Mickey Patxot

The Dresses

My sister Chichi and I share a bond that’s so much more than just being family. It’s a deep, unbreakable connection. Growing up, we were always forced to dress alike, even if we didn’t always want to. It was like we were being molded into these little versions of each other, often without a choice. But now, as adults, it’s funny how we still end up dressing alike without even trying, almost as if it’s meant to be. We’ve been each other’s rock through every challenge, always offering comfort, laughter, and understanding when it’s needed most. Sure, we have our moments of sass and bickering, but it never lasts, and we never hold a grudge. Our bond is a beautiful reminder of how well we understand each other without saying a word. I’m so grateful to have Chichi by my side, both then and now, sharing not just our clothes, but our lives."

Just like Chichi and me, our parents had incredibly strong bonds with their siblings, even though distance often kept them apart. No matter how far they were, they always found ways to stay close, sending love and support across the miles. Their connection was rooted in deep understanding, shared memories, and an unspoken loyalty that made their relationships unshakable. But by the time my siblings and I got to witness these brotherly and sisterly bonds, it seemed like those connections had started to fade. Seeing that made it clear why Chichi and I, as children, were often forced to be indistinguishable from one another. Almost as if our parents were trying to recreate that unbreakable closeness they once shared with their own siblings.

My mom was a seamstress, and my father was a tailor, so matching outfits was a piece of cake for them. I mean, they were ma’ tacaño que’l diablo too, so why buy clothes when you could make them? Plus, they loved the idea that no one else would ever have the same outfits as us. Honestly, I wasn’t even mad about it, just annoyed. It was kind of funny seeing people think we were twins when we didn’t look alike at all. I’d just chuckle and roll my eyes as soon as they turned around. It was like they were blind; they needed glasses or something. And Mami? She was all in. Matching bows, tights, socks, shoes; cache bombita. Those ruffles, though? A little over the top, but hey, the compliments were endless. I ate that up.

It was hard being cute all the time, though. Our parents were always invited to some shit. And my dad always made those invitations a family outing. Even when it was clear that no children were allowed, he didn’t care. My father made his own rules, y no le importaba ni un chin lo que pensara el mundo. That meant we had to look the part when we went out with him. I mean, I understood, he wanted us to represent, you know? ¡Ahí vienen los Patxots!  But, seriously, dressed to the nines every time? ¡No, ombe! It was too much. From fixing our hair just right, to making sure we matched from head to toe, to scrubbing the scuff marks off our patent leather shoes until they shone like new. Heaven forbid we stepped outside with a single speck of dirt on us. Si no íbamos perfectas, our asses were staying home. No second chances. Y punto.

But the real challenge wasn’t just looking perfect. It was about surviving!  The dresses itched, the shoes pinched, and the lace felt like it was trying to suffocate us, but there we were, smiling through it all. Behind Dad’s back, we’d roll our eyes at the sheer discomfort of it all, but we knew better than to break character. We had to look cute and stay sweet, no matter how much we secretly wanted to ditch the frills and just be comfortable. Sometimes I fantasized about showing up in an oversized sweatshirt and sweatpants, flipping the world off like ¡sientate en ese de’o! But with my parents, that was never going to happen.

I must’ve been about three or four when Mami hand-knitted and stitched the most beautiful ivory sundresses. The excitement in her voice when she talked about them made me feel special, like we were about to wear something that would make everyone stop and stare. It was late spring, and Mami was nearly bouncing off the walls, ready to show us the dresses she’d been working on for weeks. The dresses had silky soft lining that felt like heaven against our skin, with a subtle hint of rose gold that shimmered just enough to give it that extra something. The outer layer was crocheted with this ivory nylon yarn, all delicate and intricate, the patterns? I had never seen anything like it. No crazy bright colors or loud patterns like the usual dresses Mami made, this time it was different. Simple, but with a kind of quiet elegance that made me feel like a princess.

When Mami called us into the living room to try them on, there was a sort of sacred energy in the air. We were filthy, and those dresses? Delicate as hell. Mami was stressing out because she knew the second we touched anything with those hands of ours, we’d be in trouble. It was like walking on eggshells. We kept our hands balled into fists, pinching the sleeves of our dirty little shirts so we wouldn’t stain them, and we held our hands high as Mami slipped those dresses over our heads like they were precious gems. There were no ruffles, no lace, nothing too fancy. Just clean, soft lines and the perfect amount of elegance. We twirled in the living room like little ballerinas, feeling unstoppable. Until Mami dropped the bomb, of course. “Si siguen bailando y jodiendo y ensuicien los vestidos, les voy a ‘rrancar la oreja’.” We straightened up immediately. She meant it!

The next morning, I woke up at some ungodly hour. Mami had the radio blaring some sad-ass Spanish ballads, and Dad? He was yelling over the music because that made more sense than lowering the volume. It's a Dominican thing!  I wandered around the apartment aimlessly for a bit, then I stepped outside to the backyard. The sun was already hitting me like a brick wall, and the concrete burned my feet. The smell of laundry detergent was in the air, and there, hanging on the clothesline, were our dresses. The only thing hanging out there that day. It was like the dresses had declared ownership of the space. No other dresses were allowed to share the line. I smiled at the thought, imagining the dresses as little bullies, shoving away all the other puny clothes trying to hang out with them. They were beautiful. One of a kind. Made just for us.

The rest of the day passed by in a blur. We ran around, played kickball, and I struggled to keep my baggy pants up, constantly tugging at the sides. But then I heard the yelling. That yelling that makes your heart race. It started as a murmur from the backyard, then grew louder. I didn’t think much of it at first. Yelling was how we communicated, right? But then I realized it was my Mami, screaming her head off. And I heard what she was screaming. Someone had stolen our dresses. “¡Fue la a’querocita esa! ¡Pero que se atreva a ponérselo a la’ hijita’! ¡Que se atreva!” My heart sank. I ran toward her, wanting to help, but instead, I got yelled at too. Chichi didn’t care as much, but for me, it felt like the world was falling apart. It was just clothes, but it wasn’t about that. It was about betrayal. 

Soon, we would all forget about the dresses… or so I thought. That is, until I heard my two friends passing by, and I ran out to say hi. But what I saw next? I’ll never forget it. My mom was ripping the clothes off my friends, like she was in some kind of rage. The taller one spat at my Mom, missed, and before anyone could breathe, Mami had her by the hair. I panicked. I knew this wasn’t going to end well. I rushed in between them, begging my mom to let her go, and finally, she did. I looked at my friends, my heart racing, and I apologized. But then, without warning, my mother slapped me. I hit the floor, trying to shield myself from another hit. I was in shock, tears welling up. Mami shouted, “¿Tú quieres que tus amiguitas te perdonen cuando se robaron los vestidos que yo hice para ti?” I couldn’t process it. One of my friends,eyes filled with hate, staring me down and said, “Esos vestidos son nuestros, y mi mamá va a venir por ellos.” That's when my mom threatened, “Qué se atreva venir.”

The dresses weren’t just dresses anymore. They had become symbols of pain. Reminders of the hurt caused by girls I once thought were my friends. They were thieves and liars, stealing my peace and replacing it with cruelty. And those same girls? They mocked us. They ridiculed the way we walked, the way we looked in our dresses. They even dared to call themselves 'lucky' for not having to wear what we wore. But now I see it for what it really was. They weren’t lucky; they were just envious, trying to mask their own insecurities by tearing us down. It was an experience that shattered more than just my trust in them; it destroyed how I built relationships and friendships for the rest of my life.

The mere memory of these dresses represented how trapped I felt as a child. The fabric suffocated me, intertwined fibers preventing air from reaching my lungs. The dresses I had once eagerly anticipated wearing had become relics of a garment that birthed my hurt. To think that these, like every other dress, were made for Chichi and me with so much more love than we ever received. And now, they are a memory of the sting of Mother's slap, the laughter of friends who weren’t really friends, and the humiliation caused by both.

Now that I think about it, did I unknowingly wish for these dresses to just disappear? For them to end up with someone else, because I was completely over them? The thought of never having to wear another one again felt like a weight lifted off my shoulders. Maybe if all her hard work went to waste, my mom would finally stop making them, and we could just be free, free to wear something as simple and comfortable as jeans, without the constant pressure of fitting into something I never asked for.