The paper bag costume

This was also written for my creative writing class. It seems timely to post it now.

The fateful day was November 22, 1995, the day before Thanksgiving when I was in first grade. Tradition at my little Christian school dictated that students dress as Pilgrims or Indians on the half day before break. The morning culminated in a program in which Pilgrims and Indians and a few turkeys performed skits and sang Thanksgiving songs before an audience of proud parents. All of us students looked forward to that Wednesday with great anticipation, our excitement about a holiday heightened by the fact that we could wear costumes instead of following the strict dress code. I especially was looking forward to the day because I had just come to the school in March of kindergarten so this was to be my first Thanksgiving program.

I was excited about my costume on Tuesday night. My mother had created it out of a few old brown paper shopping bags turned inside out to hide the ShopRite logo. She trimmed the hem of the costume into fringes, and I think I remember coloring patterns of beads on it with crayons. I probably had a headdress of drooping paper feathers taped to a headband, my wispy blonde hair in two thin braids. My first qualms about my costume came when my mother drove into the parking lot to drop me off at school. Other minivans were disgorging little Indians bedecked in what appeared to be genuine buckskin decorated with hundreds of little colorful beads. They carried bows and arrows and crept noiselessly down hallways. I crinkled as I walked.

Much of the misery of that day is mercifully forgotten. I do remember sitting on the edge of the stage trying to keep as still as possible so as to avoid crinkling. The rest of my classmates were off playing Pilgrim and Indian games, admiring costumes, and comparing the authenticity of each others' headdresses and moccasins. First graders are experts on all things. If my mother had been such an expert as my classmates in proper Indian garb, I might not have found myself covering my face with my hands to hide my tears of embarrassment and self-pity. As it was, the well-intentioned fifth and sixth grade girls could do little comfort me. It is no good being cute, when one only wants to look like an Indian.