On Denim Jackets and Purity Culture
I wasn’t positive whether he even owned a copy of "I Kissed Dating Goodbye."
Welcome! In case you’re new here, I typically write about my journey as a mother to two boys, one of whom has non-speaking autism, through the lens of the Christian gospel. You might’ve stumbled across my newsletter after reading my recent work in The Clayjar Review or the Rabbit Room Poetry Substack. This month’s newsletter is a bit of a throwback as I reflect on my experiences growing up amid purity culture in the ’90s-’00s.
I was thirteen — just a grade ahead of my older son — when, in a cloud of bonfire smoke, Brock Kinsey asked if I was cold.
“I’m fine. Thanks.” In fact, I was freezing — but, what that had to do with Brock Kinsey, I couldn’t fathom.
“Your teeth are chattering,” he said, immediately availing himself of his denim jacket. He was the tallest fourteen-year-old I’d ever seen, his six-foot frame towering over me. He extended the denim jacket like an usher holding a collection plate at church. Do I put something in it — or do I suddenly possess the urge to read the hymnal cover-to-cover?
I felt my teeth vibrate and quickly closed my mouth.
“Here.” He settled the denim jacket around my shoulders. I felt utterly ridiculous — like a toddler playing dress-up in her dad’s sports coat. My hands were lost in long sleeves of denim; I stared helplessly at my Sharpie-marked Solo cup, deserted in the crabgrass, the bubbles in my store-brand cola still fizzing.
“That won’t work,” Brock said, like this was a grave problem to be fixed. Three or four girls huddled nearby, watching the entire interaction as if a Lifetime movie had just come back from commercial. I silently prayed he’d drop the whole thing. Instead, he stroked his chin, determined to arrive at a solution.
Suddenly, it came to him — and, before I knew what was happening, he began to peel the striped sweater from his very body. His head momentarily disappeared into pastel lengths of wool. Brock tugged at the edge of his wool sweater, revealing a cotton undershirt. One of the girls let out a little gasp.
I exhaled in relief. I was terrified that I’d be spotted with a shirtless Brock by the bonfire and deemed a woman of the world, immediately unsuitable for any Josh Harris-sanctioned courtship. I wasn’t positive whether Brock even owned a copy of I Kissed Dating Goodbye. (With various articles of clothing flying in every direction, I harbored some doubt.)
Brock extended his balled-up sweater. “This might fit better.” I handed the denim jacket back. He slipped it over his undershirt and ran a hand through gel-spiked hair.
“Thanks.” I held the ball of wool in my hands like a birthday present I planned to open later.
“Put it on,” Brock said.
Slowly, I unrolled the sweater.
“Do you need help?”
“No!” I said quickly. “I’ve, um, got it.” I poked my head through the gaping neck hole. The sweater cascaded to my knees.
“You’re really small,” Brock observed.
“Not really,” I said. I stared down at my jeans and slip-on sneakers, barely visible now. Then, I muttered something about needing to check on my friends.
“Sure,” Brock said, sipping his own cola with relative ease of motion — an indisputable benefit of having proper access to one’s own hands.
I entered the huddle of nearby girls. “What a nightmare,” I moaned.
Sierra sniffed my right shoulder. “You smell good.”
Alison plunged her head into the crook of my elbow. “Is that cologne?”
Jessica pressed her cheek into my back. “What brand is it?”
Sierra — an expert on all things boy, by virtue of having an older brother — inhaled my right shoulder again. She came up for air, deep in thought, and finally concluded: “It might be Calvin Klein.”
“You’re so lucky!” Jessica swooned.
“I don’t want to wear his clothes!” I squeaked.
Alison looked genuinely concerned. “Why not?”
Sierra, who knew me best, cut in: “Heather doesn’t like Brock. Heather likes — ”
“Shut up, Sierra,” I hissed.
Jessica stared admiringly in Brock’s direction. “Why not? He’s so tall.”
“I’d wear his sweater,” Jessica agreed.
“You wear it, then.” I stripped the Calvin Klein-scented tent from my torso.
“I can’t wear that! He gave it to you.”
“Well, I don’t want it!” I balled the sweater up and immediately marched back to Brock, who was now standing with a couple of other boys.
“Um, Brock?” I held the sweater as far away from my body as possible. “I’m not cold anymore. Thanks for letting me borrow your sweater.”
Confused, Brock accepted the wad of fabric. “Are you sure? It’s freezing out here.”
I crossed my arms to hide the goosebumps rapidly surfacing. “I’m sure. Thanks again.” I held up my hand in what I hoped would be interpreted as a goodbye-forever wave.
Instead, Brock’s all-too-familiar voice cut through the crisp night: “Wait.”
I froze like a wild deer. Sierra shook her head in reproach. My reluctance to engage with Brock was viewed as an outright betrayal to my fellow woman. I turned to face Brock. He was now wearing the striped sweater — his jacket once again extended.
“Do you want my jacket?”
I felt like Bill Murray trapped in an endless cycle of Groundhog Days. I guess Brock assumed my reluctance to wear his cologne-soaked sweater for the duration of the evening was simply a matter of style or comfort; if the crewneck wouldn’t do, he’d return to the scene of the crime. Sans jacket, he looked a little less like Danny Zuko in Grease — but that was evidently a small price to pay for my warmth.
“I’m good! Thanks!” I turned my back before he disrobed further. Then, I ran — my sneaker colliding with my Sharpie-marked Solo cup. The cola hissed and foamed at my feet, mingling with dirt and crabgrass. I glanced around, hoping my crush hadn’t seen any of it — my clumsiness, my foray into men’s sweaters — but he had. He turned away, his silver purity ring gleaming in the moonlight.
By homeschool-group standards, Brock’s offers of rotating outerwear were tantamount to a Viking claim. My future was bleak, and pastel, and smelled of Calvin Klein cologne. Worse still, I couldn’t figure out how I’d gotten to this place of indignity — after all, I’d never stated I was cold. I’d never fished for offers of jackets-slash-sweaters. I’d been minding my own business this entire time. None of it mattered. The Moms had seen. My crush had seen. I was sullied goods at thirteen, luring ninth-grade boys with Tweety Bird overalls and butterfly clips.
What most people probably wouldn’t guess from reading this tale is that I find it terrifying to write about my life — it is every bit as terrifying as wearing a boy’s jacket to a homeschool-group bonfire. Moreover, it is terrifying for the same reasons: I am unsure of how it will be interpreted by others — and, often, I’m not sure what I think myself about any of it. But if I waited until I understood something in its entirety to write about it, I’d probably never write a word.
And writing is so much easier than turning down denim.
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Hilarious! I read while cooking supper and laughed out loud.
loooooved this! 😍 so wonderfuly written 🤩