THE GREEN PANTS/ Beauty Reals

In the fourth grade, the color green confirmed that my most feminine self needed protecting, and I was charged with defending it.

In the spring of 1983, I learned, unmistakably, that beauty has the potential to create envy so insidious it can turn almost anyone against you. I was in the fourth grade, and unlike most girls my age, I'd already had an hourglass figure with a pronounced bottom that even my family deemed conversational. In fact, when I was in pre-school an older gentleman, a family friend, had remarked on the way my butt and hips moved. And worse, he'd inappropriately give me the nickname "Fresh-pot." Disgusting, I know. Except, in response to his paying unlawful attention to the natural switch of my body, instead of defending me, family members called me flirty as if I'd deserved such a destabilizing moniker. Imagine what that does to a four-year-old girl. It was a burden no child should ever bear. Still, I have no question his observation of my anything was perverse, yet his constant remarks had weakened me. 

Fourth grade rolled around, and I was defenseless, already jailed by the disturbance my feminine contours seemed to incite. I'd worn a pair of Kelley green trousers and a white t-shirt to school when one of my best friends said, "You better not wear those pants to school again... the boys are staring at your butt." The only thing I'd thought to do was grab my backpack and vow never to wear those pants again.

I went home and shared her words with my mother. 

“You will wear those pants to school tomorrow and the next day if need be. You’re a beautiful girl, Crystal, and while jealousy is difficult to endure, it won’t be the last time girls dislike you for being prettier than them," she insisted.

I hadn’t any idea what she meant. So I asked,

“Jealous? What does that mean?”  

A knowing look spread across my mother’s face as she said,

“Jealous is when people dislike you for being special.” Her mouth twisted in ways I’d never seen while her pouty lips reconfigured into tiny, pointed daggers. “But understand, although you’re pretty,” she said, pointing and shaking her finger. “There will always be someone prettier, so don’t let that go to your head."

I’d taken my mother’s words to mean it’s not good to make people jealous, which ironically grew into more profound insecurity about my femininity. I suddenly needed to make sure ALL girls felt at ease in my presence (whether I was at ease or not). My mother meant, “Stay humble because pretty is only part of your equation.”

A better comprehension of the latter could have saved me many years of false friendships with many women who would ultimately wish me harm. And from becoming the scapegoat for so many people incapable of loving themselves.

Anyway, the next day at school, I wore the green pants again. And once again, the girls approached me. The shorter of the two had hair which cascaded down to the backs of her knees and long, alien-looking fingers in sharp contrast to her dwarfish stature. She'd said,  

“I will kick your ass if you wear those pants again.”

I didn’t understand why she and her trusty sidekick wanted to kick my ass. 

“Try me,” I replied, catching myself off guard.

It was the best I had; it was rude and efficient. But who was I kidding? I should have said, "I'll kick your ass," or a more popular comeback from the eighties, "your momma."  Only, I'd never had a real fight in my life. Most of my run-ins were swift ass kickings of my brother's bullies. Although my mother had insisted they go out and fight their own fights, which they rarely did, I’d head to the playground, find their bully, and handle it. I ended every beating with the promise: Mess with my brother again….

Afterward, the taller of the two, howling like a banshee, her stubby hands waving in the air, had said, 

“Wear those pants again, and we’ll jump you!”

Now they'd threatened to jump me. That had to be worse than a plain old ass kicking. Damn! Who’d imagine in the suburbs of New York City, within the hand-printed walls of Mamaroneck Avenue School, smelling of Play-Doh and cherry-flavored markers, surrounded by greenery and wholesomeness, that getting jumped was a thing?

I stood at my cubby outside my English class, waiting for the end-of-school bell to ring as I pictured the two undersized girls jumping me. I towered over them, but the fear of getting beat up by the tiny girls strangled me.

Once again, I ran home to tell my mother. She paused only once to give an impish smirk and transform her delicate fists into balls when she said,

“You will wear those pants again, and when they approach you, and they will, you will tell them to meet you after school near the basketball hoop.”

I froze as my mother addressed me like a queen might her dutiful servant, authoritative yet protective. I realized it was my duty to uphold the mantra my mother had so drilled into my psyche: nobody kicks your ass unless you let them. I wondered what my future holds as I asked,

“And then what?”

“And then you kick both of their asses!” My mother had said, her eyes popping out of her head.

The next day, I wore the green pants for the fourth day in a row, and yes, the runty girls approached me yet again. This time, during lunch, in front of the entire fourth grade. The tiny, long-haired one pushed me. I lurched forward, grabbing hold of the lunch table to catch my fall. My whole face grew inflamed. I was at once embarrassed and infuriated. She pushed me again and said, 

“Your ass is grass!”

I stood there fighting back my tears as I mustered the strength to say, 

“Meet me at the basketball hoop after school, and we’ll see whose ass is grass.”

Although cursing did not suit me, saying the word ass made me feel as if I'd accomplished the impossible. 

Just then, another of my mother’s mantra entered my head: don’t embarrass me outside this house. At that moment, all I saw was my mother’s stern gaze bearing down on me, a look she only employed in times of sheer disappointment, one that rendered my brothers and me terrified. I knew better than to act a fool in front of my teachers, who’d more than likely report back to my mother. I chose not to push her back. I waited until I was away from the gaze of authority when she replied,

“You better be there!” Rolling her eyes and head in one swift and sassy motion.

For the next three periods, I worried myself senseless. Would they attack first or should I throw the first punch? I questioned whether if by wearing the tight, green trousers I was the one with the problem? Each time that thought crossed my mind, it sounded more insane. It took several decades to realize that sort of introspection was futile. I needed to trust my gut.

I toiled over my imminent brawl. Despite my mother’s expectations, I didn't want to fight. But after school, when the buses lined up to wait for the children, I waited near the basketball hoop. Those who’d heard whisperings had gathered by the fence. I’d tried to avoid the looks of passersby, but their stares weighed on me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as the girls approached. It began like most juvenile fight scenes you'd see in a movie where the little bully with the big voice makes their way toward the taller, less aggressive bystander. I stood there, resolute in my green pants, my heart pounding in my chest, when suddenly, their eyes shifted from villainous and menacing to the enormous and pooling peepers of Cheshire cats.

Still, I'd finally accepted they were bullies who needed handling,  as I held my hands high with fists balled and planted my feet just like my father had taught me before he died. So there was no turning back. They’d gotten close enough to where I could take the first swing when one looked over to the other and said, "She’s lucky our bus is leaving," as they ran the other way.

It had taken a moment to realize they weren’t coming back. I felt victorious, larger than life, and vindicated. No one could have prepared for this feeling of safety, not even my mother who was correct when she'd insisted no one could kick your ass unless you let him/her.

I turned to leave the basketball court when I noticed that all the onlookers had gone. All except for one, my mother, who unbeknownst to me, positioned herself behind thick maple trees lining the sidewalk. I ran to her, and she engulfed me in a hug. "I'm proud of you," she whispered in my ear. 

When the day came that my mother was not hiding behind the broadest tree, waiting to pounce, I realized that I alone had to uphold the feminine contours of my body, no matter the cut or color of my pants.