The most literal labels

How a Jewish American Princess fought back

I’m pretty sure I’m not allowed to say Jewish American Princess anymore. Certainly I am not allowed to say JAP, the abbreviation that stood in for the phrase during my childhood and adolescence. There are times when people within an identity group can use slurs when the world has disallowed them. I’m hoping this is one of those cases.

Even though my friends and I tossed around the label I myself was not a Jewish American Princess. I was more of a marchioness (thanks Bridgerton!) I wasn’t quite Jewish enough (no bat mitzvah on my calendar) or Princess-y enough (I didn’t have enough money- at least not yet.) It was aspirational. Or at least the trappings of that particular princesshood was. In fifth grade I wanted Esprit Clothes and by 7th grade I needed Guess jeans. In the late elementary/early junior high years I understood my lower footing on the shockingly high socio-economic ladder in my town. My father had not yet received his inheritance so we lived on my mother’s professor salary.

Twice a year my mother would take me shopping. We would go to Bloomingdale’s or Filene’s in the Chestnut Hill mall where I could pick one or two outfits. Then we would ride in our boxy (but good) Volvo to Marshalls where I would select the rest while my mom sang the tune “Look! these are the same clothes at a third of the price.” (Not the same.) I had a careful calculus about my outfits. There was no repeating in a two week period, and I would save all the “good” clothes to wear together on very important days. Which were determined by whether I had a crush on a boy in French class (Tues/Thurs) or Math (M/W/F) always selecting towards the end of the week so whichever he it was would be left with clear memories of my brand name outfit over the weekend.

Sometimes my more popular friends would invite me on group movie dates. One horrible weekend that happened after I had worn my peach Benetton sweatshirt and my straight laced (literal not figurative) white on white Tretorn sneakers THE DAY BEFORE. Pause for a breathe. I was insufferable. As an only child with parents who couldn’t give less of a shit about middle school “fashion” I was only insufferable to myself, and the one friend of mine who also wasn’t exactly rich or particularly popular. She was there to strategize. And lend me Guess jeans. I don’t think I ever appreciated how generous that was. The sacrifice. The caring that went into that action. Seventh graders the world over would tell of her galentry if only they knew it.

These are laced wrong

With the Guess Jeans the movie went well…I don’t remember the movie but the third most popular boy in our class put his arm around the back of my chair. You might be wondering about popularity rankings. I wasn’t popular enough to have developed the make the algorithm to determine these rankings. It probably included wealth, haircut, clothing labels, sports, and not-giving-a-fuck. Other than my feathered bangs my hair was pretty good. The rest? Not so much.

Now that I knew that Guess Jeans were the key to, well, everything I went from “needing” them to NEEDING them. I pled with my mother using a method equally effective the world over. “Samantha has them. And Jen S. has THREE pair (s?). I never ask you for anything.” My mother was unmoved. I was lucky though. It was two weeks before my birthday so I parlayed that into a weekend trip to the “real” mall. I tried on 8 identical pairs of ankle zip Guess jeans in medium wash. While I was behind the partition my mother brought me two more jeans, (both Lee what a waste of time), and one a pink pair of Guess jeans. They hung over the top of the formica partition setting my world on tilt. Pink. Guess. Jeans. Garment washed so the stitching was almost purple.

Holy shit.

I tried the obvious. “Can I get two pair (s?)? The blue would be, like, for every day (or every 14 but she didn’t need to know that) and the pink would be for, like, special occasions.”

“Oh Anna, deep sigh, I guess so.” I would insert a speech that she gave about anti-materialism which was how she lived and inner beauty but if she gave it I didn’t hear her. All I heard was I AM GOING TO GET TWO PAIR (s?) of GUESS JEANS and one of them was PINK. A color that hadn’t hit the halls of my Junior High. I was going to usher my classmates into the era of colored jeans and I was going to do it in the MOST AMAZING way.

Breaking all of my rules I wore the pink Guess Jeans on Monday. I have never been more beautiful, honey hair flicked over my shoulder, light mysterious laughing to my friends, cafeteria tables open left, right and ahead. Always on the fringe I took my rightful seat in the center of the table. As I set down my tray and climbed over the bench to slide into my seat, slowly, slowly so everyone could see the gorgeous triangle, the bitch behind me said. Loudly. “You Guess label is crooked, did your mother sew it on for you?” There were murmurs. “Let me see” hissed an actual friend. When I looked into her eyes after sticking my butt in her face she was horrified. “I’m so sorry, it is NOT straight.” She backed up to give me space so I could flee, or to get away from me, no telling.

OMG I found this today! People still know the importance of the pink guess jeans! True icons never die.

So I sat on the toilet weeping like my cat had died (she hadn’t she would live to a decrepit 22 years old and I would appreciate almost every minute of it.)

I might have called my mother to have her pick me up early, I mean it was that level of trauma, but if I didn’t I definitely WANTED to.

My first thought was to find the receipt, and if I didn’t still have the receipt I could have my mother pull up her credit card bill, but that would take weeks and not even have a break down of the brands. I was sunk. Somehow though I turned that hurt into anger and anger into action. I pulled the round cookie tin of sewing supplies out of the bathroom drawer leaving gauze and ointment (what a weird word) in my wake. I took off my precious pink pants and sat cross legged on the maple floor. I shoved the not-yet skeletal cat off my lap. I used toenail scissors to snip each tiny stitch. Finally I held that triangle between my thumb and my pointer. It didn’t look powerful. I flipped the triangle upside down and sewed it back on. Then I did the same for the blue jeans.

I wore them the next day, a Tuesday to lunch at 10:50. That’s right, lunch before 11. I was one of the first ones through the door. I climbed on an empty lunch table and yelled to my “friends” as they filed in. “Looks like my mom doesn’t know up from down, and clearly neither do you!” Sick burn. Actually, I think I have just pictured the part on the table so many times that it feels real thirty five years later. In real life I walked around with my upside down labels waiting for someone to comment.

It was my first act of disobedience against our capitalists society. And when my father got his inheritance that summer I donated my portion to a non-profit clothing fund for homeless (political correctness had not yet coined the phrase housing insecure) teens. No. I didn’t do that. But I didn’t buy any more guess jeans either. Any journey to enlightenment starts with a single step. Or stitch. Take that bitches.

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Do you think the power of this post is diminished if after I publish it I go ahead and search for pink vintage Guess jeans?