The Truth About Homecoming Mums
There's a saying in Texas that many (too many) women adhere to: "The bigger the hair, the closer to God."
I was so proud of this enormous symbol, and touched by the time and effort my friend had invested in it because she thought I deserved to be seen.
I had mentally rehearsed how to respond if anybody asked who had given me the mum, since I still didn't have a sweetheart. But nobody questioned my flowers, more concerned with themselves than anyone else. A truism I would discover carried through the rest of my high school years, too.
I went to the 1994 dance date-less, wearing my recycled dress from eighth grade graduation pinned with this obscenely heavy decoration, and gyrated to Sheryl Crow singing "all I wanna do is have some fun." And I did, mum and all.
But there's a lesser-known assertion that many teenagers believe: "The bigger the mum, the more you are loved."
In the Lonestar State, homecoming is not just about a football game under a wide twilit sky, a dance in a gym bedecked with ribbons and balloons, or dressing up in fancy clothes with your friends.
It's about homecoming mums. Huge, showy homecoming mums.
Legend has it that fall-blooming chrysanthemum corsages have been part of the homecoming tradition since the first homecoming football game, celebrated in Missouri in 1911. Back then, a male would bestow this gift to his female date to wear during the festivities that celebrated returning alumni and residents.
Texas being Texas, they took it up a few notches. In 1936, a florist added school-color ribbons to the traditional corsage for a Baylor homecoming game. And a Texas icon was born.
No longer confined to fresh, real flowers that quickly wilt, artificial homecoming mums are now elaborately decorated. Dozens of ribbons fall from the corsage, interspersed with strings of shiny beads, sparkly rhinestones, and 3D braids. Attached to these ribbons are tiny tinkling bells, personalized trinkets, and glittering letters that spell out sweethearts' names, teams, and the year.
In the Lonestar State, homecoming is not just about a football game under a wide twilit sky, a dance in a gym bedecked with ribbons and balloons, or dressing up in fancy clothes with your friends.
It's about homecoming mums. Huge, showy homecoming mums.
Legend has it that fall-blooming chrysanthemum corsages have been part of the homecoming tradition since the first homecoming football game, celebrated in Missouri in 1911. Back then, a male would bestow this gift to his female date to wear during the festivities that celebrated returning alumni and residents.
Texas being Texas, they took it up a few notches. In 1936, a florist added school-color ribbons to the traditional corsage for a Baylor homecoming game. And a Texas icon was born.
No longer confined to fresh, real flowers that quickly wilt, artificial homecoming mums are now elaborately decorated. Dozens of ribbons fall from the corsage, interspersed with strings of shiny beads, sparkly rhinestones, and 3D braids. Attached to these ribbons are tiny tinkling bells, personalized trinkets, and glittering letters that spell out sweethearts' names, teams, and the year.
And a single flower is no longer enough -- two, three, or more flowers are often put together into one ostentatious decoration that screams "Look how important I am! Look how much money my date spent on me because that's what love is!"
In the early 1990s, a store-bought homecoming mum could cost $80 or more.
But my first homecoming mum was an orphan rejected by everyone who visited the flower shop.
My dad got it at a steep discount after homecoming had passed me by during seventh grade. It had a single white artificial flower adorned with a puffy silver plastic heart, and slim purple and white ribbons dangling below it.
How I treasured this clearance item. I kept it inside its clear plastic box for an entire year, regularly marveling at its beauty. I pictured walking through the junior high school doors with this symbol pinned on my shirt above my heart.
"Look at me!" it would shout, but not so loudly as to call anyone's attention. "I matter just like the rest of you girls!" Happiness would beam from my shiny face down to my skinny legs. I just had to wait for it.
But by the time homecoming rolled around in eighth grade, the ribbons were permanently curled every-which-way from being contained in a small box for twelve months. The plastic metallic heart had tarnished like it was embarrassed of itself. And I because I didn't have the money or knowledge of where to buy new stickers, it still read out the wrong year.
Besides that, I knew that everyone knew I didn't have a homecoming date, let alone a boyfriend who would want to buy me such an expensive item. I pictured the popular girls mocking me, sing-song-ing, "oh, did your daddy buy that for you?" and knowing it was true.
Instead of being proud, I felt ashamed of my clearance mum and my father's half-price love. Instead of pinning it on my shoulder, I left it in the box that homecoming, and went to school as plain and invisible as usual.
Eventually I did have a homecoming mum, just once -- the following year, when I was a freshman in high school. A friend who had already graduated, who knew my family and knew how I struggled, had made it specifically for me.
She crafted a huge three-flower piece in the shape of a heart. In the middle of the white flowers sat a small plush bear, donning a purple cowboy hat, because Texas. Dozens of satin and lace ribbons hung from my shoulder almost to the floor, brushing my ankle when I floated through the halls of the high school.
In the early 1990s, a store-bought homecoming mum could cost $80 or more.
But my first homecoming mum was an orphan rejected by everyone who visited the flower shop.
My dad got it at a steep discount after homecoming had passed me by during seventh grade. It had a single white artificial flower adorned with a puffy silver plastic heart, and slim purple and white ribbons dangling below it.
How I treasured this clearance item. I kept it inside its clear plastic box for an entire year, regularly marveling at its beauty. I pictured walking through the junior high school doors with this symbol pinned on my shirt above my heart.
"Look at me!" it would shout, but not so loudly as to call anyone's attention. "I matter just like the rest of you girls!" Happiness would beam from my shiny face down to my skinny legs. I just had to wait for it.
But by the time homecoming rolled around in eighth grade, the ribbons were permanently curled every-which-way from being contained in a small box for twelve months. The plastic metallic heart had tarnished like it was embarrassed of itself. And I because I didn't have the money or knowledge of where to buy new stickers, it still read out the wrong year.
Besides that, I knew that everyone knew I didn't have a homecoming date, let alone a boyfriend who would want to buy me such an expensive item. I pictured the popular girls mocking me, sing-song-ing, "oh, did your daddy buy that for you?" and knowing it was true.
Instead of being proud, I felt ashamed of my clearance mum and my father's half-price love. Instead of pinning it on my shoulder, I left it in the box that homecoming, and went to school as plain and invisible as usual.
Eventually I did have a homecoming mum, just once -- the following year, when I was a freshman in high school. A friend who had already graduated, who knew my family and knew how I struggled, had made it specifically for me.
I was so proud of this enormous symbol, and touched by the time and effort my friend had invested in it because she thought I deserved to be seen.
I had mentally rehearsed how to respond if anybody asked who had given me the mum, since I still didn't have a sweetheart. But nobody questioned my flowers, more concerned with themselves than anyone else. A truism I would discover carried through the rest of my high school years, too.
I went to the 1994 dance date-less, wearing my recycled dress from eighth grade graduation pinned with this obscenely heavy decoration, and gyrated to Sheryl Crow singing "all I wanna do is have some fun." And I did, mum and all.
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