I grew up in a simple home - a mom, a dad, a little sister, older siblings who lived on their own elsewhere, lots of animals, and little money. We didn't go on vacations (except to visit family,) shop at outlet malls, dine out every weekend, or catch movies together. Our most exciting nights were driving a town over to eat Chinese or Mexican, usually to celebrate a birthday or all As on report cards. I wore sweat suits to school for the majority of elementary and was always approved for free or reduced lunch. My extent of "beautiful things" were the fake jewelry and makeup sets my nanny bought me for every gift-giving occasion, and the porcelain dolls my parents got my little sister and me - one each every Christmas and birthday (and occasionally a random one here and there if there was extra money.) I adored those dolls. They looked up at me with vibrant blue eyes behind thick lashes, pouty pink little-girl lips smiling under blushed cheeks, and delicate golden curls shining in a cascade down the sides of their faces. When I looked into the flushed face of a new doll, I found myself captivated by its beauty, breathless with wonder that something so small could be so exquisite and that something so exquisite could be mine.
It wasn't just the painted features of the porcelains that left me in awe; I often found myself fawning over their clothes. How could it be that these glass little girls looked more like royalty than the Princess Diana herself? Lace, ruffles, velvet, fur, petticoats, and golden buttons caressed these dolls in luxury I only dreamed of experiencing. My favorite was a blonde statue with pink cheeks and lips, curly hair, and blue eyes dressed in winter's finest. Her hair tumbled down from under a navy velvet hat, beret-style, trimmed in soft, white fur (faux of course.) Her dress was made of the same velvet, covering her baby doll arms to her wrists and stopping just below the frozen bend of her knees. The sleeves and hem of her dress were bordered by the fur trim, and her legs were covered in lacey-white stockings. Her shoes were simple Mary Janes fitting perfectly with her outfit but not distracting the extravagance of her dress. I was proud to own her, call her mine; I knew I would never be clothed like she was, but I was satisfied to hold her in my arms and pretend her life was mine. After all, what I lacked in monetary surplus, I most certainly accommodated for in imagination.
Maybe it was no secret to my mother, but there was a reason that dolly with the velvet and fur was my choice playmate. Her clothes reminded me of the secret life of my mother, the life I never knew. My mom came to me from many miles away. Of course, I wasn't alive yet when she arrived in Alabama, but she came here for me and for my little sister. She came because she loved us even though she didn't know it yet. She left my two older brothers and my older sister. She left their father, their home, their life, and even though it hurt them so, she had to come, and she knew it, and I think now, so do they. My mother wasn't elite in her time in Chicago, but her life was a far cry from the dried beans, concrete house, and trailer plant income that awaited her in Alabama. She traded block parties, social events and Trans Ams for horseshoe tournaments, country boys downing moonshine, and pickup trucks that found themselves stuck in the mud much too often. She didn't have a job, my daddy didn't have any savings, and neither of them planned for a child, but I came anyway, and so did their new marriage, a disgusting old house, and an incredible wave of insecurity. After cleaning out a two-bedroom, one-bath house with concrete walls and concrete floors and an old wood cookstove for heat, my mom unpacked her things and settled into the South for good, and I was born just two months later. My mother gained me, but she lost so much else, including a place to wear her white rabbit fur coat, the coat that reminded me of my gorgeous porcelain doll.
Just like any other little girl, I was fascinated by my mother's things. Her closet consisted only of a shelf attached to the wall and a bar mounted to it for hanging, but my tiny curious fingers didn't know the difference as they rifled though shirts, pants, and the occasional dress. She had one dress that she brought with her from Chicago; it was chocolate brown, dotted with flowers, and the silky texture slipped though my hands when I traced the crisply pleated skirt. She wore it on special occasions along with a garnet ring (her birthstone.) I was delighted by that dress, but it could never hold my attention when I knew that in just a few hangers down, I would find the epitome of beauty to a six-year-old: my mother's fur coat. For so long, I never knew what was tucked away in that black garbage bag, but finally one afternoon in a moment of newfound bravery, my tiny fingernail just happened to make a tiny hole that I could slide my tiny fingertip into, and the moment my skin made contact with the soft fur underneath the plastic, I knew I had unearthed a treasure.
Even at six, I knew that treasures came with strings attached. I had heard enough stories and seen enough movies to understand that when someone stowed away a treasure, there was a purpose which never included anyone else finding it. Yet I couldn't imagine why on earth Mommy wouldn't want to share her beautiful white coat with me. Had she hoped it would just hang there on that rack in that black bag for all eternity, never raising any curiosity in me? Had she never wanted me to experience the elegant warmth of fur wrapped around my body? Was she afraid of the coat she kept hidden in that garbage bag? Was she ashamed? Was she hiding it from my family's eyes? From her own? The answer to all these questions, I later learned, was yes. She hid the coat to protect my little sister and me, to protect our father, to protect herself. Wrapped up inside that black plastic bag was more than just a lavish fur coat; that bag held my mother's past, a place that hurt her, that caused her pain. All I wanted to do was put on that coat, feel sophisticated and beautiful, like my precious little doll. All my mom wanted to do was bury the darkness of her hurt in a place where none of us could access it.
When I finally got the chance to slip my arms into the sleeves of rabbit fur, I expected my mother's face to glitter with delight, but all I saw in her expression was sadness. She couldn't see the glistening sheen of the snow-white fur or feel its decadently soft fibers. Instead, her senses were blinded by the memories of all she lost and all she gave up, and there I stood, standing in front of her, a little girl in an oversized fur coat, hoping that if I looked enough like my porcelain doll, the sight of me would make all her pain worth it. I didn't understand how the image of her daughter draped in such loveliness could make her anything but happy, but I had seen that glossed, far-away gaze in my mother's eyes before, and I knew it was time to wrap the rabbit back in blackness. The beauty of her fur coat was stained by the past it held in its seams, but all my little-girl heart could comprehend was that the pain in my mother's eyes meant I could never live up to the beauty of her past. It was in this moment that I first began to realize the statement that would come to define the rest of my life: pain is beauty. At six years old, I learned that beauty was dangerous and that it caused pain because I understood clearly that I could never be beautiful enough to overcome my mother's hurt, no matter how many times I tried.
