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Recently in Salon Mothers Who Think

Column
Optimistic complaints
Of course, mothers think -- and every once in a while they even complain.
By Sallie Tisdale
[07/01/99]

Postnuptial blues
After the wedding bells stopped ringing, she wanted nothing but sleep.
By Ellie Forgotson
[06/30/99]

The write time
One classmate is on her way to literary fame, anointed by the New Yorker; the other's on her way to the grocery store.
By Tracy Mayor
[06/29/99]

Problem family
When domestic abuse showed up in my neighborhood, I had to decide whether to help or keep my distance.
By Jill Wolfson
[06/28/99]

The tyranny of fashion
As clothing comes to signify less and less about a person, I wonder if I should bother getting dressed at all.
By Erin J. Aubry
[06/25/99]

Complete archives for Mothers Who Think

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Recently I watched as an entire birthday party of little girls -- they must have been about 8 years old -- moved amoeba-like into a small dressing stall. In the one foot of open space under the metal door, I saw 14 feet kick off underwear and trip over damp towels dropped onto the gritty floor. One girl, younger than the rest, stayed outside and dressed herself right next to me. Off went her suit with a wet slap. Then she took a moment to look around, assessing her next move. She fished her clothes from a locker and, proceeding methodically, pulled on each pant leg and worked up her zipper. Her cotton undershirt hugged her still-damp belly. She tugged on a green turtleneck, struggling to lift her head into and through the tight hole. Periodically, a voice called to her from the dressing room, one of the brood reprimanding her for her lack of sophistication: "Mandy, don't get dressed out there! Come in here!" She didn't blink or smile, but continued at her task, unfazed by both the whining order and my adult presence.

One of my favorite pools remains the Medgar Evers Aquatic Center in Seattle, a place full of charming incongruities. It is one of the rare pools named after a civil rights leader. And in a sport that remains lily white, I never fail to smile at my memory of the local team's emblem: a decidedly African-American octopus. The pool sits at the juncture of two neighborhoods, one black and the other gay, an area that is simultaneously homespun, beat-down and gentrified. The water aerobics classes are filled with large, older black women in flowered swim caps and flounced suits bobbing side-by-side with thin young men sporting the tiniest swatches of Lycra. Afterwards in the locker room, the women are boisterous, loudly swapping gossip as they rub their bodies with lotion. I imagine the men do the same.

In the years I swam at Medgar Evers, I often shared the water with preschoolers who commandeered the shallow end for a noontime dip. Out in the water, learning to swim, they all dog paddled and made desperate gasps for air. They were children, equal in their ability and enthusiasm. But in the locker room, amid the smell of mold and shampoo, they were a fascinating mixed bag. On Mondays and Wednesdays a group of Muslim preschoolers filed in accompanied by three women in headdresses and flowing robes. The little Mohammads and Chitras moved quickly and quietly to the curtained changing stalls at the far end of the room, averting their eyes from the semi-nakedness of the other swimmers. Their teachers held up towels to shelter any stragglers. Although I could never discern an all-clear signal, none of them emerged until the others were suited up.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays a boisterous class of private-schoolers, each with their funky names and miniature Doc Martens, came running in to greet us older, lackadaisical dressing women. As they tested the acoustics with their squawks and hoots, a lone teacher tried to coax them into changing. She awarded points to any individual who differentiated herself from the wriggling, giggling mass by moving with alacrity from street clothes to swimsuit. One curly haired boy named Conifer was always last. He'd strip to his underwear and then plop down onto the damp cement and commence to stare. Mainly, he stared at me. His staring was so unabashed, as though he were memorizing me for future reference, that it made me wonder what he looked at on those days when I wasn't at the pool. Initially I was discomforted, not at all sure what the sexual life of a 4-year-old amounted to. But it grew to be such a regular event that I went about my business, neither the teacher nor Conifer nor I making any fuss over it. There we were together under the fluorescent bulbs, all covered in chlorine, unadorned, and getting dressed.

Next page | It seems a simple enough process, getting dressed