16x20 acrylic on canvas
This is me, surrounded by the paparazzi, at my 8th grade graduation. We’re on the red carpet, in front of the church, after the glamorous ceremony and mass, taking pictures with all the other celebrities: Sister Mary; the teachers, priests and families.
Since you’re probably dying to know: My dress is from Madigans, which was located in the Winston Plaza strip mall in Melrose Park, in the shadows of a race track and some honky-tonk joints. This was where we bought all of our finery, special gowns, party gear, fresh off the rack. Thankfully, Madigans has long since gone out of business. Sometimes, when the gettin’ was good in the old Dino household, we’d venture downtown to Lord & Taylor at Water Tower Place, or hit the Marshall Field’s at the Oak Park mall, to find whatever was in vogue at the time. This was an era when nylons, silver flats, and Gloria Vanderbilt’s ass-chokin’ jeans represented the pinnacle of high fashion.
Auntie Evelyn is in this shot, peppering me with questions, as if she were working for TMZ. She wants to know what dress size I am, ask about my weight. This is how it begins with most women, family and friends torturing us about our physical shortcomings. This is the sort of psychological water-boarding which penetrates our souls, stays with us forever.
This past summer, we had our 25th class reunion. A bunch of survivors from the old neighborhood, reunited for an unforgettable night of cocktails and truckloads of Italian food. As I munched Calamari Fritti and Rigatoni del Pastore, Auntie Evelyn was still there in the back of mind, asking me what dress size I wore, how much I weighed. Do we ever graduate and move on from our own insidious obsessions?
