As I stood still in protest, my father entered the Brooks Brothers on Canal. He did not like what I was wearing.
I was twenty-two years old, but he said I looked like a strange little boy, not a nice young woman, yet I did not feel like a nice young woman, and it seemed to me that a greater share of unpleasant things happened when I was dressed to give the impression that I was a nice young woman.
I gave up and followed him in. He held up a pink shift dress, a green plaid skirt, a fitted white oxford. Everyone in the Brooks Brothers, even the mannequins, even my father, everyone seemed to be in drag as people who were shopping at Brooks Brothers.
I left. He followed me out, disappointed I couldn’t even pretend to consider another way of life.