Let Me Guess. You Don’t Like My Clothes.
The tale of a nonconformist
When I was a little girl, my family were regular visitors to the airport. My father often traveled for his job, and we would drive with him to SeaTac International, then — this was long before 9–11 — wait with him until he boarded his plane.
Airports are like DMV offices. Every part of society comes together to access a necessary service, and a city’s diversity is on display. During that time — the early 1970s — the U.S. was experiencing a cultural shift. Along with white suburban families like ours — my mother with her stiffly coifed hair, my father with his short hair and suit — there were old people in wheelchairs, soldiers heading to war, people of different races, different nationalities.
And then there were the hippies, with their strange clothes and sandals, their untamed hair and counterculture vibe.
Oh, how my father hated this group! When he saw a man with long hair, torn jeans, a tie-dye shirt, he would stand stiffly, cross his arms on his chest, and stare straight at him, eyes unblinking, expression fierce.
These men had never done anything to my father, yet he was making them know, in a very public way, that their refusal to conform was not OK. He wanted them to feel challenged, exposed, uncomfortable. His behavior was so obvious, so aggressive, that I would find myself cringing and wishing for it to stop.
Conformity
Fitting in. Toeing the line. Playing the game.
We’ve heard a lot on the subject lately, though no one is using those terms. Instead, we hear about “morality,” “traditional values,” “only two genders.” The threats and insults — even laws — are aimed at members of society who haven’t adequately assimilated, who are listening to their own hearts instead of marching to conservative standards.
Whenever I hear somebody rant, spittle spraying, about a person who is not them looking or living in a way that they don’t like, I see my father in that airport, staring hate at a stranger with long hair.
My struggle for myself
I’m one of those for whom conformity has never come easily. I grew up with a critical older sister, so I understood from an early age that my taste in clothing was wrong. I knew, too, that I read too much, that I was too introverted, that I was too straitlaced and boring. (As an adult, I’m too godless and strange.)
When puberty hit, I tried like a sonuvabitch to fit in. Though I succeeded in being mostly invisible, my clothing and hair still embarrassed my sister.
And I still read too much.
By the time I reached high school, my mother’s mental health had tanked. She craved control, and I was an easy target. She policed every aspect of my life, restricting my reading, my bathing, my spending, my social life — selecting my hairstyle, my interests, my clothes.
Between the ages of 14 and 18, I dressed like my mother, in outfits she chose — polyester pants, conservative tops, navy blue and brown.
At 18 I left home, and was finally free to wear what I wished — brighter colors, younger styles. I let my hair grow and pierced my ears. But I still couldn’t shake the feeling that others were watching me, judging me.
Around this time I had a rare, frank conversation with my mother. I explained that I’d become fixated on how others saw me. I constantly wondered whether my clothes were right, my hair was perfect, if others approved. I was obsessed with conformity, and it was causing me pain.
My mother’s response?
“But see the results? You look so good!”
I thought I might die.
An oddball breaks free
But I didn’t stay there. The farther behind I left my childhood, the more I returned to myself. I began to write. I discarded the religion of my youth. I found art and music and books that spoke to me, humans who inspired me.
I started to dress for myself.
It was, I suppose, a little weird — at least for my neighborhood. Men’s frayed shorts over embroidered long johns, crop tops beneath denim vests. Clunky boots and moth-eaten sweaters. Black and army green.
I’m smiling as I write this. I loved those ensembles. Some of my favorite pieces, worn to rags, are still folded reverently in a dresser drawer. To me, the outfits made sense. To me, they were beautiful.
Most important of all, I felt like myself in them.
Lately, in my older age, I’ve shifted from men’s shorts to oversized overalls. Boots have become Mary Janes. This outfit seems to disarm strangers, and often I get a smile. The truth is, most of those I’ve encountered in life have been tolerant of my appearance — forgiving, if not genuinely indifferent.
And those who love me — really love me — accept me for just who I am.
My jingle-bell ankle bracelet helped my young children keep track of me in grocery stores. The bells warned them of my approach when they stole a cookie off the counter.
My long hair with its longer, beaded braid has been a plaything for my granddaughters, who sometimes wear their hair in a “grandma braid,” and who painstakingly select my beads when we’re together.
Mixed reviews of me
Of course, not all of my critics have been kind. There have been some, through the years, who have sneered at me, or tried to embarrass me, or shunned me. Others have called me rebellious, peculiar — and, yes, even a hippie. I’ve been accused of dressing to draw attention to myself, of using my appearance to provoke a reaction.
Perhaps predictably, a lot of this pushback has come from my relations. One cousin stopped speaking to me after I got my navel pierced. My father, after failing to rein me in with his rage, nicknamed me “rainbow” — his way, I suppose, of staring me down over the physical and emotional distance that separated us.
Then there was my sister — my earliest, harshest critic. Before our perhaps-inevitable estrangement, she related a conversation in which her friend, citing someone else’s unusual appearance, had explained that nonconformists pose a danger to society.
“If they’ll flaunt convention with their clothes, who knows what other rules they’ll ignore?”
So, am I a dangerous character in overalls and an ankle bracelet?
The way I see it, those concerned with how I present myself have completely missed the point. My self-adornment has never been about them. It isn’t a fad, a statement, a sign of instability, or an effort to self-brand.
I’m not trying to please or upset anyone.
I’m simply being myself.
I hear you, but I choose me
Standing where those airport hippies stood — it’s not fun. How wonderful it would be if the way I wished to present myself aligned with what everyone else wished to see.
But faced with a choice — my own desires and those of others — I’ve had to choose me. My self-esteem plummets when I dress for others. My sense of self suffers when I alter who I am in order to appease strangers.
I want approval, but I need to be myself. I think so many others are dealing with that, as well, whether it’s about gender or sexuality, religion or race, clothing or body image.
We’re not trying to get a rise from you. We’re not looking for attention. We just want to be comfortable in our own skin.
We’ll grant you the same right, yourself.
