Member-only story
Tomcat in the Henhouse
Faith, Family, and Freedom
I marveled at the mirror, consumed by the shameful joy of my transgression, as I tried to savor this moment the way a death row inmate savors the last bite of chocolate cake he’s ever going to get. I wasn’t worried about the suspicious silence, the kind of quiet that prickles a parent’s straining ears, while I nervously ran my hands over the denim, impressed by the weight and the way it hugged my legs — strong, capable, and ready for an adventure — unsure of why it felt so natural. I was ripped out of my private delight by her violent shrieking, devouring every last bit of peace and calm in this house; in an instant, the tornado had touched down.
Mom cried out, “You’re wearing PANTS?!” with an air of righteousness behind the horror. I already knew why I wasn’t allowed to wear pants — the Bible explains that it’s an abomination for girls to wear boy clothes — but they didn’t know about Xenon or Harriet or Matilda back then, either. Even the Spice Girls wore pants these days, but I knew better than to question the Bible because all my blaspheming was surely going to get me sent to Hell in a handbasket, or at least that’s what Mom says. “How dare you go behind my back like this? Have you no shame?” She was always asking about my shame because I never seemed to have enough of it to satisfy her or the Lord. I never could quite figure out…
