I have 40 raincoats!
Submitted by Lisa Vige Bostick
“What’s with all the coats?” my husband asks. “How many jackets does one person need?” my daughter mumbles. These are some of the many voices I hear as I gaze into my coat closet. I know it’s ridiculous to own so many coats. I know there are people in some remote part of the world with no coat, but I can’t seem to help myself.
My mind goes back to my 5-year-old self as I’m getting ready for kindergarten. It’s one of THOSE days, a dreaded, rainy day in south Louisiana. My stomach starts to hurt, my skin feels clammy, I start to itch all over. I know better to voice this to my schoolteacher mom, because she never buys it. “You’ll be fine!” she always says.
I dread going to school, and it’s all because of Robert. Robert, the boy that makes every rainy day miserable for me. Robert, the boy that makes me feel small and insignificant. Robert, who always teases me and says, “Look everybody, Lisa doesn’t even have a raincoat.” “Wet head, looks dead!”
I have explained all this to my very frugal mother, but it has fallen on deaf ears. “Words can’t hurt you,” she says. “You’ll be fine. You can just dash in! How wet will you get? You really don’t need a raincoat!”
She doesn’t understand at all. It’s not about getting wet or needing a raincoat. It’s about equality and fitting in. It’s about being one of the crowd, not being teased and laughed at. It’s about dignity! Who cares about getting wet? I don’t want to just dash in. I want to stroll and frolic in the rain.
The ride to school is a blur of strange sounds and hopeful thoughts. Maybe Robert will be absent, maybe he has Chicken Pox, maybe he’s been kidnapped by the circus, maybe, maybe, maybe…
Rain is coming down in torrents. Huge drops are being wiped away by furious wipers across wet glass screaming at me, ”No coat, dash in! No coat, dash in!”
As I get out of the car, I can see Robert watching for me through the glass door. He’s probably been waiting for me for hours with that sneer on his face. As soon as I enter, I hear that familiar greeting. “Hey everyone, Lisa still doesn’t have a raincoat. Wet-head, looks dead. Wet-head, looks dead!”
Tears fall on a flushed face. They don’t show because of the rain, but I know they’re there.
Now, all these years later and facing my coat closet, I find the cute purple coat. It’s my newest that I bought last time I was at the mall. It “called my name” as I walked by. It was by itself on the sale rack, and I tried it on. Perfect fit! Did I need it? No, but I didn’t have one in THAT color purple. Sold!
I feel good as I slip the cute purple coat on and head out the door. The short ride to my school is pleasant. The windshield wipers are singing, “Cute coat. Cute coat!” As I start to get out of the car, I look in all the usual places for an umbrella. I check the door, my book bag, nothing. Oh well, I’m just going to dash in anyway!
