Why Is Everyone So Obsessed with My Clothes?
Let me dress in peace
On the 23rd of September 2023, everyone in my family had a heart attack. We buried my grandmother that day, yet it was not the cause of the collective cardiac arrest. No. Something far darker, far sinister, stirred such strong emotions in my family.
And what could that possibly be?
Well…
I wore a dress for the first time in eight years.
You probably think I’m being dramatic. My grandmother died. Why the fuck am I talking about a dress? Well, first of all, my grandmother was a hundred years old. She lived a long full life, and her funeral was more of a celebration than a mourning. That doesn’t mean we weren’t saddened by her passing. But come on now, the woman was a hundred years old.
Me in a dress though? That’s a once-a-blue-moon kind of shit. My family thought they were going blind or something when they saw me.
A week before the funeral, my cousin stared at me like a rare alien species when I told her to sew a dress for me.
“Torshie, are you sure you don’t want a shirt or a Kaftan?” she asked me, visibly traumatized.
Per tradition, our family had to buy a specific fabric so we could sew it into whatever style we wanted. The women would wear kaba and slit or dresses and the men wore long-sleeved or short-sleeved shirts and trousers.
Everyone expected me to wear the latter because that was my usual style.
But I told my cousin I wanted a dress instead. She couldn’t believe her ears.
You see, I had done my calculation perfectly. My cousin specialized in women’s clothing, and she wouldn’t charge me a thing if she made my dress. If I wanted a shirt or Kaftan or anything I would feel most confident in, I had to patronize a different tailor. There was no way in hell I was paying for that, especially when I was saving up money for something else. So yes, I had to wear that damn dress even if I hated it with every fiber of my being.
It was a sacrifice I was willing to make.
Besides, my family’s dramatic reaction made it worth every second.
The morning of the funeral, while dressing up, my reflection grinned back at me like an idiot.
When my ten-year-old niece saw me in my white dress, her jaws hit the floor.
“Auntie Torshie,” she said, eyes wide, “I’ve never seen you in a dress.”
“Yes o,” I told her. “I’m just as surprised as you are.” We both laughed.
My other niece, also a ten-year-old, and the more mischievous of the two, exploded into hysterical laughter as soon as she saw me in my white dress. She wouldn’t stop laughing. And that also got me laughing. And then there was more laughter. We were like two wolves, howling in hysteria.
This girl was making fun of me, and I wasn’t even mad.
After anyone got over the sheer shock, their next sentence was along the lines of:
“You look so good in a dress. Why don’t you wear it often?”
Um… no.
I may look good in them, but I don’t feel good. When my cousin asked me what style I wanted, I purposely chose the simplest, blandest style out there, just so I could feel comfortable and not adjust anything every two seconds.
I guess that was too much to ask. Every passing minute reminded me of why I hated dresses so much. It was excruciating.
My family, of course, didn’t know that. Or they didn’t care.
My biological mother, who often nagged me about my androgynous style, couldn’t contain her happiness. She practically begged me to ditch all my other ‘manly’ clothes and keep wearing dresses.
Her brother insisted that when I got married, I would have to give up on those manly clothes. So I might as well start learning now.
I don’t know what they mean by manly clothes.
I’m a woman. Any clothes I wear are women’s clothes. Period.
“Marriage? Husband?” I laughed. “I have more important things to think about.”
“So you don’t want a husband?” my uncle asked.
“What I want,” I said, tired of the conversation already, “is financial freedom.”
A husband? Please… I’m not even looking for a wife. And I’m fucking gay.
The last time I wore a dress was in 2015, during my father’s first anniversary. I did it because it was tradition, and I didn’t want to argue. So I wore the damn dress.
Ironically, my father wouldn’t have cared if I wore a pair of trousers and a shirt to his funeral or anniversary. This was the same man who actively supported my choice of clothes. Hell, he bought me all my T-shirts and shorts and jeans, never once complaining about how ‘unladylike’ I was.
By the time I was a teenager, the only girly clothes I had were church clothes. And when I stopped going to church at fifteen, I hardly wore them again, except on very special occasions (like funerals… they’re a big deal here).
I’ve always disliked dresses and skirts, but my hatred for them solidified the day I suddenly stirred awake to the sight of a distant male relative lifting my skirt, ready to force himself on me. I was only ten years old at the time, and it took me way until my mid-twenties to realize how narrowly I had escaped rape. I still haven’t found the strength to write about this.
Growing up, I got teased a lot for my androgynous style. A man in my town used to call me ‘Ojenuu,’ which means ‘you look like a male.’
So I came up with the clapback, Ojeyoo — you look like a female. Witty, I know, especially given how incredibly muscular that guy was. Look, I was like eleven or twelve, okay? Don’t judge me.
During French class in junior high school, I became the object of ridicule when our reading topic was on clothes. It was a very gendered topic about how different clothes were for different sexes. As one who didn’t conform to my gender, my class teacher told my French teacher how I never wore dresses or skirts to Saturday Classes. I always wore boy’s clothes, he said, always acting like a boy.
I don’t remember my French teacher’s reaction, but I do remember how ashamed I felt at the time, like I had done something wrong, something shameful.
I would be lying if I said all the mockery I endured as a tomboy didn’t get to me. I even tried to be more girly in my teen years.
Skirts, dresses, tight shorts, crop tops. I tried them all. Yeah, it wasn’t fun.
Other than the sheer discomfort I felt when I put them on, I also abhorred all the catcalling and unwanted attention I got from men. Dude, I was only a teenager. Who the fuck were these grown-ass men?
I got tired of all the shit.
I would rather be ridiculed for wearing the clothes I wanted, than get lecherous attention from men while wearing clothes I hated. So yes, I stuck with my usual style.
It took a while, but eventually, I learned to love myself and stop caring what people thought of me. Slowly, I felt more comfortable in my skin, fully embracing myself.
Today, I couldn’t care less what anyone says. But something interesting happened as I got older, owning my style and not giving a fuck.
I’ve been told I have a resting bitch face and the physique of a woman in the military. AKA, you don’t fuck with me. Yet, some people still approach me to compliment my clothes. People are so brave.
Men don’t catcall me, thank god. When they have something to say, they walk up to me to have a conversation… and they’re always respectful about it. *gasp*
In the central business district of Ghana, it’s very common for traders and vendors to swarm you, hoping you’ll buy something from them. The very opposite happens to me. When I approach, everyone disperses, keeping their distance. I think it’s a combination of my clothes, dreadlocks, sunglasses, and resting bitch face.
The more I write this, the weirder I feel, like I’m bragging about my looks or something. But that’s the thing. I’m not even special-looking. And I’m the least fashionable person you’ll ever meet. I wear the most mundane clothes. Nothing fancy. Not meant for the runway or some shit like that.
However, I get attention regardless because when you see me for the first time, you’ll be forced to take another look. I don’t often go out, but when I do, it happens all the time.
I see the gears turning in people’s eyes, wondering if I’m male or female. I have been called Sir or Gentleman so many times, it genuinely shocks me when someone calls me ‘Madam’ or ‘Lady’ on their first try.
If pronouns were gendered in my language, I would be misgendered every damn time, I swear.
Throughout my teen years and early twenties, the one question random people kept asking me as soon as they saw me was, “Are you a sports girl?”
I don’t get this question anymore, because you know, resting bitch face. But back then, it was insane.
During a job interview in 2022 that ended in a disaster — because I was nonreligious, and the interviewer was a Christian fanatic — the interviewer even admitted that he was impressed by how well-dressed I was. It shocked me, to be honest. Seeing how he was one of those religious folks who shoved their beliefs down your throat, it surprised me that he even liked the ‘manly’ clothes I wore.
It’s not lost on me though that people appreciate it when I dress the way I do as a woman but would completely lose their shit if a man dressed more girly. I suspect it has to do with the demonization of all things ‘feminine’ and the elevation of all things ‘masculine.’
While I was mildly teased as a tomboy, my younger brother was hostilely ripped to shreds and called all kinds of unsavory names for being feminine. Unlike me who was encouraged by my dad to wear whatever I wanted, the same couldn’t be said about my little brother. So yeah, there’s a double standard in this world of patriarchy.
While people assumed I was just a sports girl, I’m certain they would have assumed my brother was gay and vilified him for it. Fortunately (is it though?), he was really young and eventually grew out of it, although he still has tiny traces of flamboyance in his mannerisms. But he’s very comfortable in his skin, fully embracing his feminine and masculine sides, and living his best life, as he should.
But of course, not everyone admires the way I dress. Some people correctly assume my sexuality, automatically hating me for it. Whatever.
Some people also think it’s a sin for a woman to wear men’s clothes. So they assume I’m immoral or some shit like that. Again… whatever.
Either way, I don’t dress for people; I dress for myself.
Life is too short to be worrying about whether people like you or not.
Be you. Be free.
Torshie Torto writes fiction, creative nonfiction, and everything in between. If you love her work and want to support it, buy her a coffee and subscribe to her newsletter.
