Growing up I loved getting dressed. More so than getting dressed, I loved watching my mother get ready for various parties and outings. She wasn’t inclined to wear the latest fashion and was a pro at finding deals. My mother took pride in looking her best. She was a natural beauty who grew up in the south, an army brat who attended church regularly—in the south putting on your “Sunday’s best” was paramount, especially within the Black community.
I would sit on the lip of the tub in my parent’s master bath and watch her apply her makeup and do her hair step by step. I would watch as she curled her bangs in a studied and concise manner. Apply her lip liner without leaving a smudge of imperfection and line her eyes with kohl eye liner without so much as a single tear falling. Once her face was done up and her hair was pristine, she would enter her walk-in closet just off the bathroom and select her outfit; she always started with her shoes.
From an early age my parents allowed me to pick out my own clothes, down to my shoes. Among my most coveted pairs were Vans in elementary school, Converse in middle school and Louis Vuitton moccasins in high school (gifted to me by a friend’s mom who worked for the company). Shoes were definitively male or female, at least at the time. As I found myself and my gender identity, footwear would guide me. My mother’s closet was my entry point.
My mom worked in investment banking in my earlier years, an industry fueled by wealth and the male ego. I always admired that throughout this, her style remained, and maybe even became more, feminine. Her go-to shoes were Ferragamo ballet flats or lower heels by Via Spiga that had a cork heel and platform and a maroon patent leather upper and straps (this pair in particular I would try on when no one was home).
I told my mother once that I was a girl when I was six years old, something I don’t think anyone who knew me would be surprised by, even her. My…
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