WHY CAN’T A SMAR T WOMA N LOVE FASHION?
Mix
with Ayodeji Rotinwa
W hy indeed! Seems this is an age-old question, one Nigerian treasure and literary export Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie explores in an article-cum-story (as is her quintessential way of communicating) for ELLE magazine, also published on ELLE.com. I have always thought for the longest time that Adichie is and continues, apparently irreversibly, to be a walking, breathing argument against the perception of what an author/intellectual woman should look like, should dress.
Her sartorial choices are not ethnic/tribal/traditional (depending on what you care to call it) by default, she wears and I daresay impeccably so, make-up with all the bells and whistles. (Yes, lips, cheeks, eyes all done) While she wears her hair natural, a more political than aesthetic choice arguably, she is overall a very stylish woman. The average African female author or smart, bookish woman is not.
The latter is usually taken more seriously in the court of public opinion as if a woman who would care about make-up, hair and being fashionably outfitted cannot possibly, at the same time be knowledgeable about current affairs, politics, literature, art and have well-founded opinions on same.
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, author of three bestselling, award-winning books, recipient of PEN, O. Henry, Orange, Commonwealth Writers’ Prizes, as well as a MacArthur ‘genius’ grant worth $500,000, (awarded to persons across all disciplines who show “exceptional merit and promise of continued creative work”) AND beautiful, impeccably groomed and fashionable woman makes her case:
“…When I left home to attend university in America, the insistent casualness of dress alarmed me. I was used to a casualness with care—T-shirts ironed crisp, jeans altered for the best fit—but it seemed that these students had rolled out of bed in their pajamas and come straight to class. Summer shorts were so short they seemed like underwear, and how, I wondered, could people wear rubber flip-flops to school? Still, I realized quickly that some outfits I might have casually worn on a Nigerian university campus would simply be impossible now. I made slight amendments to accommodate my new American life. A lover of dresses and skirts, I began to wear more jeans. I walked more often in America, so I wore fewer high heels, but always made sure my flats were feminine. I refused to wear sneakers outside a gym. Once, an American friend told me, “You’re overdressed.” In my short-sleeve top, cotton trousers, and high wedge sandals, I did see her point, especially for an undergraduate class. But I was not uncomfortable. I felt like myself.
My writing life changed that. Short stories I had been working on for years were finally receiving nice, handwritten rejection notes. This was progress of sorts. Once, at a workshop, I sat with other unpublished writers, silently nursing our hopes and watching the faculty— published writers who seemed to float in their accomplishment. A fellow aspiring writer said of one faculty member, “Look at that dress and makeup! You can’t take her seriously.” I thought the woman looked attractive, and I admired the grace with which she walked in her heels. But I found myself quickly agreeing. Yes, indeed, one could not take this author of three novels seriously, because she wore a pretty dress and two shades of eye shadow. I had learned a lesson about Western culture: Women who wanted to be taken seriously were supposed to substantiate their seriousness with a studied indifference to appearance. For serious women writers in particular, it was better not to dress well at all, and if you did, then it was best to pretend that you had not put much thought into it. If you spoke of fashion, it had to be either with apology or with the slightest of sneers. The further your choices were from the mainstream, the better. The only circumstance under which caring about clothes was acceptable was when making a statement, creating an image of some sort to be edgy, eclectic, counterculture. It could not merely be about taking pleasure in clothes.
A good publisher had bought my novel. I was 26 years old. I was eager to be taken seriously. And so began my years of pretense. I hid my high heels. I told myself that orange, flattering to my skin tone, was too loud. That my large earrings were too much. I wore clothes I would ordinarily consider uninteresting, nothing too bright or too fitted or too unusual. I made choices thinking only about this: How should a serious woman writer be? I didn’t want to look as if I tried too hard. I also wanted to look older. Young and female seemed to me a bad combination for being taken seriously. Once, I brought a pair of high heels to a literary event but left them in my suitcase and wore flats instead. An old friend said, “Wear what you want to; it’s your work that matters.” But he was a man, and I thought that was easy for him to say. Intellectually, I agreed with him. I would have said the same thing to someone else. But it took years before I truly began to believe this.
I am now 36 years old. During my most recent book tour, I wore, for the first time, clothes that made me happy. My favourite outfit was a pair of Ankara-print shorts, a damask top, and yellow high-heel shoes. Perhaps it is the confidence that comes with being older. Perhaps it is the good fortune of being published and read seriously, but I no longer pretend not to care about clothes. Because I do care. I love embroidery and texture. I love lace and full skirts and cinched waists. I love black, and I love colour. I love heels, and I love flats. I love exquisite detailing. I love shorts and long maxi dresses and feminine jackets with puffy sleeves. I love coloured trousers. I love shopping. I love my two wonderful tailors in Nigeria, who often give me suggestions and with whom I exchange sketches. I admire well-dressed women and often make a point to tell them so. Just because. I dress now thinking of what I like, what I think fits and flatters, what puts me in a good mood. I feel again myself—an idea that is no less true for being a bit hackneyed.
I like to think of this, a little fancifully, as going back to my roots. I grew up, after all, in a world in which a woman’s seriousness was not incompatible with an interest in appearance; if anything, an interest in appearance was expected of women who wanted to be taken seriously…”