Bye Toxic Mom: CLOTHES MAKE THE MUZHIK

Every morning, I knock on my mother’s bedroom door. Every morning, she grumbles something back, then I enter and pick clothes out of the closet as per her orders.

She obeyed her mother like a muzhik!

It’s funny, this word that comes to mind. I check its meaning in the dictionary.

[MUZHIK. Peasant of low social status in the Russian Empire, equivalent to a serf.]

[SERF. Individual who has no personal freedom.]

At age twelve, I obey my mother like a serf. Why? Is it the belief that I am totally incompetent, or the fear of retaliation against my father and brother, that gives rise to my noble sacrifice? Shouldn’t I be the most vulnerable member of the family? I’m the youngest, and a girl, therefore not as physically strong. A mixture of guilt and excessive sense of responsibility, probably. What a thoroughly washed brain!

One morning, she’s so deeply mired in an alcoholic fog that I can’t wake her. Should I keep trying, or seize the opportunity to choose my own clothes? I weigh the pros and cons uneasily. What will provoke the least amount of anger?

I tiptoe noiselessly into the bedroom. Because I admire one of my classmates’ cute, classic style, I select blue jeans, a white blouse with light-blue vertical stripes, and a red cardigan. My friend wears this exact outfit, and I have all the pieces for it; my mother just never assembled them that way. I’m so proud. I feel empowered.

That night, she tells me that I looked like a clown. No—that “people must have thought that” I looked like a clown. Pairing jeans, the most casual of clothing, with a stylish blouse! But… I know better.

Still today, a tad of conformism is my safety blanket. On weekends, while others throw on tracksuits and baggy T-shirts, to me nothing beats the ease of a modest outfit barely jazzed up with a nice pair of earrings. I now understand why: dressing conventionally allows me to put up a smoke screen. If I act improperly without being aware of it, people will not be so quick to judge me thanks to my sensible appearance.

Six years after the jeans-and-blouse episode, it seems that not much has changed, because even though I’m a high school senior by then, the ceremonial is still on. She hasn’t ceded an inch of control. One afternoon, she isn’t home, and I put together my outfit to wear to an oral exam given by a friendly, freethinking teacher. He suggested that we break from the usual and not dress up.

That night, when my mother criticizes my choice, I bring her up to speed: we didn’t need to dress to the nines. She quickly switches gears. Dressing casually, okay; however, a wool sweater over a skirt is horribly sloppy, sending the message that I have no regard for the teacher.

She hits the bull’s-eye. I’m proud to get along so well with this kindhearted teacher; I believe he thinks highly of me, which is priceless. He must have been quite disappointed. It’s the end of the school year, and I feel deep anguish. I liked that teacher so much; now he will remember me as a disappointment.