This weekend I went back to school: my graduate school, where Mr. C and I married each other almost two decades ago, and where my dissertation adviser and beloved friend, one of the country's--OK--*the* pioneering feminist literary scholar, was being honored upon her retirement.
Her former PhD students from across the country came, and, in a wonderful day-long symposium, we presented vignettes about what we had learned from this remarkable woman. I actually taught her to quilt, back in the mid 90s, so my presentation contained a teacher/student reversal.
Because I was immersed in my graduate-student haunts--the cafe where the waitress had a gorgeously tattooed face (rays on her forehead, curlicues climbing up her neck and chin); the on-campus art museum that was the scene of many a
rendevous; the fantastic Irish pub where Mr. C and I had our first liquid date--before I move forward, I must return to my graduate school style, since it is foremost on my mind.
So what did I wear back then?
Doc Martens--the lace-up shoes, worn with long, flowery dresses that were unbuttoned from the calf to the lower thigh.
Tiny sundresses--the floatier the better. I'd sail through the town on my bike and clip the two sides of my hem together to be proper.
Authentic Pucci headwraps, the better to complement my waist-length blonde hair (see Pucci cloak above). Or a skyscraper topknot.
No bra. Didn't need one; didn't want one.
Tight black cigarette pants, with a high waist, nipped at the ankle. Good with Doc Martens.
My children tripped happily through the streets and cafes, wide-eyed at the creativity and the humanity around them. If I squinted just right, I could see my two daughters in 10 years or so, tossing their long hair while sipping a cool drink at the cafe, smoothing their skirts as they bent to adjust their Docs.
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