Rites of Passage
September 9, 2013
Traditional Rites of Passage
I remember feeling like a porcelain doll dressed up in a very expensive wedding gown that was too big for my own body standing in the middle of a ballroom inside a Hilton Hotel. I could feel the thick straps of the corset dig into the skin on the back of my neck, but I was not allowed to show any sign of discomfort. The bottom portion of the dress had one too many layers of the underskirt which was made out of tulle; a heavy and sand-paper like material which I could feel was bruising my hips with every step I took, and still I was expected to be flawless. As a young woman I was required and taught to be poised and collected at all times during this “coming of age” celebration. My makeup could not be smeared by tears of pain from the weight of the dress or the straps which tore at my skin. On what was supposed to be the second happiest day of my life (my wedding day being the first) I felt trapped. My body was suffering the consequences of a dress that made me look like a princess but made me feel like I was trapped in some sort of torture device. I can still remember my mother and all my aunts repeating the phrase “la belleza cuesta” (beauty hurts) every time I attempted to sneak away from the party and up to my hotel room to try and change into anything else I could find. Still even if I could manage to sneak away I would not dare come back without the $2,000 dress my mom had helped me pick out for almost 6 months. What would people say? Just the thought of having to explain myself to over 200 people on why the first grown up choice I would make would be to get out of my dress as quickly as I could. Most people would think that a girl must be crazy to endure such pain and discomfort and get nothing out of it except a plastic tiara and some pretty fancy pictures of yourself in a wedding dress at 15. Yet this was tradition. As far as the people who attended my party that night were concerned, I had just
Traditional Rites of Passage
I remember feeling like a porcelain doll dressed up in a very expensive wedding gown that was too big for my own body standing in the middle of a ballroom inside a Hilton Hotel. I could feel the thick straps of the corset dig into the skin on the back of my neck, but I was not allowed to show any sign of discomfort. The bottom portion of the dress had one too many layers of the underskirt which was made out of tulle; a heavy and sand-paper like material which I could feel was bruising my hips with every step I took, and still I was expected to be flawless. As a young woman I was required and taught to be poised and collected at all times during this “coming of age” celebration. My makeup could not be smeared by tears of pain from the weight of the dress or the straps which tore at my skin. On what was supposed to be the second happiest day of my life (my wedding day being the first) I felt trapped. My body was suffering the consequences of a dress that made me look like a princess but made me feel like I was trapped in some sort of torture device. I can still remember my mother and all my aunts repeating the phrase “la belleza cuesta” (beauty hurts) every time I attempted to sneak away from the party and up to my hotel room to try and change into anything else I could find. Still even if I could manage to sneak away I would not dare come back without the $2,000 dress my mom had helped me pick out for almost 6 months. What would people say? Just the thought of having to explain myself to over 200 people on why the first grown up choice I would make would be to get out of my dress as quickly as I could. Most people would think that a girl must be crazy to endure such pain and discomfort and get nothing out of it except a plastic tiara and some pretty fancy pictures of yourself in a wedding dress at 15. Yet this was tradition. As far as the people who attended my party that night were concerned, I had just