MY CLOSET OF DESIGNER LABELS CLOAKS

By Teresa Levitch

It was a slow day of late summer, when the excitement of summer vacation transforms to long boring days. The daylight shifts every so slightly to the next season with no voice to announce it. I was in the meadow, so close to the ground that from a distance I would have been imperceptible, the wild flower, of yellow buttercups and red clover, so tall and in full bloom. My body cool and damp at my back, smelling the earth with the heat rising as I faced the sun, every pore smelling of sweat with the pure sky above; no distractions of clouds, with the 1958 sky blue crayon color of emptiness.

Being 10 years old and the oldest of eight , a time without chores or responsibilities and the luxury of daydreaming in a meadow, I decided I would change my name.

This was an idea of such magnitude that it required thought, planning, and would have to be covert. I could not pick a different sounding name that would require an announcement at the dinner table. There would be nine voices of family, like birds on a May morning, all singing with the volume increasing as disputes erupted. I needed no advice for the decision was made. All I needed to complete the change was the letter “e.” Terri to Terrie.

This transformation began on the first day of school. The teacher read from the attendance sheet, calling out each student’s name. This time when she looked up, scanned the room and announced my name, “Teresa”, my answer was life changing.

“Call me Terrie. With an E.”

Using the teacher’s red pen, my chosen name was created. I knew at that moment, I had the ability to be seen by others as I chose. I put T-E-R-R-I-E on every paper, test, and homework assignment, until I graduated high school. Names could no longer be imposed upon me. I simply wore them like cloaks, resisting the idea that names defined who I am. I was but the person wearing the name until it no longer gave me comfort, at which time I put it away with the others, taking it out again only as needed.

I continue to struggle creating my own identities to define the names that are given to me. I can be as soothing as the name Teresa, which rolls off the tongue. I can be as independent and strong as the name Terri, with the hard constants. I am Mrs. Levitch, Mom, the Buddhist student, and more. These are familiar cloaks in my closet, the designer unknown, I choose to wear these often, taking care not to soil them. The seams are strong, the fabric beaded and woven tightly, with memories. Each new name, by choice or default, is a new cloak I wear. I am able to don it when I need to be shielded from discrimination, stereotypes, or self-pity. They cover my true identity while presenting what I want to be seen. They are woven with expectations and buttons made of bone. Each one becomes infused with the colors of joyous moments shifting from pastels to the rich bold colors like magenta, and royal blue. They begin to wear and fray with the responsibility and disappointments over time, pulling at the seams.

There is one cloak that looks the oldest, in my closet of identities, although I did not wear it but for a year. The famous gene designer CANCER custom designs these cloaks. Each carefully tailored to fit only me. The label sewn to the back collar of the first is “Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.” It always irritated the soft skin at the back of my neck, causing a rash. The color no longer a muted pastel, but a blaze of colors, as a crystal creates the colors of the rainbow. Each color, reminds me of lessons learned. I am stronger than I realize. RED! There are Doctors that care. ORANGE! Life is fragile YELLOW! Health is more important than possessions GREEN! Love is most important. VIOLET! Patches of dark brown stains from the blood that came with every rolling, blown vein from the needles are found among the brightness of colors. The seams are torn with limitations in ability to function. Holes are mended with bandages and gauze. The smell of radiations burns replaces the musty odor of storage. So, it is carefully wrapped in tissue paper and placed in the back of the closet.

My other cloak by the same designer cannot be wrapped in tissue paper or put away. It has to be worn. It requires examination, at each glance of a mirror. The fit is one size too small; tight and constricting, making it hard to move, the zipper straining to close. The label on the collar is “Mastectomy”, so carefully stitched only on carefully examination one can see the material is not natural.

The last designer label cloak in my closet is CANCER SURVIVOR. I wear it when it is necessary to hide the pain of radiation fibrosis, fatigue, and endless tests. Knowing the parts of my womanhood are gone, my breasts, uterus and ovaries, the threads stretch and become tattered, like the scars. Pity, sorrow, and fear soak into the fabric causing outlines of stains in the fabric of my life. The label sewn on the back of the collar has a loose thread flutters against the hairs on the back of my neck, like a feather, causing me to wonder if it is real.

I am still able to visit that meadow if only in my mind. In meditation, I see the sky with no distractions of clouds, as emptiness. My body feels the cool dampness of fear, but the warmth of hope rises from my pores. I am 10 again, choosing who I want to be, no matter what label I am given or which cloak I wear, I am still Terrie. With an E.

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