Blue Tutu

When I drop my daughter off at kindergarten in the mornings, I have noticed that Bailey’s mother triggers my sense of superiority. I looked twice when Bailey’s mother let her wear the red velvet dress with the dirty pink cowboy boots on PE day. I sighed when Bailey lined up behind my daughter wearing a furry purple hat with leopard-print trim paired with a floral skirt; the stems of her little legs slipped into red-and-white striped tights. I smirked when her mother decided it was okay to let her child come to school with a wild swarm of butterfl y clips in her tangled auburn tresses.

Today Bailey’s mom let her wear a blue tutu to school, and that was it— the breaking point. I overheard Bailey’s mom tell another mother, “She wanted to wear her ballet outfit today.” She said it with a smile, and I could hear the admiration in her voice. I sneaked another look at her daughter’s cerulean tulle fashion choice and rolled my eyes behind my sunglasses.

 My daughter’s mane is parted notebook-line straight. Her hair is washed and brushed into submissive softness; no snarl or snag or plastic insect infestation can be found in those blonde locks. Her shirt was ironed this morning. Her jeans are pressed as well. Her shoes are new and double-knotted. Her jacket is a neutral brown that can be worn with everything. She is soap-scrubbed, wrinkle-free and color-coordinated.

 This morning I kiss my daughter’s forehead and tell her I’ll see her at “the usual place;” our name for where I pick her up after school. I wave until she wades successfully into the multi-colored sea of backpacks, sundresses, lunch boxes and hoodies.

 At 2:31pm I’m at the usual place, a red canvas awning providing a diamond of shade for parents dripping from the Phoenix heat. As kids spill out the school’s doors, I walk forward to greet my kindergartner. That’s when I notice that Bailey, the blue tutu girl, isn’t wearing her tutu anymore. Instead, she is dressed in a long white t-shirt and a denim skirt. I ask my daughter if Bailey’s mom came back with new clothes for her to put on.

 “No,” she answers, “Why would she do that?”

 “No reason,” I say, as I slip her backpack over my shoulder and take her hand.

 The teacher must have seen what I saw, must have pulled out the emergency change of clothes each parent was required to provide in case of illness, accident…or fashion faux pas.

 Looking at Bailey in the more appropriate, acceptable outfi t, I feel as smug as if I’ve won some kind of victory. But before I can get to the crosswalk, this trophy of Respectable Wardrobe Identification I’ve bestowed upon myself slips from my grasp and shatters to the sidewalk. I hear a whisper in my mind ask, What are you fighting?

 Bad taste?

 Not quite. Tell the truth.

 Me. I’m fighting myself because I’m not what I seem…

 Hiding behind my dark shades are eyes that voraciously absorb the dark, edgy writing of A.M. Homes and Augusten Burroughs. Eyes that watch tattoo show after tattoo show, mesmerized by the art and guts it takes to swirl a poem in purple across a forearm or spiral a mermaid up a supple thigh. Unbutton my Banana Republic shirt, reach inside past the trendy silk and you’ll fi nd a wild heart fenced in by the barb of underwire. Past my manicured lawn and the safe beige exterior of my house lie electric orange walls, raspberrycolored couches, bold art, buttercream-scented air, wildfl owers that swing inside hanging vases and a menagerie of mosaic glass votive candles throwing psychedelic patterns of color against my walls. When I’m alone, inside my minivan, explicit lyrics and distorted guitar riffs blare from the speakers.

 How does this secret nonconformity square with my disapproval of Bailey’s mother?

 Am I an imposter? A voyeur? A deceiver? Maybe, yes, a little.

 That blue tutu gets under my skin because its turquoise-hued brilliance reminded me of an equally vibrant cornfl ower-colored crayon I once held. It came from a new box of crayons I was given on my fi rst day of kindergarten that turned out to color the rest of my life:

 I open the box and peer inside. So many colors. I can’t decide. All are beautiful, perfectly pointy. Red. Orange. Pink. Yellow. Blue. Soldiers of war standing at attention waiting for my creative command.

 The ditto of an apple is pristine and promising in front of me. I start at the left side of the apple, the curvy heart-shaped part, and work my way out. A vertical slim line of lime starts the pattern I have in mind. Orange follows red. Yellow follows purple. Pink follows blue. Repeat. It’s hard to make the lines exactly the same size. I do my best to keep them even, making sure to stay in the purpleblue outline. Kids finish. Solid red, green and yellow apples lie on desks. Time is up. Only a third of my apple is complete but I turn it in, proud of the rainbowskinned fruit I’ve started.

 Circle with a smiley face. Circle with a smiley face. Apple after apple gets one of these homemade marks of approval. Circle with a frown. That’s mine. Red and severe. A symbol of disappointment any child can understand. “Look at the other apples, Gretchen,” Mrs. Yamasheta instructs, “Apples are not rainbow; they are one color.” I learn quickly—self expression is a forbidden fruit; conformity gets you a smiley face.

 The blue tutu girl and her mother made me see how well I’d absorbed the lesson Mrs. Yamasheta and the apple taught me at age six. That swish of azure fabric made me take a hard look at myself as a woman and a mother. What I saw wasn’t pretty; judgment paired with jealousy never is. When I moved past the surface scrutiny of impractical clothes that have no place on a swing, down a slide or sitting criss-cross applesauce, I started to consider that Bailey’s mother was giving her daughter what had been taken from me so long ago: the gift of trusting herself and her choices. Her mother is letting her know that it’s okay to be who you are in public, instead of hiding unconventional choices behind closed doors and windows.

 I needed this bold blue tutu today. I needed a reminder that it’s okay to let a little of the wild child in me loose once in awhile, to stop being so rigid, to start being a little more open. To let myself dye fuchsia stripes in my hair. To allow myself to explore; to use all the colors in the crayon box any way I want to. To roll down the windows once in a while and let the music I, too, often keep contained inside—out.

~Gretchen Clark

Gretchen Clark co-teaches an online Lyric Essay course at Writers.com and is also a Creative Arts Mentor for at-risk teenagers in the Phoenix area. Her most recent essay was published in Literary Mama.