Kids who read conversations more frequently than they have them

end up mispronouncing a lot of words when the time finally comes

to say “segue” or “detritus” out loud. My mom never hesitated to correct

me* and for this I forgive her the embarrassment she caused; in the

long run, that sharp jab of humiliation I felt when I learned I’d said

something wrong was worth the eventual self-satisfaction of saying

the word clearly and correctly when it came up in class.

I was not so lucky translating what I saw into what I wore. As a fanatical

“reader” (really, “looker”) of fashion magazines, I knew every runway outfit

and its various permutations as styled by different editors, all the key words,

and – for overabundance of obsessive energy – exactly the kind of girl

who would wear the outfit, where and why and with what kind of lighting.

I knew the meaning of each trend but not how to articulate it on my own.

Under the misunderstanding that literal translation of these looks would

provoke the right response in others, I spent high school in alternating

periods of feast and famine, saving up for months (almost a year for the

Balenciaga bomber jacket) only to “mispronounce” the looks when I

could finally afford them.

*Although she taught me some archaic pronunciation: “doo-er” for “dour”

and “reck” for “wreak”!

Vogue Index