not the place where reality and memory meet?”

The blurry line between emotional truth and fact is stylishly captured in an optical illusion of a book cover (designed by Matthew McNerney) for Ikpi’s new memoir-in-essays, I’m Telling The Truth But I’m Lying. The Nigerian-American author takes up the project of remembering, with great dexterity and compassion for herself. Ikpi opens up about living with bipolar II; “Imagine you don’t fit anywhere,” Ikpi writes, “not even in your own head.” We experience her life pre- and post-diagnosis; her adolescence in Stillwater, Oklahoma; her early twenties touring as a spoken word artist with HBO’s Def Poetry Jam; her sleepless nights; and her hospitalization.The latter proves to be a turning point, one that finally gives her a name for her mental illness and — as the book demonstrates — a framework for understanding the story of her life.

The diagnosis is clarifying; it allows her to see how mental health impacts her relationships to her family and friends, and to herself, often determining what she feels and remembers, and how she remembers it. In this way Ikpi also uses her book to interrogate the nature of memory itself — how fragile it is, how it can be colored and recolored by trauma and guilt and self-preservational drive. “I learned how to take the truth and bend it like light through a prism,” Ikpi explains in the book, “I learned to lie beautifully.” Rather than present readers with a sanitized cluster of biographical data, Ikpi offers a memoir that places the reader inside her mind, conflict and all. Read more…

In Sickness, In Health — and In Prison

Najeebah Al-Ghadban for The Marshall Project.

Mia Armstrong | The Marshall Project | August 2019 | 9 minutes (2,400 words)

This article was co-published with The Marshall Project, a nonprofit news organization covering the U.S. criminal justice system. Sign up for their newsletter, or follow The Marshall Project on Facebook or Twitter.

Niccole Wetherell and Paul Gillpatrick were engaged in 2012. The state of Nebraska has prevented their wedding ever since​.

Wetherell is serving a life sentence for first-degree murder, housed in a prison about 50 miles away from her fiance, Gillpatrick, who is serving a 55-to-90-year sentence for second-degree murder.

The pair, who met in 1998, have come to accept they cannot marry in person. Instead, they want to wed via video conference, and they want an end to a prison policy that forbids Nebraska inmates from marrying each other except in “special circumstances.” Wetherell and Gillpatrick argue they have a “fundamental right to marry.”

In June, U.S. District Judge Robert Rossiter ​affirmed​ that right. The case is now in appeal. But the legal precedent Rossiter cited has a quirky history that involves an infamous co-ed prison, an impromptu wedding, a soon-to-follow divorce and a U.S. Supreme Court decision.

That decision, Turner v. Safley, established how courts should weigh the constitutionality of prison regulations, and has formed the legal basis for prison weddings across the country​—​most often between one incarcerated person and someone on the outside. It opened the doors for a niche industry of ​officiants​ ​who​ ​specialize​ ​in​ prison weddings. And its clear articulation of marriage as a fundamental human right was even cited in ​Obergefell v. Hodges​, the landmark Supreme Court decision that in 2015 affirmed the right to marriage for same-sex couples.

It all started in 1980 at a prison in Missouri. Read more…

I’ll Be Loving You Forever

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Rebecca Schuman | Longreads | August 2019 | 15 minutes (4,077 words)

 

“You are not wearing that shirt right now.”

Even in this establishment’s near-black 4 p.m. lighting, the bartender, a guy about my age dressed in the Portland Gen-Xer uniform (“Henry Rollins, but a dad”), has made out the faded names and visages adorning my bosom: Donnie. Danny. Joe. Jordan. Jon.

“Oh,” I tell him. “Not only am I wearing this shirt, but I’m about to go see these very motherfuckers. With Gretchen, my best friend from middle school. Who I haven’t seen in years. She was on my gymnastics team, and she flew in from Wyoming. Just to do this.”

When I’m excited I tend to overshare, but I do not admit that the pint of Kölsch I’m ordering is for Gretchen and me to split. I am 42 years old, and if I drink more than half a beer I will sleep through the “rock concert,” as we used to call them, which I have paid $162 to attend.

I can attempt to explain, using human language, the extent to which Gretchen and I were fans of New Kids on the Block. I can explain that my room was a four-walled decoupage of Tiger Beat pin-ups. I can explain how I had the bed sheets and comforter. The trading cards. The marbles (why?). The comic books. The bubblegum (a bit too on the nose). How I had, God help me, the dolls, which my little brother took great pleasure in arranging in flagrante and placing on my bed. I can explain all of this in words, but it’s the kind of thing best expressed in scream — specifically, the scream of a 13-year-old’s terrifying nascent sexuality, sublimated in real time into something safe in its simultaneous unattainability and ubiquity.

Read more…