By Jessica Spencer Castner.


THERE’S A MYSTIQUE TO A WOMAN who lives life on her own terms. To do so requires a strength and inner assuredness to overcome gendered social roles and systems of oppression.

After graduating from the eighth grade in a rural one-room schoolhouse, Grandma Bea insisted on continuing her education. Her parents didn’t see much use for learning through the lens of their farm life. They also blamed the city’s air pollution for the influenza that took their first child. They wouldn’t stand in Bea’s way, but they didn’t throw a going away party either. In exchange for cleaning the house, she secured room and board in a building next to her old school. So, as a young teenager, Grandma Bea’s emancipation began. Her parent’s financial and resource support came later.

One afternoon Bea pulled into a filling station where her future husband worked. They flirted as he fueled up the vehicle. She paid the required amount, asserted her disinterest in a relationship, and with a smile made a dismissive statement. Then she drove away, slowly. Enthralled, the young man chased after the car bearing his vulnerable heart with pathetic pleas to see her again. Bea decided to turn the episode into a fun game of a knight’s unrequited love. She drove slow enough so he could keep up yet fast enough to claim she couldn’t hear his attempts at wooing. However long this game continued, he managed to secure a courtship.

Grandma Bea inhabited her agency and self-expression in their marriage. She also fell so in love with her husband’s French-Canadian heritage and claimed much of it as her own, although she was German. Grandma did not speak German. Her parents and grandparents may have maintained higher levels of literacy in German for religious rituals, private conversation, and ceremony. Otherwise, her family of origin had already done as much as they could to ax their own Prussian heritage away long before the World Wars.

Some of Grandma’s favorite possessions were her fur coats. Grandpa’s ancestral line was shaped by the fur trade in the 1600s. Grandma loved to characterize their relationship by what they wore on a date. She would dress in lace tops and fur coats; he insisted on spotless bib overalls. Grandpa owned a suit and looked handsome in its formality. But he was most comfortable in the overalls. The couple had an affectionate and self-effacing respect for each other’s self-expression. They had nothing to prove to anyone. Grandma loved to tell and retell stories of their nights out in their divergent attire as harmonious personality compatibility.

Grandma loved her furs so much that she would get them out from her careful preservation so we could play dress up. She suggested wearing them and sharing a drink in great fun. At that time, I had not yet decided on the ethics of clothing made from animals. We tabled the libations for a later time and Grandma understood. This later time never came. Now, I think of commissioning a painting of her and me at her dining room table in fur coats, sipping wine and giggling.

Grandma Bea’s fur coats symbolized her life on her terms.


AFTER I TURNED 18, I needed a new coat. I had a spring jacket and a sporty winter coat. As I began to interview for work and college scholarships, I lacked a formal coat for my dresses and business suits. I had adequate savings from my dishwashing gig at a local pizzeria and bakery. Dad agreed to take me to JC Penney. He was not a shopper, which is why I asked him to tag along. We would be as practical as possible, in and out of the store in record time, and no fuss was expected.

The selection of coats was bleak. My eyes skimmed wool Sunday coats in navy blue, black, brown, or gray. Two lengths were available, hip and knee. One loud and shiny floral coat was available, just one season then out of fashion. One coat stood out. It was not in fashion – it was timeless. I reached for a gray wool coat with Victorian-style fit about the waist and flare to the knees. Fanciness was added with decorative buttons and contrasting black velvety cuffs and collar. I picked up the coat, shrugged it on and off, studied myself in the mirror, then headed for the register.

“Oh, ummm, honey?” Dad stammered. “How much is that coat?”

It cost a little more than $100. I had the money. It was unusual for me to spend that amount on one item of clothing. Dad would bring home items from rummage sales, estate sales, or garage sales. Occasionally, he’d pick up a bag of clothes for me. He didn’t expect me to wear any of it, but it totaled $5 at most.

Dad cleared his throat. “You’re gonna want a coat that will last a while, sweetheart,” he advised. I nodded in agreement. He continued, “That coat is quite fitted about the waist.”

“Right,” I replied. That’s why I liked it from the other formless options.

“You know, your genetics . . . .” Dad reminded me. “Your mom and your aunts . . . you don’t know if you’ll be able to wear that coat for long.” 

Oh! My mother and her sisters struggled with obesity. Dad was expressing his doubt that I would be able to fit into this coat for too long into adulthood. With acceptance and love, he was telling me that getting fat was in my future. He added: “That’s a lot of your savings. Are you sure you don’t want to get this black one?” He motioned to a shapeless and generic-looking long wool coat.

“No, Dad. I know what you mean. But it’s worth it.” Generally, I was frugal and would have talked myself into a cheaper, more practical option. The pull of living life on my own terms was strong on this one. The price tag was one of self-expression. It fit.

Dad nodded OK, satisfied that I understood his meaning and the consequences of the likelihood of my own obesity. So, I bought a timeless garment. It’s a well-fitted coat that doesn’t fit in anywhere yet is perfect everywhere. 

Over the years, my husband has encouraged me to buy a more fashionable coat. He’s concerned with the ambiguity of what I might be trying to express in that coat. He claims it looks “Prussian” (whatever that means). I am not swayed by his interpretation; I continue to wear the coat in conflict with his evolving garb over the years. My husband and I are committed to finding “harmonious compatibility” in our divergent approaches, even when it doesn’t come easily.

Three decades later, I’ve gotten much more than $100 worth of wear from that coat. I wear it often. Even though I could afford more, it’s my main dress coat. One button has gone missing from age and wear. For the record: NO buttons bear a strain or stretch from the wearer’s widening girth.

When I put on this coat, I feel a little sense of victory. I’ve won at that moment on my own terms. I wear a self-expression of timelessness. I wear today’s victory over my DNA’s risk of obesity. I acknowledge today’s victory does not guarantee tomorrow’s win. Yet it’s a genuine victory with every wear. I wear it for the dining-room-table-fur-coat-wine-date I still owe Grandma.

My victory coat symbolizes my life on my terms.