Aerie InternationaL - Missoula County Public Schools

Then, I was content. But now – now things were different. People would
judge me by that dress. I was wearing a watermelon! Mommy deserted
me, leaving me with my teacher and a few boys and girls my age; we were
the early ones. Nobody else was a fruit. I didn’t see any oranges or apples
anywhere. As I defensively observed the environment, I wrung the melon in
my fingers. I twisted it around my neck, wrinkled it underneath my palms
and managed to mangle the stiff fabric momentarily: I did not want it to
surface again. On my first day of school, it was my worst enemy. Though I
saw a girl wearing a dress, it was nothing like mine. I observed the boys: one
was wearing t-shirts and cargo shorts, and another wore jeans. Compared
to the other children’s clothes, mine stuck out like a sore thumb. I did not
even mind my dress if not for the crescent shape on the neckline, but that
neckline was so undismissibly hideous. The watermelon was my problem,
and if only I could hide it from everyone inside my fists, nobody would
know. Nobody would know I was different. Nobody would criticize, “What
is that little squinty-eyed girl wearing? Why does she have a plant around
her neck? Why isn’t she wearing blue jeans like me?” With my little hand I
frantically tried to scrunch my adversary up into something unrecognizable.
Kids started pouring in, and again I didn’t see anybody who looked like me.
When the teacher ordered my class to do activities, I had to admit defeat.
With one last-ditch effort of squeezing my limbs a bit more, I finally opened
my hands, palms up; I could no longer continue strangling my enemy. The
little piece of cloth had beaten me, and dismayed, I participated in the
games, the watermelon wrinkled but vivified again, taunting me out of the
corner of my eyes at every second.
I could not look anyone in the eye. Not only did I forfeit, but I was
wearing a fruit. And not only was I wearing a fruit, but I was wearing
a wrinkled, ugly fruit. The rest of the day commenced and I remained
ill-at-ease and self-conscious.
As I reminisce about that memorable day, I recognize I was too young
to learn that lesson. I did not even know the source of my anxiety. As I
matured, I realized it was not about the clothes I was wearing; it was about
being comfortable in my skin – my skin that has a slight tint distinct from
most.
On one particular trip to the bank, I miraculously spotted a blonde girl
wearing an almost exact replica of the watermelon dress. She donned it with
such nonchalance it would have put my self-conscious, five-year-old self to
shame. Her bearing convinced me to search for my old outfit in the corner of
my closet shelf, and after I lay it on the floor neatly – much like my mom did
for me my first day of kindergarten – I called out a realization to my mother,
“Mom, you were right! I must’ve looked adorable that day.”
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