When I was six, I called the cops on my mom for putting me in a dress before my first grade Winter Formal. I dialed 9-1-1 from our 1996 landline and hid behind my bed until they came.
Now, I’m in no position to know why I do the things that I do today, and I’m not going to try and understand the rationale of the six-year-old version of myself. It wasn’t even like I was at the door when they arrived to try and get them on my side, to use the strong arm of the law to slap some sense into my mom. I just peeked my head out from behind the futon bunk bed I shared with my sister and watched my mother apologize. The next thing I remember is standing in the freezer of a trailer known then as the “Winter Wonderland,” pledging my allegiance to the flag in a blue floral dress, eyes as red as the stripes representing liberation I couldn’t feel.
This article appears in Mar 21-27, 2013.