Wabi Sabi

“Damnit.” Uncle Roy had requested I wear this dreaded thing to his shop today. The folds and lobules on the costume never get lighter…never easier to carry. I try to convince myself that my dear Uncle is blissfully unaware of my disdain, but a lie is a lie, even when you want to believe it. I work my arms into the fleshy mass, careful not to fight it. I know if I resist, it will resist back, like forcing a latex glove onto a clammy hand. You have to ease in. After all these years, I would think Uncle Roy could make these suits more comfortable. But that is about as realistic as hoping he’d call me by my name—or get over his obsession with creepy costume displays. Besides, theatre doesn’t care about comfort.

The legs are worse than the arms—heavier than they look. By the time I am fully encased, my heart is heavy like my breath.

“Thank God it’s a costume,” I murmur, almost involuntarily.

This time of year is the only time sales pick up outside the local off-Broadway theatre scene. My apartment is small, but loaded. It smells of cedar and dust, of quiet intention. Not in a bad way, like an impulse buyer grabbing without thought. Everything here works together. Each piece was envisioned and curated, giving that warm, tingly feeling. On Pinterest, my design style would be Wabi-Sabi, though my Halloween décor gives a different tone. My apartment isn’t exactly how I want it, but I like it. The rounded pendant lights above the kitchen island hang just right. The wooden beams on the ceiling sag slightly under their own weight. The rafters, like little arms, filter light so shadows stretch wide—wings too heavy to lift but still reaching outward. At the staircase, the wood swells around each newel post, having absorbed too much water. It cuffs the nails, stressing but not breaking them. Wabi-Sabi embraces these imperfections.

Most visitors don’t see my home as a cultivation; they see a nice place—an acceptable fortress. They don’t notice how the floor aches when you step in just the right spot, or how the moisture and bulges keep appearing. I keep sanding. I keep drying. I have given up expecting people to understand.

I pass the mirror in the foyer on my way out. It reflects light from the window across the room, but today it serves a bittersweet purpose. Uncle Roy says wearing the costume will help sales.

“The people can see how real they look,” he says.

“They don’t make ’em like this no more,” he continues. “Handmade, almost as if the good Lawd Himself molded them.”

“I’m happy to help out, Uncle Roy,” I reply, hiding my annoyance.

“The display—that’s the most important thing. That’s how people see how good the suits are,” he insists.

“You know I made the fat suit for that flick that won the Oscar in ’98,” he reminds me, as always.

“Yep… I know it. That’s something, Uncle Roy. I could never forget,” I say with feigned exuberance—the kind a parent endures when a child recounts a favorite movie for the hundredth time. I quiet my thoughts as I prepare for the mile-long walk to the shop.

I open the door. The streets hit me with noise. Orange leaves flutter, the scent of caramel apples and smoke mingling in crisp air. The pending holiday screams louder than autumn itself. Inflatable ghosts and goblins treat the eyes in festivity more than they scare.

Every step in the suit is a negotiation: legs rubbing, seams biting, mass pressing down as if gravity were personal. Each step demands concentrated effort for the first half-mile. I walk past a white woman about my size in the suit. Leggings, long tunic, hair in a bun, minimal makeup. Smooth hips. Smooth arms. I wonder why some fat people are lumpy while others are larger versions of thin, smooth-skinned people. She passes, uninterested.

Minutes later, another woman—older, white—crosses my path. Thin, but knottier hips and legs than my suit. She smiles warmly, calling, “Hey, girl,” then moves on.

“Thank God it’s a costume,” I murmur again.

A short distance from the shop, I pass a young, attractive African-American man—fit, tall, navy-blue joggers, matching sweatshirt, light brown corduroy jacket, Ralph Lauren sneakers. My stomach draws in; I try to act casual. He walks by, oblivious. I stop to tie my shoe, secretly watching. Five steps later, he pauses at a life-sized Halloween witch yard décor, flicks her nose playfully, laughing. I realize he didn’t ignore me; he simply didn’t see me. I might as well have been invisible. The irony of a massive body making you unseen requires experience.

The shop window is refashioned for the season, strange theatrical costumes dominating the display. Uncle Roy insists: display is everything.

Inside, the scent of pumpkin spice and old books greets me. The 1998 award-winning fat suit sits front and center, an ornate storyboard detailing its background. People visit year-round to see it.

“Did anybody notice?” Uncle Roy beams.

“What?” I turn, studying the suit, marveling at its craftsmanship yet thinking of the reality it represents.

“The suit. Did anybody notice you were wearing one, girl?”

“No. Nobody noticed,” I say, offended. He didn’t ask how I was doing.

“That’s my girl. Very good,” Uncle Roy says, pride swelling. “Local news at four. Piece tonight. Good business.”

The local news has done repetitive pieces: focus on elaborate, grotesque costumes, Uncle Roy’s stories of firsts, creativity born of scarcity. Some fabrics still hide in the back, under piles of unknown.

I head to the stockroom. Uncle Roy looks curious.

“What? What is it?” I ask.

“Where do you think you’re going, young lady?”

“I’m gonna get to work. It’s a mess back there,” I reply.

“Oh no, no, no. Girl, I didn’t have you walk down here for nothing. I want the news to see you. Show ’em how real the suits look,” he says, slightly demanding.

Heart skips. Being a spectacle walking here is one thing—but on the news, in this suit? Uncle Roy shows early signs of dementia, news to me.

“Are you fucking insane,” I seethe.

“Watch your language, young lady. Don’t get too grown for your britches,” he rebukes.

“Uncle Roy, I’m not going on the news. Everyone knows me… they know your shop. They get the point,” I snap.

“The hell you won’t! My rules, my way,” he insists.

Lips hot, head floating. I didn’t agree to be made an example. I am only here to help, to earn a little extra.

“I’m going to take this thing off!”

He looks puzzled.

“You can’t take anything off,” he says.

Lips stop burning, head stops spinning. I take this suit off every day—and he cannot stop me.

“Yes, I will, Uncle,” I say, defiant.

He grabs me, shakes me, as if waking me from a night terror.

“I’ve told you about this girl,” he presses, “Get your fat ass to the front and ready for reporters!”

A familiar sting punctures me. I walk to the front as two white vans with black and red logos and large satellites approach. I could walk away—but what would that change? Would I return tomorrow?

The lead anchor enters, beautiful, thin, smooth-skinned, focused. She passes the fat suit, likely seeing it countless times. Then she approaches Uncle Roy, smiling.

“Roy Brown, looks like your shop is ready for Halloween and tricks and treats,” she says.

“Absolutely,” Uncle Roy replies. “We provide top-quality handmade costumes for local theatre and cinema, and offer seasonal options.”

“I think you’ll be happy to see…” Uncle Roy begins, cut off as she turns to me.

“Is this… oh my goodness. You’ve been here since you were little,” she says, genuine interest in her eyes.

I try to cover the fat rolls midway up my arms, pulling sleeves down. I nod, hoping to remain unseen.

“So, tell us, young lady, about your role here.”

Uncle Roy attempts to chime in.

“Well, if you look at my niece, her…body type shows how real my costumes are. Look at her arms,” he says, holding mine. The ample wings hang down. I cannot fly away.

“Now look at one of my suits on display,” he continues. “I have other costumes, all types, and do customizations.”

The reporter smiles, uninterested in sales. She wants a story.

“Your suits are something, Mr. Brown. But I’d love to hear from your niece—about her role, day-to-day, as a young Black woman in a dying art.”

“What is your name, young lady?” the microphone presses. Words jumble in my brain, stirred like stew. My eyes squint. My tongue halts.

“Leave the girl alone,” Uncle Roy chides.

“Miss! Miss, do you hear me?” he becomes irate, waving his hands around to force the reporter, "You can see me?"

"You can see me, right?" He continues waving his hands.

“Millicent.”

All go silent. Even my loud Uncle pauses. The reporter cracks a real smile.

“My name is Millicent,” I repeat.

“That’s a beautiful name,” she says, pulling back the microphone.