I am an identical twin. Our mother would sometimes dress my twin—let’s call her Arlene—and me in identical outfits (although she’d sometimes vary the colors). Once, we dressed in our white crepe Bat Mitzvah dresses, trimmed with silver threads in the bustline, which we didn’t quite fill out. (Looking at the photos now, I knew which one was me because I distinctly remember wearing tan pantyhose.) Then there were our rust-colored double-knit polyester pant suits that we decided to wear on April 1 when we switched classes. Teachers, of course, could not tell the difference.

The following year my sister and I were forced into Mrs. Friedman’s home cc classes and to the sewing machine. Over the course of the year, my sister became the better seamstress. I put in sleeves upside down, cut the fabric against the grain, used an iron too hot for the fabric (and burned a hole). When Mrs. Friedman turned her attention to a classmate who had punctured her finger on the sewing machine, I stuffed the garment into my pocketbook to fix at home. In the comfort of our playroom, while watching The Partridge Family and The Brady Bunch, I ripped seams, pinned, and sewed, my knee against the metal lever. I kept at it, because the end result—a new outfit—was worth it. Arlene preferred to ride her bike.

Sewing became my hobby. I combed through pattern books and stared at fabric bolts, trying to envision the final product.  And final products I needed. Badly. Because between eighth grade and high school, I joined Weight Watchers. I needed to clothe my new body.

Freshman Year (1971–1972)

The denim dirndl with detachable floral flat-braid ribbon suspenders

I attached the floral ribbon suspenders to the elastic-waisted light denim skirt with clip-on fasteners (the kind that skirt or pant hangers have). I wore this with a white oxford shirt and white pantyhose. By the time I reached Period 8 English, I had pulled on the holes in my stockings to create fishnets. It completed the look, melding Heidi with Hullabaloo. I even wore braids.

Purple acrylic wool hot pants and taffeta-lined midi-vest

Naturally, I wore these purple hot pants with purple pantyhose. I was losing weight that first term thanks to cheese sandwiches on one slice of toast split into two and a Fresca (until I discovered Drake’s cherry pies in the cafeteria annex). The librarian asked me to give the German teacher, let’s call him Herr, a message. I walked into his classroom, handed him the note. He said, “I’ll see you later.” I said, “Not if I can help it.” Purple and hot pants brought out my sassy side. The teacher was not pleased.

Wraparound pastel-blue fleece vest with white braid trim

Before fleece became a popular fabric for outerwear, I bought it on the bolt to make a cozy vest. Someone, maybe my twin, kept untying the braided trim behind my back. I rarely wore it as the novelty of it lost its nap.

The brown-and-cream jersey knit skirt set

This outfit featured a high collar above a keyhole. The top had short sleeves, and the elastic-waisted skirt had a multi-panel flared skirt. The fabric had movement. Worn with brown or white pantyhose. Arlene sat in front of me in German class. As we passed back our homework, quizzes, and tests, she could see I was receiving higher grades. She told my mother I was disturbing her inner mind. Those were her exact words. My mother called the guidance counselor, who insisted my sister’s seat be changed. It didn’t help. The teacher assigned a poster project based on German idioms. He gave me “Übung macht den Meister.” Practice makes perfect. He gave Arlene, “Immer klagen.” Always complaining. At this point our teacher began to prefer me to my twin, and I rolled in the attention like a pig in mud.

Pink cotton culottes with white topstitching

From the Simplicity pattern everyone used. I could walk down the hallway of Kearny High’s third floor and say, “Yup, that’s Simplicity 8740.” There was something about the pink that felt feminine and shy.

It had been a long day for a class trip. We left the high school in our chartered DeCamp bus early that morning. All the German classes headed to the Pennsylvania Dutch country in Lancaster, a two-hour drive from northern New Jersey. I wore my pink culottes, a pink printed floral blouse, white pantyhose and loafers. It was spring. I was a freshman, my long brown hair parted in the middle. I had lost some twenty-five pounds in the last ten months as I began to shoot up from 5′3″ to 5′9″. I sat with Denise, my new best friend that year.  

We toured a pretzel factory. Classmate Ray was his usual obnoxious self, but in a fun way. Always joking. (Who knew he’d go on for a PhD, that he’d just been bored in high school?) Denise formed a long-lasting crush on him. 

On the way home, we pulled into a rest stop on the Jersey Turnpike. I stood on top of a concrete block marking off a parking space. I looked to the west where the sun was sinking behind the horizon in glorious shades of pink and purple. My middle-parted long hair (it was 1972 after all, paging John Lennon) moved in the breeze. I could feel someone’s breath on me. I turned. It was Herr. I don’t remember what he said, but I do remember feeling like it was just the two of us against the world. That we were in our own bubble, oblivious to all the kids in the parking lot or the bus or the rumble of semi-trucks on the highway or the shouts of the boys who sneaked beers. A raw and vibrant something pulsed between us as our two silences merged into one against the blossoming starlit sky. Clearly, my German teacher preferred me in pink instead of purple.

The linen jumper with high collar blouse

I made this linen jumper and blouse over spring vacation and wore it the first day back. The jumper featured a gathered empire waist. Starting in Library Council Period 1, Denise made jokes that I was pregnant. In Period 2 German, Herr latched on and said, “It was a long vacation, wasn’t it?” In Period 3 Gym, Denise told everyone I’d been knocked up by the German teacher. I never wore the outfit again.

The bodysuit

The bodysuit was in vogue. I bought a blue patterned jersey knit and made this one-piece garment with high neck and long sleeves. The crotch snaps always came undone, especially if I sneezed or coughed, and it was a pain in the patootie in the bathroom. I wore this to Denise’s Sweet Sixteen. Her mother served beer shrimp.

Summer vacation (1972)

I ran a factory, where I was CEO and sole employee. I kept a ledger of planned vs. actual production. I set production goals. I tracked fabrics and notions costs, stapled fabric swatches, recorded pattern numbers and modifications. I hung all factory output on the trellis connecting two Formica-topped bureaus in the playroom where the sewing machine sat in the corner. With each stitch I announced to the world: This is who I am. These outfits are all one-of-a-kind. Created by myself and for myself. Me.

Sophomore Year (1972–1973)

The black floral knit skirt set

Same pattern as the brown jersey skirt set, but this black floral version Arlene usurped after I’d only worn twice, and I never wore it again. I still have visions of her walking the track around the football field the year we had no physical gym space (an annex was being built), with the friend she also usurped from me. Arlene and I were no longer in the same German class. I did not know she “borrowed” my German homework every night. The homework—unlike the skirt set, unlike the friend—she returned.

Navy polyester shirt set

A double-knit polyester print as the basis for a high-collared short-sleeved shirt and a princess-seamed, elastic-waisted skirt. (I’m wearing this in the 1972 or 1973 Lamp Post yearbook for the Usherettes. I always felt most myself in navy blue and navy pantyhose.)

Navy-and-yellow polyester dress with navy ribbing

My tour de force experiment using fabric I bought from Halsey Fabrics in downtown Newark (vs. Lucia’s on Kearny Avenue). A sophisticated construction I tackled during winter break. I was watching I Married a Witch on my parents’ bedroom TV, sitting on the floor and hemming the dress by hand. It was the first time I made buttonholes. The midriff used ribbing, as did the cuffs. This was hard. I was proud of myself. Probably no one noticed the growing complexity of my constructions, but I knew. Arlene’s closet was a set of neutrals, every outfit basically the same.  

The brown-and-white smock

I suppose some might have worn smock as a sleeveless top (with cap sleeves)—but I didn’t. I wore a white oxford underneath it. The top of the tunic was solid brown, trimmed with rick-rack, attached to a small print cotton. It was soft and cozy, and I wore it to my eldest sister’s bridal shower that summer at the Jade Fountain, where I only ate bowls of egg drop soup for comfort (my new wire-rimmed glasses, now having a moment in the fashion world, made me a bit nauseated). The smock became a comfort item just as much as the soup.

Summer (1973)

 Less time to sew as I commuted to Manhattan with my eldest sister to work at Springer Verlag, a German publishing company. I took up needlepoint. But I still envisioned fabrics and patterns and created long to-do lists. Arlene began working at a satellite location of our family’s supermarkets. I wasn’t allowed to work there, because she said I’d ruin her “rep.” I didn’t know she had one. I could have protested—but didn’t. I didn’t want to wear a ShopRite-branded yellow nylon smock over my clothes.

Junior Year (1973–1974)

The forest-green wool crepe dress with cherries

I wore this princess-seamed, short-sleeved dress—one of my Monday favorites—with either green or red pantyhose. I wore a cluster pin of plaster cherries. Although I had made fabric-covered buttons to adorn the front of the dress, I ended up using red ones to create more contrast. I arrived at the school by seven a.m. to work as a student secretary for Herr. I went to his classroom (he had a permanent one now) every day after school, too, to give quizzes, correct papers, put up bulletin boards, help him collate papers for his role as secretary of the local education association. I laid out the mimeographed copies on the desks and set up an assembly line. (Decades later he told me I taught him how to organize.)

The paisley jersey knit dress

Same pattern as the green wool crepe. Self-fabric buttons. Hem way too short. Wore this with orange pantyhose. When I reached up to staple things to Herr’s bulletin board, I could feel the hem of my dress hitting the top of my thighs. I had marked the hem with magic marker, not thinking I’d still be growing, so there was nothing for me to let down. I just let it ride.

The maroon wool crepe dress with floral collar and tie-back sash

Another Monday favorite, Simplicity 5903 with Peter Pan collar and seamed empire construction. I wore a Virgo necklace I bought at Mandee on Kearny Avenue.

The blue-and-white cotton tunic with cobalt-blue pants

Tie-back sashes were the rage. I made this outfit and wore it on the trip to Europe organized and led by Herr. In total, there were about a hundred of us on the chartered Icelandic flight with Anspach Tours. I fell the first day in the ancient Roman ruins in Trier, West Germany, and ripped the pants in the knees. Even with jeans, this tunic became a classic for comfort when bowling on Friday afternoons with the German Club Bowling League. With this outfit I began to wear the heart-shaped locket Herr gave me for Chanukah. I told everyone I bought the necklace at Drug Fair.

Summer (1974)

I bought fabric wherever I went. Sure, I still frequented Lucia’s. She’s just three blocks away and I rode my bike there. My family vacationed in the Catskills, and I bought beige, orange, and plaid double-knit polyester fabrics in Port Jervis. More experimentation to come.

The double-knit polyester “harvest” dress

The colors of fall in the Port Jervis purchases distinguished this long-sleeved, collared dress. Beige for the collar and sleeves, orange for the inlaid vest, and plaid for the skirt. I wore it the first day of my senior year, not a great choice, as it turned out, for such a hot day. But I aimed to impress.

My guidance counselor, a German-Jewish refugee from Nazism, encouraged me to attend Fashion Institute of Technology to become a designer. But, I told myself, I was like a character written by Thomas Mann: too analytical to be that creative. Plus, I couldn’t draw, and all designers drew. I did, however, draw a design, published in early 1969, for comic book fashion model Bunny Ball. Arlene found it first while she was reading the issue in the bathtub. If only the publication could have shown it in the original crayoned silver-and-bronze metallics instead of gray and brown. But let’s be clear: the design earned publication, not any kind of drawing skill, per se.

Green-and-white crepe long dress

For the senior class trip to Downingtown Inn in the Poconos, I made this V-neck, lace-sleeved long dress. I couldn’t get that V quite right. Denise’s mother used the same pattern to make Arlene a dress for prom. She made it in baby-blue polyester knit. I didn’t get to go to the prom. Herr said to me at my locker outside his classroom, “I would take you if I could. You’d look great in a long dress.” (I didn’t understand what he was saying, not really, until thirty years later.)

I wore Arlene’s dress, and her Candies, to the German Club Bowling Banquet and danced the last dance (“Nights in White Satin”) with Herr. By wearing my sister’s dress, her shoes, and my mother’s elbow-length gloves, was I still me? I felt like Barbie, and indeed, I gifted Herr one of those free-moving Barbie doll as a farewell gift. He gave me a key chain, five necklaces, and a pair of earrings.

Blue floral print dress

I made this dress of polyester knit for graduation, although it would be covered by my white graduation gown. It had short sleeves, buttons, a peplum bodice, and a tie-back sash. I don’t think I wore it more than once. Herr kept in his desk drawer a photo of me giving my salutatorian speech.

After High School and College (1979)

As a college graduation gift, my father presented me with a state-of-the-art Singer. Arlene moved five blocks away to her own apartment, and I transformed her bedroom into my sewing room, complete with the Singer, rocking chair, cable television, and a dress form. I made clothes now not only for myself, but also as gifts for family and friends: button-down cotton shirts, velour shirts, monogrammed terrycloth bathrobes, wool suits, a quilted sateen jacket with matching sheath dress trimmed with black braiding. Even a jersey knit dress for my mother. For myself, I branched out into flannel sleepwear, spandex swimwear, and chiffon evening wear. I told myself I was the designer my high school guidance counselor wanted me to be. I took a course at Parsons School of Design in fashion merchandising, but the instructor said I didn’t belong there. He said, “We don’t want or need any Phi Beta Kappas.” I continued to sew, though. I made all my work clothes until I earned my MBA in 1983 and joined the ranks of AT&T at a pay-grade level higher than Arlene. She was not pleased. But with her, I shopped for fine wool business suits and silk and satin blouses. I needed clothes to announce I was an upwardly mobile professional in the high-tech industry. All my homemade outfits made me feel less sophisticated now. Instead of being proud, I grew ashamed of my sophomoric attempts. At the same time, I no longer needed clothes to say I’m not just Twin B.

– Barbara Krasner

Author’s Note: Although I haven’t touched a sewing machine since 1984, I credit the creation of clothing as my conduit for self-expression at a time when I needed it most: my teen years.