I walked into the church on that Easter Sunday in my yellow seersucker dress that Mama had made for me. My sister wore one just like it and I fumed. First of all, I hated the Easter dress custom because Mama never let me pick out what I wanted. She decided what I would wear, and at the mature age of 8 years, I knew very well that I was plenty old enough to make my own decisions about clothes. She did concede some issues to my better judgment. For example, I tolerated no lace and no ribbons on my dresses—not even one. A sash hung down in the back, but it was plain, not frilly, and besides, I couldn’t see it behind me. And just because the whole world thought females should adorn themselves in pink didn’t mean I would wear that horrid color. I had agreed under duress to the yellow fabric.
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