“ The Tiara " by Elizabeth Reed
Photo Credit by Parisa Safaei
The closest I ever came to wearing a tiara was in second grade, in my poufy white communion dress, stretchy white knee socks stuffed into white patent leather Mary Jane knockoffs. I loved the pearly white beads in the center of the flowers on the dress, catching the sun’s rays as I stood in front of the Mary statue. The week before she had been crowned with a wreath of real flowers as we all dutifully sang “O Mary we crown thee with flowers today” a tune ingrained into my head. But I liked my tiara better—small half-circles edged with one arc lined with sequins and an arc underneath of pearly beads.
In the picture my parents took of me in front of the holy mother statue I have my hands folded in prayer, my arms forming a V with a white rosary draped around my hands, the perfect launchpad to rocket my prayers up to heaven. I’m smiling, of course. Who wouldn’t? I knew about the party and presents to follow, the benefit of having an older sister. But my eyes tell a different story. They’re squinty, looking off to the side, hiding my thoughts, my eyebrows ever so slightly furrowed as if I’m already questioning this whole pageant.
I’d love to know what I was thinking then.
Was I thinking about brilliant white wedding gowns and sparkly white veils that were the reverse image of the long, black, drab habits of the nuns around me? Was I thinking how brides were glorified and nuns were sent to the back of the convent to encase themselves in mourning clothes? What were they mourning? The chance to be a beautiful bride one day, a housewife in curlers the next?
Was I already questioning the meaning of the white dress—the symbol of virginity walking down the church aisle? A wedding it would take almost thirty years for me to experience, wearing white without the symbolism, a beaded flower comb on the side of my hair (I’d long ago lost my interest in tiaras) my elbow crooked into my father’s, a father who said he wouldn’t give me a wedding when I moved out of the house, and again when I went on vacation with my then-boyfriend, and again when the then-boyfriend now-husband moved in with me. My parents didn’t step foot in our apartment for a year.
Despite my mischief, my revolution, my defiance, they eventually saw that I upheld many of the values they taught me—fairness learned from experienced injustices, generosity rooted in kindness, a strong work ethic, and honesty, even when the truth hurt. They loved me unconditionally. They didn’t give me that wedding, but that was okay. My ten years of single freedom were worth every penny.
Is that what I was thinking in front of the Mary statue—that I would have to create my own pageantry, that I would ditch Mary and her crown of flowers, her son and all the family of disciples, suspicious priests and crabby nuns? Probably not. But I do know that a year later at my eight-year-old birthday the seed of withdrawal was sown when my parents told me that Santa wasn’t real. My childhood collapsed.
“And the Easter Bunny, too?” I croaked, trying not to cry. They nodded.
“And the Tooth Fairy?” I whispered. They nodded again.
And in my little heart I wondered, is God fake, too?
Artist’s Statement
Halos, crowns, tiaras, wreaths—what symbols of reverence! I chose the irreverent path and never looked back.
Elizabeth Reed is a writer, musician, activist and traveler. She believes that words and music have power, that activism doesn’t sit down and that travel is the best education. She is writing a memoir about how these beliefs have kept her sane through marriage and parenting. Her work has appeared in The Boston Globe Magazine, The Rumpus, Hippocampus, and other journals.