Women in Clothes

by Sheila Heti

  2 I was born with a stainlike birthmark on my left butt cheek. Since I grew up in the Soviet Union and Gorbachev had a similar one on his head, I was convinced that every citizen of the USSR had one on some part of the body as an anatomical manifestation of being united as a community. My interpretation was backed by the fact that my brother had a stainlike birthmark on the exact same spot, on the exact same butt cheek.

  3 I can move my small toes sideways. I see it as a playful, secret gift. It empowers me and makes me feel special.

  COLLECTION

  KATE RYAN’s tote bags

  SURVEY

  BREASTS

  “I rebel against the idea of pleasing men, but I think lingerie is beautiful, especially on women over fifty.” —ELLEN RODGER

  KRISTINA ANNE GYLLING I’m pretty happy and comfortable with my body. I wish my breasts were bigger so that I could wear dresses that had bust cups or a bustline that accentuates the breasts. When I see women wearing those types of dresses, it embodies a certain part of womanhood that I don’t think I’ll ever experience. I think I’ll feel like I’m trapped in a little girl’s body forever.

  MEGHAN BEAN FLAHERTY I care a great deal about lingerie. Where I fail in clothing, I ace all tests of underlace. I have a pathological desire to match the bra and panties, the silk stockings to the garter belt. Each new piece becomes a character in me—a heroine, an ingenue, a bawd. I keep them in a perfumed box.

  TALITA S. My mum is sort of anti-bra. She wears Lycra tops and says anything else gives breast cancer. I used to wear Lycra tops when I was younger, but I felt embarrassed about it. My lack of decent bras made me feel like less of a woman. So when I moved to London, the first thing I bought was a bra. I went to the shop that makes bras “by appointment to Her Majesty the Queen” and had a fitting, then spent 180 pounds on a bra at Agent Provocateur. It is still the only piece of actual lingerie I own—that bra and the matching panties—and it always gives me a buzz to wear it. If I have to wear old or dirty underwear, I spend the whole day missing a big chunk of my self-confidence.

  ZARA GARDNER Lately I’m very interested when women deliberately present themselves as small-chested by wearing an unpadded bra. I see this as an act of liberation, rejecting how men and society might wish them to look. I’m small-breasted myself and gradually moving toward bras that are about support over cleavage. I feel it’s a sign of growing confidence and strength somehow.

  TAMARA SCHIFF I think smaller breasts would be more conducive to the types of tops I like to wear. I wish I could go braless with certain tops without feeling inappropriate. It’s not my style to dress in a sexy manner, but sometimes I think my boobs, which honestly aren’t even that big, make things a little more va-va-voom than I would like them to be.

  KRISTY HELLER I travel the country with the Renaissance Festival. My circuit takes me from North Carolina to Arizona to Minnesota to Louisiana, and everywhere in between. Every weekend I dress up in “garb” and everything I put on for the shows accentuates the female form; waists are taken in, hips are lush and womanly, breasts are everywhere. When women put on an outfit like this, they can feel this incredible surge of power.

  JUDE STEWART Getting a real bra fitting is no joke when you’re expecting. Those boobs really do swell on you, for a surprisingly long time, and going braless occasionally becomes a thing of the past. I used to wear a 36B and am now a 36C at least. I hate the smoothly robotic-neutral color of most maternity bras, but it’s too much effort to fight that tendency entirely.

  ASHLEY C. FORD My breasts are always bigger than I think. I look fertile. I’m not.

  SZILVIA MOLNAR I have an almost bodily memory of a new sweater I got one Christmas. I was fourteen, and my mother had knitted me a cream-colored sweater that came out a lot tighter than planned. I liked it, but it was the first time I let my quite newly budded breasts get so much recognition. I felt they were exposed to the world for the first time, since the sweater held on to them so tightly. I ended up only wearing that sweater at home during the holidays.

  EMILY BROTMAN In high school, girls with names like Molly and Cate wore sports bras that curved fantastically around their shoulder blades—I could see through their gym shirts when it rained. It made their chests look taut and perky.

  REN JENDER In a cruisey, sexual way, I like women with generous bodies, perhaps because even at my heaviest I’ve never had big hips or breasts.

  BETH FOLLETT If I find a brassiere that suits me, I buy two or three, as it seems almost a Murphy’s Law that bras I really like will become obsolete in two years. I am not a standard bra size and I’ve had trouble finding bras that truly fit. I don’t want to wear my breasts like bullets.

  MIMI CABELL My ex-boyfriend really liked it when I wore a garter belt and stockings, and he would get really turned on, but as he got turned on, I would sort of shrink away into myself. I knew that he was into me in the lingerie, but it was hard. I guess I feel at odds with the way that sexy is portrayed, because the closer I get to how I think I should be presenting myself, the less like myself I feel. I feel like an alien, or not alive, or nothing at all.

  RACHEL WEEKS When I worked at this nonprofit to help garment workers, there was a faction of women there who could not believe we were considering partnering with a manufacturer that was making bras for Victoria’s Secret. I mean, these women were just livid. And I sat there and I thought to myself: Every woman in this room is wearing a bra. And do they have any idea where that bra was made? Like, are all their bras ethically sourced? I doubt it. It’s one of the most complicated garments in the world to make—it has over thirty-five components, and it’s a very complicated piece of apparel with a global sourcing story.

  CARISSA HALSTON I have a very small back and a very large front. How I wish I could buy a $10 or $15 bra from H&M. I can’t even buy a $40 bra from Lane Bryant. Because I’m a 32F, my back is too small to shop in plus-size stores and my cup size is too large to get a bra anywhere else. And if I wear the wrong-size bra, my posture is awful and my clothes fit me like a tarp.

  MARIE MYUNG-OK LEE I don’t enjoy wearing bras. I also think they are bad for your health, so I keep my eye out for clothes that suit this. I’m Asian, so I have small breasts and can get away with this more than women with larger cargo.

  KATHRYN BOREL I never let a button-up shirt bulge around my boobs. You know when that little opening is created between two buttons? Fuck that. To myself I will say, “Suck it up, get a larger size.”

  ROXANE GAY I would get a breast reduction and lift. I want the girls to fly high.

  KATE ZAMBRENO I have a rather large bust but a small frame—the last measurement at a bra fitting was a 32DDD. I have to buy new bras every six months, otherwise I am already on the last hook and everything’s stretched. My bras are like military equipment. It’s a really costly thing I have to do. I know that when my clothes don’t fit then I need to buy new bras.

  JASON BARKER Trying to pass as male with 38DD breasts was quite a challenge, so I wore a tight elasticated binder to keep my boobs strapped to my chest and then a beige fleece vest on top, like a psychological binder on the outside. There’s a photo of me standing outside the pork pie shop in Skipton and the outline of flattened breasts is quite clear, like I’m trying to smuggle two very large pita breads under my clothes. Then, last autumn, I bought myself a padded sleeveless jacket from a shop that sells outdoor gear and I loved the whole shop. The clothes are all presented according to purpose. There are no tricky patterns or designs, nothing to call attention to the wearer in a “Look at me in my new clothes—I think I look great!” sort of way. The huge photos they have of bearded men and laughing women enjoying the outdoors were very appealing—to be free from fashion and free from the pressure to “express myself” through clothing. Truth is, I just want to look like everybody else.

  COLLECTION

  DOROTHY PLATT’s wrap skirts

  ON DRESSING

  STAYING HOME

  ROSE WALDMAN

 
From my closet I pull out a straight black skirt, my go-to on most days. I choose a cream-colored T-shirt to go with it, then the lace blouse I always wear over the T-shirt to hide the fatty bulges on my back. A perfectly good outfit—in Williamsburg, among my fellow Hasidim, that is. But for tonight’s event, I’m feeling doubtful. The outfit seems too overdone. Too formal. The blouse goes back. So does the shirt.

  I try a dark purple T-shirt instead. Now I look somber. Off it goes. I want something summery, light. I’ll be conspicuous enough wearing long sleeves in ninety-degree weather among the halter tops I imagine everyone else will be wearing. I try the cropped white shell with the turquoise cotton sweater. I like it. Maybe this will work.

  Tonight’s event is a reading at a gallery by one of my fiction workshop classmates. When I got the invite, I e-mailed her, I’ll be there. Can’t wait! But in the end, I don’t go. All the shilly-shallying over clothes has been for nothing. As usual, at the last minute I chicken out.

  Some clarifications before I continue:

  When I use the word “T-shirt,” I am talking about the “Hasidic T-shirt,” which is the same thing as a regular T-shirt but the sleeves are longer.

  Cropped shells are also a Hasidic invention. They are long-sleeved T-shirts that end in an elastic below the bust. They’re quite brilliant, actually. We can now buy pretty much any sleeveless top, wear it with a cropped shell, and voilà—instant sleeves!

  After supper, I lie down on the couch with my sudoku and feel a bit guilty. I should be out there supporting my fellow writers, especially this woman, who is one of the loveliest people I know. Here’s how I justify staying home:

  I’m generally not a night person. After six p.m., my body and brain stop cooperating with me. So it’s not really my fault, but my body’s.

  I squeeze a lot into my days. I deserve to relax with a book or a crossword puzzle or sudoku in the evenings.

  It’s really hot and humid out there, and I’m allergic to humidity. It always puts me in a foul mood.

  I have so many obligations in my real life—my Hasidic life—weddings, bar mitzvahs, engagement parties, charity events, and so on, that I cannot get out of attending, that it’s not my fault if I have no energy for these extracurricular experiences.

  These reasons aren’t bad. And they’re also true. But they’re not the real reasons. Or at least, not the only reasons.

  The fact is, I’m self-conscious at these events. In my panty hose, long skirt, long-sleeved top, and wig, I feel like “that girl.” My rational mind tells me that in New York City, where people dye their hair green and wear knee-high boots in the dead heat of summer, my Hasidic wear barely merits a second glance. But like most people, I operate by emotion, not rationality. And my emotional self feels conspicuous and self-conscious.

  These days, when people compete for ever more imaginative ways to make themselves stand out, when all of life is one big exhibition and if it’s not on Facebook and Twitter it’s like it never happened, I suppose many people would enjoy standing out. But that’s because they don’t have to stand out. Standing out is their luxury, not their necessity.

  It bothers me that I didn’t go to the reading. Clothes should not have such power.

  POEM | TEXTILE NAMES I

  Bird

  Doris

  Gossips

  Rooster

  Princess

  Tulip tree

  Les violons

  Spring rain

  Deer season

  White trellis

  Field flowers

  Flower heads

  Scattered pins

  Vegetable patch

  Orange blossom

  Triangles and lines

  Pennies from heaven

  CONVERSATION

  YOUR JEWELRY IS YOUR STOMACH

  NOVELIST KIRAN DESAI SPEAKS TO HEIDI JULAVITS

  HEIDI: You recently mentioned that you’re at a fashion crossroads.

  KIRAN: Yes, but also a life crossroads. I realized that I’ve been doing everything wrong. (laughs)

  HEIDI: Let’s start with clothes and then we can explore the other aspects of your wrongness.

  KIRAN: I grew up in India, so you have to learn a whole new way of doing clothes when you move to the West. Fashions don’t carry over, so if you fly between places you will inevitably look wrong in the country you’re going to. Definitely going to India you look bad if you go in your Western clothes. Everyone comments on how awful you look right away. The sky is different, the street is different, the dust is different—only Indian clothes work.

  HEIDI: So do you have both of those wardrobes?

  KIRAN: No, I don’t. I always look wrong when I go back to India. But then, I feel extremely unhappy in New York, too.

  HEIDI: New York is where I’ve always felt the most wrong. Even when I manage to feel right on occasion, if I see a picture of myself when I felt right, I look horrible to myself.

  KIRAN: I feel ashamed of myself when I feel right in New York, because there’s something wrong with this place. I’m always stunned when I walk into a party and I find all these women are really wearing little high heels, and girls are dressed in tiny clothes that look really horrible in fact, and they’re so miserable in the cold of winter, wearing tiny little high heels in the snow. These women have no pride.

  HEIDI: Many people see saris as being more uniform, if they don’t have an eye for where the differences lie, where personal flair comes in.

  KIRAN: That’s right. It’s in the way you tie them. But also, every tiny community and all the weaving families, they have a code of symbols, and the patterns can be handed down six, seven generations. They’re so complex. The wedding sari will have its own special symbols—it’s this huge code. They’re beautiful. The plants and shells and creatures and birds . . . I miss that, because in America, you don’t have animals all over your clothes. Well, you do sometimes, but I’m not a fan of leopard print.

  HEIDI: Just actual leopards.

  KIRAN: I lament having to give up Indian clothing now that I’m here. It’s one of the most fun things about being an Indian woman. But it’s really time-consuming. All these people manage to have clothes like that because they have servants. With the saris, you wash these great lengths of fabric, then you hang them on huge lines or down your balcony, then you starch them and then someone stands on one end and you stand on the other end and you pull it to make it tight and starchy, and then it’s ironed. So it’s a lot of work.

  HEIDI: I never think of saris as being starched. I think of them as being more flowing.

  KIRAN: Well, the cotton ones are starched. Traditionally they’re dipped in rice water and then starched, so you walk around so stiffly. Then gradually the humidity and sun get to them and they become really crumply.

  HEIDI: They wilt.

  KIRAN: Starched clothes also sound so different. I once interviewed weavers in different parts of India, and they were telling me how important the sound of silk is. If two women are going through a door together, and they rub saris, they should make a kssshh. They complained that cheap Chinese silks are flooding the market. They don’t have the right sound. It should be rustling.

  HEIDI: Instead of that nylon-y, slick sound. Do you have recollections of learning what to wear once you moved to England, then America?

  KIRAN: I remember starting to wear the most basic T-shirts and jeans and being unhappy in them. If you haven’t grown up wearing a lot of jeans, they’re very uncomfortable.

  HEIDI: They have grommets on them. That dig into your body!

  KIRAN: Why did they become so popular? Remember after September 11, when everyone was terrified that anyone who looked strange in New York would summarily shoot something? Well, my aunt has only worn saris her whole life, and her son told her, “You’ve got to try to wear jeans.” So they put her into jeans and she couldn’t sit down. (laughs) I kept saying, “Sit down,” and she’d say, “I can’t!” (laughs)

  HEIDI: So what made your misery come to
a head?

  KIRAN: I don’t know. It was building and building and I realized I’m not . . . anything. I’m not living the life I want. I’m not living according to my ideals of life. I’m just sort of embarrassing myself. One option for me now is to come up with a kind of uniform.

  HEIDI: And you feel that figuring out a uniform is a starting point?

  KIRAN: Well, you have to have some sort of self-respect in the end that doesn’t alter depending on where you go, which place you travel to. Ideally, the uniform would be something I’m happy in, that’s not dull, but also that I could wear all the time.

  HEIDI: Gustav Klimt used to work in a blue caftan. It was a painter’s smock, and it was linen, and almost looked like a monk’s robe.

  KIRAN: With exciting fabric, you could wear that with your long johns in the winter! I feel like when I find the right thing, I’m really going to go for it and stick with it, because it’s taken me until age forty-two to be in this miserable place.

  KIRAN: I’m writing a story right now about these women going to visit the family jewelry in the bank—these precious stones mixed with beads and glass. That was your inheritance, and it mattered a lot, as any Indian woman knows. And the grandmother keeps giving it away to the granddaughters, then reclaiming it because she can’t bear to let it go because . . . it’s like her stomach is missing. I’ve seen it so strongly, the jealousy, greed—having to pass on your jewelry, feeling your jewelry is your stomach, in a way. It’s that much the center of your life—your saris, your jewels. There are women in my family—their eyes, their entire expression changes as soon as they’re in front of a sari or old jewels they’ve handed down. Something really old comes up. I remember my grandmother had these jewels, and whenever she had to give one away, she felt like an organ was missing.