Girl With a Tail

Secrets Don’t Make Friends

My mom was the one to spot the Hammer pants sale. Behind the local video store where we rented the same two movies every week — my favorite, Flight of the Navigator and my sister’s favorite, Sleeping Beauty – a guy with those futuristic band-like sunglasses that no one in the future would ever wear was selling dozens of Hammer pants on clotheslines. They weren’t even technically called Hammer pants yet since MC wouldn’t be popular for another three years or so. The pants were parachutes of cotton, elastic waist band and elastic ankles. They billowed in the wind like graffitied sails. “These are so cool! They look so comfortable!” my mom said. This was 1985. My mom dressed like Molly Ringwald in Pretty in Pink, flowing pinks and peaches and giant, dangly earrings. At ages 6 and 4, my sister and I considered her the last word in fashion. The guy was selling them for $5 a pair, so my mom decided we should each get two. I chose a black and white checkered pattern with hot pink squigglies and a black pair with green and blue neon geometric shapes.

My mom, a free spirit, was always more casual about things than my friends’ parents. We didn’t have to clean our rooms except maybe once a year when my mom would walk in, realize I’d been doing gymnast leaps over piles of junk in order to get to and from my bed, and insist on at least clearing a path. We were allowed to watch movies with suggested sex scenes so long as there wasn’t too much violence, while my friends were allowed to watch torture, shootings, bombings, and stabbings in movies but an exposed breast was out of the question. My mom saw nothing wrong with my snaggle teeth which was why I didn’t get braces until I insisted on it in the 9^th grade. We made glitter art projects, played word games, and made fairy homes instead of watching t.v. And my mom was partial to dispensing tidbits of advice that, while valid, didn’t always reflect the norm – and reflecting the norm was absolutely my biggest goal in 1^st grade. “Boys will like your furry arms and legs because they’re soft.” (Not true. No boy has ever stroked my arm hair and whispered sweet, “So soft.”) “If you have a stomach ache, massage your belly downward.” (This led to a bathroom trip at the skating rink with two of my girlfriends after too much cake and sausage pizza during which one of them exclaimed in horror, “Eeew, why are you kneading your stomach like bread!?”) “Sometimes it’s nice not to wear underwear and let your vulva air out.” This last one wouldn’t have been such an issue if it wasn’t for my irrepressible desire to share secrets; a trait I still struggle with.

I wore my new checkered, squiggly pants to school the next day. My mom and sister, also wearing their new pants, dropped me off at my classroom. We were like a family act without a talent. I loved the way the elastic held snug to my ankles. I loved the way I could pull the elastic waist band up high over my ribcage or let them sit low on my hips. I chose ribcage. When I walked into the classroom, strutting my balloon legs proudly – much like Hammer would walk on stage in a few years – I noticed I got some looks. Most 1^st grade girls are dressed by their moms. They wore things like little pinafore dresses or overalls or cotton capris with matching blouses. Their hair was always in plastic barrettes the shape of poodles or ribbons. I had a no-helping policy which covered me head to toe. My mom might have suggested the Hammer pants purchase, but I had paired them with a pale pink puffy paint t-shirt tucked in, mismatched socks, purple velcro sneakers, and my usual scraggly hair complete with one or two tangles in the back. I looked like the portrait of a young bag lady. The look would have been complete with a shopping cart and a few mangy cats.

The kids at my table asked why my whole family was wearing the same weird pants. I explained that they were cool because they were so comfy and because they were being sold behind the video store. “My mom buys all my clothes at Macy’s,” said Shauna, whose outfits were always Skipper-perfect. I had not learned yet, at age 6, that being okay with yourself doesn’t involve lying. “Well,” I told the table, “My mom read that it’s better to buy clothes not from Macy’s now.” Shauna rolled her eyes. Tim, a fat kid whose mom had to be told to stop bringing jumbo size containers of candy to the class, said, “My mom said when I lose weight we get to go shopping for all new clothes,” and this diverted Shauna’s disdain temporarily.

I sat very still, blushing, wishing I could think of a way to make everyone at my table believe I was cool. As we got out wide-lined notebook paper and began numbering 1-10 for our spelling words, my secret-telling impulse rose like heat in my body. The best way to feel less alone was to share something personal and maybe a little embarrassing. This is a technique I would later employ with new friends and crushes and always to the same end. I leaned over to Rose, a quiet girl in a lovely lavender sundress with matching patent leather shoes and straight, perfect bangs. “Guess what,” I whispered. She looked over and leaned in with a little smile. It was working. People love secrets. “I’m not wearing underwear.” Immediately Rose gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. Then she leaned in towards the center of the table and said, as if I was not beside her, “You guys, Erin just told me she’s not wearing underwear!!!” This elicited an elongated, “Eeeeeeew!” from the rest of the table. Let me save you the suspense and tell you that trying to explain that not wearing underwear was good for airing our the vulva did not help my case. Eventually, Mrs. Keely, known to draw frowning faces beside mistakes on homework, came over to see why my table had erupted in gleeful horror. Shauna quickly repeated my secret to Mrs. Keely who wrinkled her nose, looked at me like I was a wrong answer, and said, “Why?” This of course made the kids laugh even harder since they had already heard my defense. I shrugged my little shoulders, looking down at the checkered pants and squigglies as they went glassy. My face was hot and tears leaked from my eyes. Mrs. Keely sighed heavily and said, “Oh, Erin, don’t CRY,” as though it were the most idiotic thing a person could do. I made it to the end of the day. At one point I leaned over to Rose and said, “I was only kidding about not wearing underwear. I can’t believe you fell for that.” She just scooted her chair away from me. At lunch I unwrapped each individual, foil package my mom had packed and ate without looking at anyone. My mom picked me up and my Hammer pants-clad family drove home in our Dodge mini van with the Beach Boys tape that had been stuck in the player for 6 months blasting, “Be True to Your School.”

The next year I switched to Montessori where each day started with a circle during which kids talked about their feelings, the only person who made fun of me for bringing baby food in my lunch was Rose Mary the playground supervisor, and my new best friend, Aimee, didn’t care if I wore underwear under my Hammer pants or not. Which I didn’t because they really were so comfortable.