The pre-amble to this story is here. I recommend you read it first for a little backstory.

There were many things which were enjoyable and new about India, but one of my most treasured memories is Operation: Saree. You’re probably laughing and doing a double-take if you’ve been reading about this little adventure at all. Even if you haven’t and you know me, I’m sure there is a level of “yeah right” going through your mind.

I’ve been thinking about this post since 5/8, when I went shopping with my friends Sophia and Milu for the accessories. In my heart I knew there would be a story to tell. Whether it was an embarrassing one, where I ended up half-naked because I caught it on something or another more poignant conclusion, I had no idea. I just knew there would be something worth repeating.

As you might remember from my initial post, the first attempt at fitting me in a saree was a miserable experience, on a few levels. Despite my short stature, I am built like a football player in comparison to the many lovely ladies in Bangalore. I have upper arm muscle, broader shoulders. The blouse often worn with a saree just didn’t come close to fitting even after the stitching was loosened. It made me feel fat and unattractive despite the fact that this event was supposed to instill the opposite. It didn’t help that this was witnessed by roughly 3/4′s of the women in the office. After the failure to fit, I declared NO MORE. STICK A FORK IN THIS TOMBOY, SHE’S DONE. Shamala knew I was not about to submit to another attempt. Why was I so resistant?

It’s rooted in a lot of things, some of which are about control and perception. When I was little, my mom would take me shopping for clothes and pick out the usual girlie attire. I would acquiesce to whatever she wanted to buy, even though I hated it. Then, once it was time to wear the items, I’d refuse. I don’t think we repeated this cycle too many times before she figured out I wasn’t going to dress like your typical girl. Later, I was a very androgynous kid and was mistaken for a boy all the time- a fact I was secretly proud of. Who wanted to be a weak, pink-wearing girl when they could be a rough-and-tumble boy who climbed trees and played with G.I. Joe?

Of course, the social expectations for conformity turned into a pressure cooker by the time the teen years hit. I remember the misery I felt when it seemed like I had no choice but to girl it up; the alternative was more merciless teasing if I didn’t. I permed my hair, wore fewer boyish clothes, and just gritted my teeth. There were many moments of humiliation and embarrassment and feeling like I was an impostor. I’d look around me, and all the other girls looked natural and comfortable and didn’t seem a whit out of place. I, on the other hand, looked like a teenage drag queen. Probably one of the most awful moments regarding the whole dress-like-a-girl issue occurred when I was 14. My grandfather died very unexpectedly, and we traveled to Indiana for the funeral.

At some point my mom and I had to pick out something for me to wear. I don’t recall the exact shopping experience to a t but I do remember feeling it was a compromise. It was a skirt/top set that was a red & black tartan. It wasn’t as hideous as some of the other selections. And considering the circumstances, I wasn’t going to back out of wearing it. When it came time to get dressed, I didn’t think twice about why or how I would be perceived… but I was quickly reminded yet again why I loathed wearing anything feminine.

I walked out into the living room, where my family was gathered, and instantly felt under the microscope- everyone turned to look. My Dad, never one to miss an opportunity to tease, said very loudly:

“Wow, your legs DO go all the way up!”

My stomach clenched and I wanted to run back to my room, but the embarrassment rooted me to the spot. I felt myself turn red and my eyes water. My aunt, seeing my discomfort, slapped my Dad on the arm and admonished him. This seemed to free up everyone’s focus and they turned back to their conversations or TV. I spent the rest of the day wondering how many times someone would make a crack. And I dared any of my cousins -all boys- to even think about teasing me. I threatened to beat them up- and I would have.

This kind of moment repeated itself, and I endured a lot of teasing. Around the same time I had my first experience with gym class- that lovely moment in time when every awkward, hormonal, angst-ridden kid suddenly is forced to shower with all other boys or girls and tolerate the side-long examinations of other kids. Fun… if you like torture. That time absolutely was a watershed for me; not only did I not look or act like any of the other girls, I found myself unable to deny anymore that I liked them… that way. And here I was surrounded by a roomful of naked girls every day. Could it get any worse? Every day I felt like everyone knew I was weird and gay and was going to gang up on me. And that’s exactly what happened.

I don’t know if this trio of girls knew I was gay, subconsciously sensed it, or what. But they went out of their way to terrorize me. And the gym teacher? Couldn’t have cared less. She blew me off and essentially told me I was hallucinating. Meanwhile, the taunts and physical intimidation continued. All three were a good bit bigger than me, and even though I had a weapon on my side -martial arts- I was not confident I could fend off all three at once.

But the worst of their attention was always the comments on my appearance, how I walked, the way I played sports (too much like a boy, they said). It was unrelenting. And everyone else got to hear their taunts. I don’t know what they thought, but most of them were too chicken to say anything. Eventually, they caused enough trouble that they were removed from the class and reassigned to different times to keep them from turning into a mini-gang each morning. But not until months of them cornering and harassing me (and others) had happened. It took us nearly coming to blows when the ringleader laid hands on me for the administration to act.

This is but one example but there are many throughout my childhood of the BS I put up with. Add to that the well-meaning but misguided comments from friends and relatives telling me I should dress more feminine and it’s a wonder I didn’t lose my mind.

Hopefully all of that exposition gives you a better idea of my evolution and why I resist, to this day, too much emphasis on femming up my clothes and look. It’s not me, never was, and never will be. That said, my body has changed considerably since I was a boyish 14 year old. I also mentally and emotionally can appreciate my body in a way I never could at that age. Still, I will never be a daily make-up kind of woman. And I am ok with saying and asserting that.

I knew going to India was going to test me in this area; culturally, there is a great deal more bias toward emphasizing the feminine and in order to not stand out like a sore thumb, I was going to have to compromise a little. I bought several women’s blouses and capri pants to wear to the office. I didn’t bring any make up, but I brought plenty of jewelry. And I also knew there would be pressure to wear a saree, since my pal ~A~ and others who had gone before me had, as well. That last thought chilled me a little, but I decided I’d worry about it if the time came.

Being in India was, of course, a daily experience of standing out. Of all the Westerners I saw, none of them were blond or as fair as me. Everywhere I went I garnered stares, mostly from men. I managed to ignore this for the most part. Even though I never get that sort of attention at home, it just didn’t faze me. What bothered me more was being surrounded by an office full of curvy, unbelievably beautiful women in their colorful outfits and very feminine ways. I felt grossly out of place and envied them, to a degree. I envied the ease with which they moved and interacted- it’s as if they’re never self-conscious of their beauty and they’re exceedingly comfortable with their appearance. I know that’s probably a terrible generalization, but it’s how it seemed on the surface.

I dreaded, a little, the thought of shopping with my newfound friends. I knew they would want to quiz me about what I like to wear, what kind of jewelry I liked, etc. And though there was some of that, I never felt quite as on the spot as I might have. They enjoyed listening to my explanations and seeing what I picked out, and I loved their company. I will always remember fondly the times I went out with them. I never have done that with women here in the US, really.

In early April my ability go with the flow was tested by the original saree incident. The sheer number of people involved -again, all paragons of femininity with years of expertise in dressing lovely- was too much. And the fact that I was too big to fit the blouse was just mortifying. I hadn’t wanted to run and hide that badly in a long time. By the time it was apparent that the saree was a no-go, I was resolute in my unwillingness to try again. It was Shamala who suggested the salwar kameeze; eager to salvage something to make the girls happy, I agreed to shop for one.

That was a breeze, really. I found one I liked immediately and bought it. No time table was set to wear it and I was able to shelve my discomfort again, to some degree. Still, reminders were all around -at the office, on the street, virtually everywhere- that I did not fit in. It was a strange revisiting of the old frustrations I experienced as a kid. And yet, I didn’t betray these thoughts much. I was able to distance myself and view it all pretty intellectually.

And then a funny thing happened in the office my last week.

Sophia came in to the office Wednesday with a plastic bag. She smiled at me, I smiled back. I read just a hint of mischievousness and inquisitiveness in her eyes.

“What’s that?” I asked, pointing at the bag. Another smile, but no immediate reply. I was pretty sure I knew. Sophia’s face is often an open book to me.

I walked over to her desk, and she she said “I was thinking… would you be interested in trying these on?” I looked in the bag, and saw green, red, and orangish-yellow fabric.

“Sarees,” I said. Sophia nodded.

“These are yours?”

“Yes.”

I thought about it for a moment, looked into her eyes. I sensed that this was truly meaningful to her. The look in her deep brown eyes pulled at my heart, and I shoved aside my insecurities.

“Ok,” I said. “I will do it- for you.” Sophia smiled and I could tell that my agreement touched her deeply. But I wasn’t done yet.

“On one condition- no one else is involved. Just you.” She cocked her head to the side and studied me for a moment, and then nodded once. I was able to breathe a sigh of relief.

Stay tuned for part 2…

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