Some Place More Than Others

“Why can’t we go to a church that lets women wear pants, like Titus’s church?” I ask. Titus is my best friend. He lives around the corner. His dad works with my dad, and our families are together all the time. Whenever Dad and Big T-Titus Sr. get together, all they talk about is how New York and Oregon are so different. Big T is from Harlem, like Dad, and they became friends when they were students at New York University. Big T starts just about every sentence with, “Well, in Harlem …” Mostly he talks about missing black culture. He drives from Beaverton all the way to Portland because he wants to go to a black barbershop. He’s always talking about how he misses black people, which makes me wonder why he moved to Oregon. Big T says if it weren’t for Dad, he might not have graduated and would’ve never moved across the country to do what he loves, which is design shoes.

I give Mom my best reasons for why going to church with Titus’s family would be way better than going to our church. “Besides being able to wear pants, their service is only an hour,” I say.

Mom shakes her head. “How long the service is and what you can or can’t wear is not important. I grew up in that church, and I like Pastor Franklin’s preaching. Plus, wearing a dress once a week isn’t going to hurt you,” Mom says. She fans through the hanging clothes and picks out the two new dresses she made. One is a shirtdress with big pockets and looks casual enough to wear to school with leggings, but also appropriate for church, depending on what shoes I wear with it. I guess it’s not so bad. It’s better than the second dress, which has a busy print with at least five colors. It looks like the kind of dress that wrinkles if you do the tiniest movement, like raise your hand or bend over. It’s the kind of dress that makes people say, “Oh, you’re so beautiful,” or “You’re such a pretty girl.” No one ever says that when I am wearing jeans and a T-shirt.

“I just think church shouldn’t be all about what a person is wearing on the outside. It’s what they believe on the inside,” I say.

“And I agree,” Mom tells me. “I also believe that what you look like on the outside is a reflection of who you are. And how you dress going anywhere-school, church, or even the mall for that matter-shows how much you respect yourself or a place. Dressing up for church is showing that you care about where you’re going, that this one day out of the week is special enough for you not to wear your everyday clothes because you are going to honor God.” Mom is always good with a comeback. “There’s a time and place for everything. I don’t expect you to wear a ball gown to a basketball game, just like I don’t think it’s appropriate to wear shorts in the sanctuary.” Mom holds the dresses up in the air, toward the light, and looks them over. “Here. Humor me, at least.” She hands me both dresses. “Try these on.”

I change into the colorful one first, so that way when I tell her how much I don’t like it but how much I like the other one, we’ll end this fitting on a good note. Mom fusses over me, turning me around in circles so she can see me from different angles. She gently directs me to the full-length mirror in my closet. “See, this looks so good on you, Amara.”

“But, Mom, I’m uncomfortable in it.”

“Does it feel too tight?” she asks. “It doesn’t look tight at all.”