Anyone who knows me knows I’m believer in jackets. My entire mood is dependent on which coat I’m wearing for the day. And while I love spending money, and then groveling to my mom for more in my account, I have deciphered a more streamlined way to get more jackets and save some cash: furthering my birthright to take coats from my mom.

I call this method of acquiring goods my god given inheritance. This means that I am allowed to indefinitely borrow cookware, cleaning supplies, toiletries, groceries, and finally, clothing from my mother. Unfortunately, this slightly well meaning method soon turned into an addiction. It began with a few blouses, and a couple pairs of shoes (we were blessed to be the same size). Now, whenever I go home I try on every single jacket (especially the vintage ones) imagining myself as a New York City tycoon with a corner office on the top floor, and no time for small interns who want to float their project by my African blackwood desk.

The coat I most recently received is the nicest one so far. After having my eye on it for years, my mom finally placed it in my good, caring hands, and I’ve got to say, I can really see my future unfolding in this coat. Me, on the hospital gurney with my beautiful baby crowning and my coat wrapped in plastic under my tense, sweat ridden body. Standing at the altar on my wedding day with the perfect ring, dress, hair arrangement, and my lucky coat draped over the train like the colored coating on a peanut M&M.

There are no limits for what I can achieve in it. Why, just the other day I was on the subway (standing, not sitting) and a man brushed by me quite forcefully. Two things happened:

1. I defended myself by making a sharp remark at this man to intimidate him.
2. Unfortunately, I used my British accent to do so (I’m from Harlem) and ended up saying “Oi, mate, watch yourself” instead of, “Excuse me, look where you’re going.”

You may not agree, but I call this a win, and it was all made possible because of my fabulous creamy, tan overcoat. It gave me the strength to speak my mind, and also the British mentality of a posh mom who’s just been bankrupted and forced to take the tube.

In all my travels around the city, my coats save me from male objectification, produce long,lustful stares from those in boring, puffy winter jackets, and help keep my body toasty warm. But for the first time, it brought me a little piece of my mom; a sliver of the woman I someday hope to be.