My mom’s sacrificial support helped me realize I didn’t need to change myself in order to be loved.
My high school homecoming dress was adorned in sequin scallops and gold embroidery. Rows of beads darted up from the hem to my waist, elongating my legs. It looked like something straight out of the 1920s, an era my mom taught me to romanticize. Friends called it my “Gatsby dress.” What I remember from The Great Gatsby was a man putting on a show and creating a new character for himself. I did the same, ignoring my roots and aiming for artificial beauty.
My polyester dress felt like silk slipping down my body. The beads rustled as they made their way to my waist. It was the third time I wore it, a rarity for any of my formal dresses. The straps anchored low on my spine, exposing my shoulder blades. I didn’t worry about acne speckling my back anymore, nor did I worry about the folds and creases around my midsection. Each time I zipped the dress up, I felt myself becoming more of the woman I wanted to be.
My mom always thought I looked beautiful, but her position as my mom ruined her credibility in my eyes. She had to think I was pretty. Still, she tolerated my superficial endeavors. She was once like me, powdering on makeup just to go to the gas station and idolizing the perfect haircut. I’ll be lucky if I turn out like her.
My mom got through to me, and I avoided dieting this time. I liked my figure, but it would take another two years to accept my alabaster skin. Two days before the dance, I stood exposed in front of a middle-aged salon worker and watched as she blanketed me in brown sugarcane dye. She showed me the change in color by peeling back the waistband of my underwear, which I refused to shed in front of a stranger. I smiled. My champagne gown wouldn’t wash out the complexion I’d inherited from my dad.
I didn’t have a date to homecoming, but I never did. Most of my friends weren’t in relationships, and we would lend arms to one another during the slow songs. I got used to it, but I always envied the girls with the flowers draped around their wrists. Every time I walked into the black-lit gymnasium with a bare wrist, I felt like I’d failed again. I had a feeling the student body had an unspoken policy: Dates were good, boyfriends were better, and being single was something to be ashamed of. I didn’t quite get why everyone relied on a significant other. Maybe they were lacking the support I had at home.
My mom always liked to take pictures apart from the other parents. It was her favorite part of the night, and she wanted to make this one special. We drove into the streets of Midtown, Kansas City, for a photoshoot. My dad had given up taking my senior portraits after one session, so my mom decided to try her hand with the professional-grade camera. I sauntered around in my four-inch heels, occasionally tripping on loose bricks. My mom clicked away, taking hundreds of photos, pausing only for a bathroom break at Jimmy John’s. The cashier furrowed his brow, but my mom and I were in our own world.
I frequented a parking garage by the conference center for portraits. It was often free and empty, and we could drive all the way to the roof. Up there, I felt like a model, and my mom was a magazine photographer. She picked poses and twisted my hair into the perfect position before laying on the concrete to get the best angle, even though people could have been watching from the office building next door. She giggled, and I grabbed her arthritic hand to pull her up.
My mom always liked to serve me, no matter how it hurt her. Her health has been declining since I was a baby. She became a stay-at-home mom with the birth of my oldest sibling in order to keep up with her body’s demands as well as the family’s. Whenever I forgot a textbook or got the slightest fever, she would pull up to the school in her ’03 Pontiac Montana. When my brother was born, she had traded in her Camaro for a minivan and drove the family-friendly car until I left for college. Then, she switched to a car that would accommodate nine-hour drives to see me. For years, I called her a “helicopter mom.” The phrase took the edge away from the reality of her sacrifices.
While taking the photos for homecoming, I had so much fun with my mom that I was late to meet my friends at the restaurant. I zigzagged through the tables and found my group of mostly acquaintances at the back. They referred to one another as family, and I was adopted in for the night. It was intimidating joining such a close friend group, but my nerves faded as I saw them gawk over my dress and makeup. Victory.
Throughout dinner, classmates kept leaving their seats to come talk to me at the end of the long table. It was like that all night. I let the attention sink in, telling embellished stories about my ex-boyfriend and my college plans. I even felt confident in my casual clothes around a bonfire later that night. The group usually didn’t ask me questions. But that night, I felt like I caught them up on so much. It was nice, but I knew it wouldn’t last.
The tan washed away after a few steamy showers, and my hair fell back into its natural frizz. I kept some of the makeup tips I’d learned, contouring my cheeks and brightening my lips. But I went back to quietly sitting at the end of the lunch table. I didn’t mind. At the end of the day, I’d go home to my mom, who would be excited to listen.
As college acceptance letters started filling the mailbox, high school lost its hold over my social life. I liked feeling popular at homecoming, but I didn’t need prolonged attention. I focused instead on my close friends and my favorite classes, leading the school newspaper and becoming a mentor for freshmen. They inspired me to run for queen in the next dance, four months after homecoming.
I wore the dress again the night I was crowned courtwarming queen. Running against popular girls who had intimidated me months before, I left my skin pale and didn’t pay much attention to my hair and makeup. Still, I was crowned queen as one of my close friends was named king.
The announcer for the basketball game had me answer a few questions so he would know what to say about me during the halftime show. I’m glad he asked about my role model. My mom was squeezed into the center of the front row, gleaming as I was introduced. I strolled across the gym toward her, making glossy eye contact as the announcer said: “Annelise’s role model is her mom, for even through chronic illness, she teaches her to live a beautiful life.”
