The Audience and the Outfit

"Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it’s all a male fantasy: that you’re strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren’t catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you’re unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur." - Margaret Atwood, The Robber Bride, 1993

The weather was perfect when I moved to New York for school last September. Not so hot that I worried about sweating in my favorite clothes, and not so cold that I had to dress in itchy wool and cover up with a coat. 

I could wear whatever I wanted. 

The colors of the trees were perfect – crimson and pumpkin. Every shade of boots I owned seemed to match. Coming from California, I had never experienced a true fall before, and I was in awe of the city. 

Before coming to New York University, I spent the last 6 years of my life in a suburban town in Los Angeles County. Most of the population were either college students or senior citizens, and the only comments I got about what I wore were from sweet old ladies recognizing my vintage clothes. 

In Claremont, the wilder the outfits, the better. The glances I got from older couples would fuel me, telling me I was doing everything right. I would trade compliments with young college students, excited to walk through our downtown area in a flashy outfit. I have always loved to dress up; for everyone, for no one, for myself. For me, it’s a way to show exactly who I am. I was ecstatic about moving to a city where self-expression was so prominent. 

September steadily passed, as friendships and experiences stacked on top of one another. As the days shortened I squeezed them dry, hoping to wring out as many outfits from the mild sunshine as I could before I was forced to retire them. 

On a breezy day in late September, I wore a vintage white dress I had thrifted in Sweden. It had a low waist, buttons up the front, and loose pleats at the bottom. I rushed down the street over to Cantor, running late.

 I locked eyes with a man, and I could feel it coming before he even said it. 

“Put a bra on, Jesus, lady,” he spat about 2 feet from my face, “You’re distracting the guys… and the girls.” His eyes were angry. Angry that I would wear such a thing and think it was harmless. 

I blinked, the disbelief coming in first, then the anger, then the shame, settling in slow waves over me. I put my head down and crossed my arms over my chest, hurrying past him.  Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, I told myself. He yelled something again, but I was out of earshot, and I raised my right hand tall and flipped him off. I still wish I hadn’t given him the attention he wanted.

These incidents continued, as they have done and will continue to. Friends would share stories of men masturbating in the park while staring at their faces. Men yelling at them, following them, watching them. Backhanded compliments and whistles whipping through the air, stinging like a slap. It was the same story every time; I would keep my eyes down, blinking slowly, trying not to give them the attention they wanted, trying to maintain any sense of dignity.

“There she goes,” they would laugh, “Hi pretty. Nice dress.” 

 “I exist behind what you see!” I would itch to shout.

 “I’m here! I’m under here! I’m under all of this!”

I started to leave my flashy clothes untouched in my small dorm closet, the hangers morphing together into one big scary mass of fabric. It felt like I was asking for it, grasping for attention if I wore something particularly bright or short. My mindset started to shift in a way I didn’t like; everything I wore began to feel performative.

The comments decreased as the weather got colder. I, like many women, covered up with big coats that seemed to shield us from both the weather and wayward remarks. I started to wear my long black puffer as a form of protection. It felt like no one could see me, and if they couldn’t see me, they couldn’t say anything. I would shove my hands in my pockets when walking by a group of middle-aged men, my heartbeat rising with an uncomfortable pinch in my chest. Sometimes I would put my hood on, hoping they ignored me. I would imagine a bubble around my body, which nothing could burst, not even their words. 

I was sick for most of the second semester last year, the cold weather adding to my frustration. I was homesick and anxious, I had a broken heart, and the thought of going outside dressed up would send me over the edge. I couldn’t be seen like that, not without feeling like a fake. I stopped wearing mascara and bright lipstick, anything that would make me feel “done up.”

If that was all they saw, then that was all I was. 

Coming back from a late night on the subway, a man grabbed my arm and squeezed it in passing. My bubble was broken, and my eyes squinted as I wiped my hand on my dress. 

I tried not to be sensitive and often reminded myself that this was the reality of living in a big city. The glances, the words, those who didn’t technically do anything. It could be worse, I remind myself every time. Oftentimes, men would comment on my “babyface,” saying I looked particularly young, even though it was clear from my bookbag that I was a college student. 

I hated it. I hated it all. I hated the attention and the power plays disguised as compliments. I hated how the intimidation always worked a little bit.

In March, I bought a new dress at the Chelsea Flea Market and it was perfect. Salvaged from the early 90s, black and flowy, ending mid-thigh. I kept it on a hanger by my door for a month. It watched me, tormenting me, waiting to be worn. 

I couldn’t bring myself to wear it outside.

If there’s automatically an audience, wherever you go, whatever you wear, and whatever you do, you are forced into a performance. You have to dance, you have to keep moving. The audience claps when they see something they like, and boos when they see something they don’t. They hate it when you perform, they hate it when you don’t, and they think every act is for them. 

Finally, the weather got warm again and the fog over my head seemed to clear a bit. My heart mended itself, and my homesickness ebbed. The sun was an old friend I missed dearly, and it was nice to have it back.  

I hesitantly put back on my vintage skirts and my crop tops. Once again, I could wear the dresses that sat untouched in my closet for so long, but still, I was cautious. Every time I put on an outfit, I would anticipate the comments. I would look through their eyes, imagining what they would see. Did I like this version of me? 

Most times, I did not, and I would strip and redress in something plainer and less form-fitting.

In mid-April, I stood in line at a food truck with the five-year-old and seven-year-old I babysit. I wore a pair of ugly checkered shorts that went to my knees. I didn’t look “sexy.”

A young man came up to me. 

About 7 inches from my face, he whispered, “Pretty, pretty lady. How old is this pretty lady?”

 I held onto the kids tight and turned my head away, his breath invading my space, my skin crawling. He reached for my wallet to look at my ID, but I grabbed the kids and swiftly walked away. Once again the bubble I so carefully crafted around myself had burst.

I felt like I had lost a vital piece of myself.

Who was I without the clothes I liked to wear? Who was I with the clothes? Who did they see? I held on to the fact that I would be moving home soon, back to Claremont, back to my sweet small town with senior couples and empty streets

I stand in line at Trader Joe's the week before my flight back home, one earbud in, flowers and cookie butter and juice in my cart. I’m wearing a simple outfit; a tank top and some jeans. No makeup, no jewelry.

An older man comes up to the woman in front of me.

“Excuse me, Miss, you’re very beautiful,” he says, half smiling, half rushed.

“Thank you,” she says, a bit too late. He has already run to the front of the store, leaving swiftly. I look at her, and she grimaces back as if we both don’t quite know what to do.

 She takes out her phone and clicks on the camera app. She analyzes her face and puts on more lipstick. I see her bubble glimmer around her. 

I smile to myself, and I dig for my red lipstick, long untouched, sitting at the bottom of my bag.

I like being a woman. I like wearing what I do, and I wouldn’t switch places with a man if I were given the choice. I’m still trying to untangle the mass of nerves that exist in my stomach when I’m wearing a flashy outfit, a short skirt, a low-cut top, and lots of jewelry and makeup, but I let those nerves sit there. They aren’t all I am, and neither are the comments. I am not going to compromise a vital piece of myself, now or ever, just to feel like I can exist normally. 

It's September in a little over a month, and the weather will be perfect. I am so excited to move back to the city. I’m going to wear my red lipstick and my loud bangles. I’m going to wear my high heels that make me tall and my fur coat that is too big for me. I am going to wear my short dress, my knee-high socks, and my bright scarves.

The best part about a bubble is that you can always blow another one.