[Title] The Purple Dress [Engaging introductory sentences using first person perspective] I often take pride in the testimony that I never wore dresses as a kid. But that’s a lie. At age 5 I wore one dress—a single dress and that dress only. [Vivid description showing style and voice] It was Barney-purple with red and black horizontal stripes. Hit mid-calf, non-suffocating oval collar, no pinchy armpit sleeves, and loose enough that I could eat a pound of cheese and still have slack to breathe. Perfect. No one in my family can recall where it was purchased but all relatives remember it as “Ahhh The Purple Dress.” [Transition to story] I never took it off. [Vivid descriptions and scene showing character] I recall several occasions of picking crusted bits of oatmeal off of it and Reina, one of two nannies at the time (and my first surrogate mother—a force of a woman with 2 chipped teeth, a buzz cut, plush lap, a booming laugh, and dark almond eyes), wiping it down with a wet rag while I stood in complacent victory that I didn’t have to de-dress to have it “washed.” [Short lines of dialogue (i.e., showing] “Oh, baby, is that ketchup?” Yup. “This here, honey, is this ranch dressing?” Affirmative. [Telling] We made a game out of guessing just what in tarnation was on my dress. [Reflection] Those crusted stains and food bits marked the history of my days. [Reflection on thematic idea and transition to next paragraph] The Purple Dress grew to be my wearable safety blanket, my source of consistency. [Introductory sentence setting up next paragraph and scene] And a primary source of embarrassment for my parents, who’d come home from whatever overseas vacation and find me in The Purple Dress standing pat, waiting for my inevitable gifts from Prague, Barcelona, Paris (or some other ritzy city I couldn’t pronounce with my speech impediment that resulted in R’s sounding like W’s). The gifts would be random street-vendor trinkets like Russian dolls, cheap reprints of Van Gogh, and hand-made Spanish-tiled mirrors. And crunched into the corner of my Mom's luggage would almost always be an uncomfortable, overpriced dress that I’d grow out of in two weeks. [Reflection] Opening presents I knew I'd hate was an exercise in false gratitude, manipulating my reality to suit another. On the plus side, now I'm an expert at receiving horrendous Christmas presents with a believable grin and kind acceptance. [Introductory sentence setting up next paragraph] My parents often threw weekly ritzy dinner parties with friends and city hot-shots. I was expected to attend as a child accessory, which meant my Mother would send Reina up to lay out my clothing options. [Vivid descriptions in unique voice and style (showing)] 1) The poofy-sleeved, scratch-master getup that was an evil hue of white. Hand-sewn by Gus, the gay designer who lived across the street and drank tequila with my Mom on weekdays afternoons. His Eastern-European accent was possibly fake. 2) The lime-green child size pencil-skirt power-suit complete with pearled buttons, shoulder pads, and tight hems. This getup was acquired after doing some cheesy family photo shoot for the local Chanel outlet located in a rich shopping center. 3) A red (also abominably itchy) dotted skirt that looked like an exploding ladybug with a matching (and equally itchy) button-down and a suffocating santa-belt. [Telling via explanation] Of course I was already wearing my first choice during this vetting process (the one, the only choice as far as I was concerned) so this whole rigmarole was useless and just the opening credits for a temper tantrum. [Unique imagery] And when that tantrum came, even pantry-ants excavating the Cheerios had to stop and take note before taking cover behind the oatmeal tins for their own safety. While my Mother stormed in and out of the room huffing and puffing, Reina understood and reassured me via a cradle-session in her pillowy lap. “Baby, you can have your dinner upstairs with me.” [Introductory sentence setting up next paragraph and scene] A few months down the line, disaster struck. The Purple Dress was gone. [Showing via action] I ran around the house screaming and flipping corners of bed-spreads, checking every cabinet, bag, closet, and crevice. Just when I’d almost given up, I stomped into the den and saw the purple-red-black: stashed like a mildewy rag on top of the TV console. I pointed. I stomped. I screamed. [Dialogue with some reflection on characters] “I just don’t see it, Mac!” my sister, Hannah, always echoing Mom and Dad’s intentions as much as possible when she got the chance. “Housekeeper’s must have stolen it” Mom, trying to clear herself of the crime. “We’ll get you a new dress!” Dad, always looking for a quick fix. [Introductory sentence setting up next paragraph] Reina kept mum with a fist over her mouth and just hugged me. [Telling and reflection] She knew I could see it but she dared not disobey my Dad, her boss, as he’d already threatened to fire her in the past for catering to my needs, my tears, my precious emotions that only she could hold with compassion and understanding. She saw me struggle with the idea that my needs weren’t as legitimate in the eyes of my parents. [Dialogue and reflection] “Time to let go, baby, let it go--let it go--big strong girl,” she whispered to me, as if telling my heart directly that I had all the strength I needed in there. [Concluding reflection] I didn’t need the physical dress. My armor, my strength would always be in my heart. Reina, my surrogate mama and guide, told me so and I had to trust in that.