Exceptional My mom, my teacher and me. At Home in Mississippi : Fashion Wasn't My Thing by BethShelby

My mom didn’t do a lot to build my confidence. Maybe she thought I had enough without her help, but if I’d been seriously lacking in that department, she might have totally destroyed it. She seemed to think her taste in clothes was far superior to mine, and that I might embarrass her if left to choose my own garments. She was fortunate clothes weren't a big priority with me, so rather than start a battle, I let her have the fun of choosing what I wore. The only time I made a big thing of it was when she tried to make me wear something she had knit with itchy woolen threads. The first few school years, my grandmother, who was usually sharing a room with me, constructed my dresses from patterns Mom bought. Other than having to try them on with pins and basting thread holding them together, I was fine with them. She was a good seamstress. It was later when things went sour. The neighbor family who lived across the field from us, had two grown daughters, who had gone to college and studied to become teachers themselves. Their mother summoned us over for a trunk sale. While my mother went through the trunk full of hand-me-downs her daughters had left behind, I didn’t watch. I wasn’t impressed enough to be near the musty smelling and mothball packed trunk. It was only when we returned home, I realized Mom had purchased several large bags of their dresses for my fall wardrobe. “Mom, those dresses stink to high heaven. Besides they’re from a bygone era. People don’t wear stuff like that these days.” “Oh, honey. These were expensive clothes. We’ll hang them in the sun and let them air out. They are made with such nice material. We will alter them to fit you and hem them to a proper length. We could never afford to buy new clothes like this. Just feel this material." I wasn’t impressed, but I knew I had to pick my fights. Mom was a stubborn lady, but she had to endure a royal battle every Sunday morning from me, over the fact my hair looked like the fur of a matted poodle. It was because she had insisted I let her roll my hair into curls on a pencil the night before. The rest of the week I didn’t complain about the French braids or pigtails which I wore to school, but for some reason, she insisted I have my hair in curls for Sunday school. If Mom had produced a houseful of kids, or if she had a fashion doll to play with as a child, I likely wouldn’t have needed to fight for my independence. As it was, my second year in high school saw me wearing some strange looking garments to class. I’m sure Dolly Parton, with her coat of many colors, didn’t have anything on me, other than she was proud of her colorful coat. I just tolerated my dresses. If anyone laughed at my clothes, I didn’t hear them. The old saying 'what you don’t know, won’t hurt you’ comes to mind. Newton wasn’t known as a fashion center, and maybe, most of my class thought those styles were coming in, rather than from twenty years earlier. I heard if you wait long enough, the styles recycle. I guess if you don’t act like you’re embarrassed, people may assume you might know something they haven’t discovered yet. Once when I happened to have a little money on me, my friend Helen and I went shopping, and we bought dresses alike. I thought Mom would never shut up about how tacky she thought my dress was. I’ll have to admit, it didn’t hold up well, and the colors ran when it was washed. I was married before I got to shop for myself, but I ended up with kids in diapers having strong opinions about fashion. When I tried buying clothes for them at a resale shop, my youngest was so embarrassed to be seen near the place, she lay on the floorboard of the car. Funny thing though, once she grew up, she does most of her shopping at Goodwill. Timing makes all the difference. Another incident from tenth grade stands out. This is about a teacher who would have certainly known my clothes weren't in style if I had I consulted her. It was the time a teacher I greatly admired let me down. Mrs. Turnage was the speech teacher from whom I’d taken private lessons since first grade. I admired her, because she had the charisma and charm of a movie star. Her voice sounded like perfected elocution, not usually found in small southern towns. She dressed elegantly and always wore four-inch heels. From the time I met her, my dream was to be just like her when I got old. Old was forty to me, at that time. Needless to say, my dream fizzled, but over time my ideals had changed. During my tenth-grade year, I wasn’t taking lessons from her, but she had others students who she was teaching in the two upper grades. I was chosen to recite the dramatic piece for Class Day. My home room teacher told me to go to Mrs. Turnage and ask for a piece to learn for the contest. We had a month to prepare, but I went to her immediately and asked. Since I wasn’t taking lessons from her, I wasn’t a priority. She told me she would have to look in her files to find something for me, and said I should come back later. I continued to check every day or so, but she always made an excuse. Time passed, and the contest was to be held the following day. By that time, I had realized it wasn’t in her best interest for someone who wasn’t taking private lessons from her to do well in the contest. I was getting desperate. “Mrs. Turnage, the contest is tomorrow. I have to have something. Can’t you please find a short piece, I can learn in time.” At that point, she picked up a Reader’s Digest and tore a story out of it. It was quite long and involved a lady narrating her story with a Swedish accent. It wasn’t even a particularly dramatic story. I realized I had no chance of winning, but I stayed up for hours memorizing it. I didn’t have the opportunity to practice speaking from the stage as I had many times in the past. Besides, I’d never heard any one from Sweden speak. I knew I wouldn’t have the accent right. My class members were gracious and told me I did a good job, but I didn’t win. By default, I got a third-place ribbon, but I felt I’d let my class down. In reality, I was pretty sure my former teacher and idol had also deliberately let me down. Recognized Author Notes A chapter in the book, "Growing Up in Mississippi." The year is 1952-1953

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