Yes , but... what were you wearing?

Last week, a friend and I were eating dinner.  We are both ladies, in the ironic/millenial sense of lady-blogs and lady-pens, though not usually the sense in which my mom would use it when I got yelled at to "Stop that!  Be a lady!" when my brother and I would have burping contests at the dinner table.

I mention the lady-fact because it is always relevant.  Unignorably so in Swaziland, and harder to ignore in the US than you might think.  Especially once you start paying attention.  (Seriously, could Sherlock fail the Bechdel test any more egregiously?).  Sometimes it is nice to pretend that gender is not relevant, and some days it is easier than others -- in Swaziland and America both.  But I can't escape how much my lady-ness shapes my day here.  

My friend was asking me what I do about unwanted attention.  Catcalling is common.  Any man on the street has the right to call out at you 'hey baby!' 'hey sweetie!' Sometimes, he will reach out and run his hand down your arm in a particularly creepy gesture.  I have been asked to be someone's Christmas present, to be their girlfriend, to be their wife.  I mean, marriage proposals, sure.  Those are easy.  My lobola is 30 cows and you have to get them to America.  I have been absolutely assured that there is no way my fiance is faithful so why am I so hung up about it, and that I am being a total bitch for not being super excited and flattered, and willing to take it as a joke and laugh with the men about how hilarious it is that they have the right to demand to touch me, to comment on my body, to explain just how much fun it would be. Mostly it's funny.  Mostly people mean it to be funny, or think it is funny.  

Sometimes, especially in South Africa, there is a whiff of defiance and anger in all of this.  Much like the American South not too long ago, Apartheid South Africa in many ways used the claim of “protecting” (blonde, blue eyed) white ladies from this type of thing -- and the follow up types of things.  (The women’s own personal interest in who they may or may not have wanted to be protected from not withstanding).  In South Africa, because of this, I think a lot of the attention I get has more to do with reactions to those institutions.  Those institutions are not me, but I know that I can represent them, and I think this has just as much to do with how I am perceived and reacted to than the pants or skirt or ring I was or was not wearing that day.  And that is as much of Apartheid era racial and gender politics as I want to get into.  They are complicated.  I am not an expert.

I told my friend I have mastered the bitch-glare.  Which I have.  Or the joke -- 30 cows and no less.  Or walking fast.  Or, if it is a particularly bad day and I've just had it from hanging out in mall parking lots and getting propositioned by men (while I am busy trying to proposition women to answer my 90-something question survey, and to convince them that it will be quick, really) and I feel somebody has crossed a line, then a judicious "Don't touch me.  You may not touch me."  Accompanied by all the bitch glare I can manage.  Or just enough that I think it won't provoke violent retaliation.  Which is a very real concern, and why I try to steer towards jokes whenever possible.  They are safer.

And she said -- yes, but that's what I do too!  And I took a deep breath, and I glanced at her shorts and I said:

"Yes, but what were you wearing?"

What a terrible, loaded question.  I would never say that in America.  Never.  But here I felt like if I didn't I would be overlooking the obvious.  Yes, but what signal were you sending?  Yes, but what were you saying?  Yes, but were you asking for it?  You are not asking for it.  I am not asking for it, but you will never catch me in a skirt much above my knees here.  Before I joined the Peace Corps, you wouldn't have caught me dead in a dress or a skirt.  But in rural South Africa they were expected, they were easier, and I had to put up with less bullshit when I wore them.  Now they have practically become my uniform.  I am used to them, I like them.  I have a serious weakness for a pretty sundress.

In Swaziland, if you wear jeans -- especially skinny jeans -- or shorts, or miniskirts, you are "a prostitute."  Trust me on this, I have spent a lot of time asking about it.  I kind of knew that dresses were more appropriate than pants, but really learned it the day I showed up to a meeting of sex workers in the northern part of the country, and we all got a good laugh from the fact that exactly three of us were wearing the same outfit.  Jeans and a black t-shirt.  Women still wear jeans, and skinny jeans, and miniskirts and shorts here.  I see them every day in Mbabane and at the University.  But I would definitely never feel comfortable in the latter three here in Swaziland.  (Skinny jeans and me don't get along in any country, I think.)  

I am happy to leave the boundary pushing to these women.  While it drives me out of my mind that the way a woman dresses, the way a woman sits, the way a woman…exists in public…means that men feel they are entitled to her, I also think that this is not my country, and I am not the one in a place to do the hard pushing back.  In the US, I have stopped in the middle of a run to lecture men on why catcalling women with headphones in and zero interest in their impressions of her is inappropriate and unwelcome.  But I don’t do that here, because it isn’t my place and it isn’t my decision.  It is not my job to be the white feminist who brings short skirt and fingernail polish freedom to the women of Swaziland.  It is not my role to explain to friends about how they really should just tell those men in the taxi rank to get bent, or to feel like a brave role model when I do it myself. There is a small, but amazing and growing feminist community here (and LGBT community, for that matter).  There is an organic, local feminism that is not interested in my feelings, just as I am not interested in the feelings of a man on the sidewalk who is pretty sure he should be able to tell me what I should do, or how I should look, or feel, or that he is entitled to some attention when I’m out running (or trying to administer some damn surveys).

I do not wear shorts here.  I limit jeans to casual settings.  I worry when my skirt is much above my knees.  Because I find it makes my life easier.  Many other women don’t.  Many women I work with, and socialize with, and admire and respect don’t.  And I will leave that to them.