Mckenzie Harris
What I Wore: A Memoir
A girl, sitting at a table, under a green umbrella in a sunny middle school courtyard
that looks more like a café than a cafeteria. She’s waiting for someone or something, to
get there so she’s not alone. She’s young, a child, but trying not to look like one. Her
sandy blonde hair has been masked by uniform bleach blonde streaks. You can still see
a little of her true color under and at the roots although she tries to hide it. Her makeup
is thick almost like a mask, painted on every single day. The first layer of makeup is for
red spots the second and third for insecurities. Maybe one more stroke of mascara, a
second layer of eye shadow, will make the boys give her a second glance. Her thick
eyeliner is a precise reproduction of what she saw in some magazine. She keeps
reapplying her bubble gum pink lip-gloss. Slightly messed up nail polish that took more
time than science homework. Her pin straight hair falls down reaching her mid back with
her side bangs in her sight, obstructive her view. As she sits their waiting, you can
sense the panic in her eyes as each second passes and she’s all alone.
She sits straight up as she sucks in to fit into her übertiny Abercrombie shorts. The
number on the tag is a ranking, a status symbol. Ignoring what she was taught in math
class about numbers, the only acceptable numbers aren't really numbers at all. Her
negative size and negative body image are both very visible. Above her denim shorts is
a sliver of skin that just barley passes the dress code, and a tight blue Abercrombie tank
top that hugs her ribcage. The straps of her pink Victoria Secret bra are only just
showing through, like a florescent construction sign getting the attention of every
prepubescent boy as they walk by. She doesn’t really care if she gets a C in English but
she desperately wants to fit into a C cup.
Her group of friends finally come and sit down on the table surrounding her. All looking
vaguely similar. As they all smile and laugh the lunch bell rings, but only a couple get
out a lunch box, although they might not digest it. Instead, she gets out her makeup bag
and adds another layer to her mask. Who knew that at 12 years old she could be so
consumed.
A girl walks through the dim, florescent lit hallways of the high school. Her mascaras
smudged as if it was from the previous day. She put concealer over under her eyes to
try to cover the very visible dark bags under her eyes after staying up all night probably
for some test. She has small amounts of powder to try and cover her imperfections, but
they still show through. She only has translucent chap stick on her lips because her
boyfriend doesn’t really like lipstick. Her long caramel brown hair is thrown up in a
messy bun, giving the impression she doesn’t care.
Her plain black Lulu lemon leggings are the same as everyone else’s passing by, its
almost hard to keep tract of her in the crowd. She’s wearing knee high camel colored
boots with the signature Steve Madden colored zipper, just to let everyone know how
much her parents paid for them. You can see her lacy halter bandeau under her
oversized white V-neck. She’s carrying her textbooks in order making sure that the ones
that read AP language and composition and AP US history goes before (regular) Pre
Calc. She tries to hurry past a group of boys, as they call her name she only speeds up.
She looks embarrassed about something, maybe some extra curricular activities that
she wouldn’t put on her college applications.
Once she gets to class, she sits down at the nearest empty seats and begins to take
notes. On her hand is a psalm delicately written in sharpie, displaying to the world her
faith, like an accessory. Across the classroom many other girls have the same decal on
their wrists or hands. While the teacher is talking about balancing chemical equations,
there is no passion in her eyes. She’s emotionless, maybe it’s the lack of sleep or
something else entirely. She’s slumped down in her chair, with no passion in her eyes.
She’s just blindly doing what she’s told. Anxiety and hopelessness are written all over
her face, although you can't see that in the pictures she posts on Instagram.
A girl, steadily walking in the city streets, pushing past slow tourists, and gracefully
stepping over puddles to not get them on her new heels. She’s wearing a long navy
shirt with white cutoffs just barley peaking through. She’s the only navy in a crowd of
black. She has a long beaded necklace wrapped around her neck, accentuating her
collar bones. Everything with her outfit ties together, as if she spent a long time finding
the perfect combinations. Her array of white gold and gold bracelets click together as
she walks with her red and white ID card in her hand. Her hair is very long, straight and
very very blonde. Her eyebrows however are dark and bold, embracing the fact that
blonde is not her natural color. It blows all around as she walks but she doesn’t try to
hold it back. Her nails are a shiny bright pink, same as her lips. Her top and bottom
eyelashes at full with black mascara and her eyelids are shiny with eye shadow. Her
cheekbones are shimmery and pink. Her huge black purse on one side and 20x30
portfolio bag are the only things weighing her down. Her head is high as she walks
toward somewhere, or something. She’s on the move and has a place to go, a place
where she belongs.
She was and is, me.