One Sunday when I was eight years old, I hemmed and hawed trying to get out of going to church and was not dressed when my Sainted Southern Mother and little sisters were ready to leave for Sunday school.
"You make sure she gets dressed and is in that sanctuary when service begins," my mama hissed angrily at my daddy (who didn't have to go to church) while glaring directly at me.
Daddy let me just stomp around mad for a little while before laying down the law: "Go get dressed NOW!"
So I did. I put on an awesome outfit and immediately felt fierce and ready to be seen and admired after Daddy dropped me off. And when I walked into the proper Methodist church, past the grownups to the front pew where we kids had sit and behave, my SSM looked down at me from behind the organ she played and was horrified.
I was wearing one of my long, 1970s church dresses and my favorite white Converse.
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