clothes. But I am still Tara Westover. I have done jobs no Cambridge
student would do. Dress us any way you like, we are not the same.
Clothes could not fix what was wrong with me. Something had rotted
on the inside, and the stench was too powerful, the core too rancid, to
be covered up by mere dressings.
Whether Dr. Kerry suspected any part of this, I’m not sure. But he
understood that I had fixated on clothes as the symbol of why I didn’t,
and couldn’t, belong. It was the last thing he said to me before he
walked away, leaving me rooted, astonished, beside that grand chapel.
“The most powerful determinant of who you are is inside you,” he
said. “Professor Steinberg says this is Pygmalion. Think of the story,
Tara.” He paused, his eyes fierce, his voice piercing. “She was just a
cockney in a nice dress. Until she believed in herself. Then it didn’t
matter what dress she wore.”