The Fabric of Identity: Unraveling the Stories We Wear
Exploring the Threads of Belonging, Shame, and Self-Discovery
Photo by Nastia Petruk on Unsplash
“Hold your head high. We might be poor, but we are proud.”— Gma Sadie.
My grandmother, God bless her beautiful soul, was a feisty little woman.
Raised in the Appalachian Mountains of NC, she was of Irish descent and had all the scars to prove it. Her daddy had a still for making moonshine, and to hear her tell it, he drank more than he sold.
He wasn’t a funny drunk. He was violent, but in her stories she wasn’t afraid. She always said, “He didn’t mean it. It was just the liquor talkin’. ” She was strong, determined, and a hopeless optimist who had no idea how to quit.
I remember, when I became a Republican out of a long line of Democrats (I am now a proud independent) she said to me, “You can do what you want, but I remember Hoover.”
And remember Hoover she did — every time she took me shopping for clothes.
You see, to her it mattered what I wore. No one else in the family seemed to care, but she took her hard earned money from the mill and spent it on me. She wanted me to have pretty clothes because “she remembered Hoover,” and it was Hoover’s fault that she and her sister’s dressed in potato sacks.
*Photo of me as a child in a dress my grandmother bought me.
To be fair, I never saw any pictures of my grandmother in a “potato sack,” but I also never saw any pictures of my grandmother as a child. I only have the disdain with which she spat the words “potato sack” off her tongue to discern she was not a fan.
So, I did a little research.
Interestingly, while my grandmother felt shame about wearing this type of dress, many sources offered a different perspective. In particular, “Appalachian Memory Keepers” highlights the resourcefulness of rural women who transformed these sacks into beautiful garments. In fact, during World War II, an estimated 3 million women and children in the U.S. wore feed sack clothing (Mountaineer News, 2017). By 1951, 75% of urban mothers and 97% of rural mothers knew about making clothes from feed sacks (Online Journal of Rural Research and Policy, 2009). Despite this widespread use, my grandmother’s experience painted a different picture.
The truth, according to my Grandpa, was that they were poor. They had always been poor, and while he had “heard tell of some Depression” life had not changed for his family much at all. Times were always hard for the poor.
Grandma, on the other hand, felt shame. In her small world, she felt her dress a mark of poverty.
Her shame followed us.
I remember her concern for one of my nieces who was not dressed very well one day. She strongly admonished my sister for her daughter’s appearance, “Saying, they will remember this when she grows up. They never forget.”
Who is they?
Apparently, “they” was anyone who had more looking down on those who had less. So, if you had the same flour sack, but your mother was a talented seamstress, you could hide your poverty.
My grandmother’s family had to scratch out a living from the rocks in Appalachia. When were they going to have time to learn sewing, tatting, or smocking?
My grandmother was shamed by adults as a little child and didn’t feel safe because of what she was wearing. There was nothing she could do about it. She was a child, and as most who live in poverty, she had no voice.
“There is a paradox here: people tend to want wealth to signal to others that they should be liked and admired.”― Morgan Housel
Because of her shame, and forgive me Grandma if I’m putting words in your mouth, she did not feel she could save herself or the little girl who still lived inside her. Me, on the other hand, she could keep safe, and dressing me “as good as the others” would keep me from the feelings of worthlessness that she experienced.
Clothing can offer a sense of belonging
My grandmother didn’t have a choice about her clothing. She wore what was handed to her, and it shaped her sense of self based on others perceptions.
Similarly, Andy, from the short story On the Sidewalk Bleeding by Evan Hunter was defined by the gang jacket he wore.
Unlike Grandma’s dress, Andy is proud to wear the jacket because it makes him feel physically safe on very dangerous streets. It also gives him a sense of belonging. Without it, he feels powerless.
But, his feeling of safety and belonging is an illusion.
As he is walking along the street one evening, someone comes up from behind him and stabs him. “He heard a voice saying,‘That’s for you Royal!’”
As he is lying there on the sidewalk unable to move, he tries to yell for help, but he has no voice.
A series of people walk by, but no one helps. Because he can’t speak, the reader only hears his thoughts:
“Now in the alley, with the cold rain, he wondered about the meaning. If he died, he was Andy. He was not a Royal. He was simply Andy, and he was dead. Had the Guardian who knifed him ever once known that he was Andy? Had they stabbed him, Andy, or stabbed only the jacket and the title? What good was the title if you were dying?”
Finally, Andy accepts that he is dying. His pondering has left him with a startling revelation. He doesn’t want to be known as a Royal:
“With great effort he rolled over on his back. He felt the pain tear at him when he moved. It was a pain that he did not think possible. But he wanted to take off the jacket. If he never did another thing, he wanted to take off the jacket. The jacket had only one meaning now. That was a very simple meaning. If he had not been wearing the jacket, he would not have been stabbed.”
What do Grandma and Andy have in common?
Grandma wore a dress that indicated to the world that her family was the poorest of the poor — worthless.
Andy wore a jacket that indicated to the world that he was a criminal — worthless.
According to Brene Brown, “Shame is the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing that we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love and belonging.”
My Grandmother nor Andy had the opportunity to be seen for who they were as people. They were born into a world where that had already been decided for them, and society was all too willing to stab them based on what they wore.
In truth, they had no voice, and their souls were clothed with shame.
What do Grandma and Andy have to do with a Gray Divorcee?
I wore a beautiful dress on the day of my wedding. My dress, again paid for by my Grandma, indicated that I had done things right, and now I had a good man who would take care of me.
When the children came, my clothes weren’t as nice anymore. My ex screamed at me for years for buying anything, and when I complied, I was screamed at for not looking attractive — but that’s an article for another day.
But, it was ok, because I was a mom. I loved being a mom, and I loved the way people looked at me as a mom.
That’s what the world saw. I was a stay at home mom, a homeschool mom, a pastor’s wife. I had all the best titles, and I was clothed with an image that made me proud. I had finally arrived at my safe place.
Until I was no longer safe.
Like Andy, the jacket wasn’t keeping me safe anymore. I was metaphorically dying before my husband’s eyes, and like Andy and Grandma, I had no voice.
What do you wear as an over 50 woman in poverty who has been metaphorically stabbed and left to die by her husband, community, and laws?
Shame and confusion.
I remember the first party I was invited to after my divorce. It was hosted by a dear friend of mine and many of the extreme Christian parents I had homeschooled with were present.
One of the women present was a divorcee and had been for awhile. I guess she was more comfortable with the idea because she came to my side and loudly said, “I guess I’ll hang out with the other divorcee.”
I looked around to see the arrogant glances of “they” who had done it right, casting silent judgement on my predicament. Much like my grandmother, I was being shamed for what I had been given to wear — circumstances I had not asked for or wanted.
I was suddenly naked. The honorable dress of marriage and the jacket of motherhood had been snatched away from me, and I was no longer safe… “I was no longer worthy of love and belonging…” (Brene Brown).
In my experience, women who marry young or who have not developed a sense of autonomy and personal identity on any level because of their upbringing are easily sucked into abusive marriages.
When you don’t know who you are, it is easy for someone else to shape you into who they want you to be.
I loved being a wife and a mother.
But, because I had no identity of my own, it is all I had. I was not Brenda anymore, I was Mrs. Male Karl. And that, my friend, is a great place to hide.
My dress of marriage and my jacket of motherhood — they were my identity. I was unable to discover who I was without them, because I never took them off.
When the garment was torn away, I found myself emotionally naked. I had nothing that said “I belong.” I was lost, afraid, and emotionally dying. Like Andy, there were people all around, and in my case often willing to help, but ultimately, only I could help myself.
How do we help ourselves?
My grandmother used to say, “Awareness is half the battle.” Helping yourself begins with awareness. Admitting what has happened. Opening our eyes to the humiliation, feeling the anger, and accepting that we have been in a relationship which has neglected our development as a person is not easy — but it is half the battle.
Being neglected as a child leads to the neglect of oneself as an adult. Often, neglect, as strange as it may sound, is where we feel safe — never realizing we have no voice.
We become comfortable not being seen. We wear the cloak of invisibility, and we feel safe.
Until we don’t.
When we gain awareness, we are at the half way point to no longer letting shame dictate our lives. That’s when we truly begin to help ourselves — when we stop being silent. When what we say matters to us.
Naked and alone.
Making the effort to heal this wound is a sign of bravery, and can be done at any age. — Aurisha Smolarski, LMFT
I assume you’re reading because you’ve found yourself with your life-time identity ripped from you. What now?
I could write a lot of ideas, suggestions, and platitudes here, but the truth for me has been that discovery is a journey. Discovering, or for some rediscovering, who you are may seem a bit sad when you realize how much you’ve neglected yourself, but it’s part of healing.
Discover first of all, not where you feel safe, but what makes you happy. What does happiness look like to you? What does it feel like?
Maybe it feels like a well-worn pair of jeans from a thrift store or a soft cashmere sweater on a cold day. Maybe you’re more the sundress kind of gal. Either way, it’s time find out.
What you wear is now up to you.
As I stood in front of my closet after the divorce, I realized that the clothes I once wore felt like remnants of a life and person I no longer recognized. It was as if that person never existed.
The clothes that hung there seemed to represent the expectations placed on me by others. In that moment, I knew I had to dig deeper — not just into my wardrobe, but into the very heart of who I was and who I wanted to be moving forward.
But what? I had worked so hard at fulfilling others expectations of me, I didn’t know what I wanted from myself.
It was then that I happened upon the quote by George Benard Shaw:
“Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.”
And that’s what I set out to do.
Concluding thoughts
“Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.” ~ Fyodor Dostoevsky
It wasn’t for nothing.
Your experience is part of your discovery. It is that experience that chips away at who you are not, eventually exposing the beautiful you.
“We begin to find and become ourselves when we notice how we are already found, already truly, entirely, wildly, messily, marvelously who we were born to be.” ~Anne Lamott
Who needs a title anyway? We are not just some person in poverty, just a wife, or just a mother, or even a just a gray divorcee.
We are so much more. I know it’s hard, but don’t allow yourself to let one experience or other peope’s perception of your experience, to define and limit you.
Like Andy said, “What good [is] a title if you are dying?”
As I have spent time thinking about my grandmother, Andy, and my own experiences, I recognize the profound impact of lacking a sense of self in our lives. These stories remind us that clothing — whether fabric or titles — can often obscure who we truly are. Yet, it is in the act of shedding these layers that we discover our authentic selves.
Today, I choose to embrace my journey by wearing strength and dignity, knowing that every stitch of my past contributes to who I am and who I am becoming.
Thank you for joining me on this journey — let’s celebrate the smile lines we earn along the way.