The Thing aobut Bling
3/20/06
She was young, bedecked in a variety of Gucci accessories, large gold hoop earings, fashionable pointy toed boots, a newsboy cap and faux diamond encrusted aviator glasses. Rings and things adorned her hands and the clothes spoke of the hip, psuedo grunge look. Alone at the park, she was sitting at the amphitheatre where my kids were preparing an impromptu show featuring a pantomime martial arts demonstration in slo-mo, a bull fight, a tap dance and a failed attempt at the Sound of Music's "Maria." I watched her in all of her bling, wondering what she did, who she was as many stereotypes flitted through my mind and then got to thinking about how we festoon ourselves as another way to communicate who we are. Years ago, I used to wear a lot of bangles and bracelets on my right wrist. They were a collection of gifts and souvenirs from over the years and would announce my arrival with their symphonic jangling. I removed them once for an interview with FAO for a post in Burundi, thinking it anappropriate to look too decorated. This was to be serious work after all, helping design family plannign programs in an impoverished African nation. I had wanted to look the part of the dedicated aid worker and had been made aware that I didn't exactly fit the Birkenstocked, flanneled shirt profile. My best friend in public health school and I had hit it off immediately when we noticed we were the only ones in a class of 25 wearing heels. We nick-named our selves teh Cosmo Twins and laughed and flirted our way through 2 rigorous years of Statistics, Epidemiology and other dry public health courses. She went on to continue her long tradition of field work and I, well, I balked along the way. The interview went well, but my friend declined to write me a reference, giving me a big hug and telling me she knew and loved me well enough to know I wasn't really cut out for such work.
It wasnt' the allergic reaciton in Zaire's capital city Kinshasa, or the realization that although I spoke French, I didn't speak one of the most imoprtant local languages, Lingala, and therefore could not truly communicate with the women I would be working with. She had sensed that in taking off the bangles, I was more concerned with whether I "looked" the part rather than whether I "felt" the part of the job I was seeking. And I must not have, for I withdrew the application and veered eventually into another profession. I married, the bangles came off as I segued into writing, and spent more time at a desk. Those musical baubles, a certain base melody to my life, now hurt my wrist. I dressed in black T-shirts and jeans; eschewing the heels for comfort and hunkered down state-side.
Fifteen years later, amidst a sea-change, the bangles are back (one in particular a lovely symbolic gift from said peripatetic friend), as are the dangly earrings, the pendants, the heels and brightly colored shirts, swishy skirts. My girlfriend is moving to Tanzania and I'm feeling the urge to get up and go again. But this time, the bangles stay. For if I choose to go, I go with me. Our bling has meaning, whether it be cheap pot gold earrings lined up 12 to an ear, or 1/2 carat diamond studs in both lobes, the NFL championship ring, the shell and leather bracelet, the plastic beaded pendant your daughter makes in craft class. How we dress, our make-up, piercings, tatoos, accessories are just another way to broadcast who we are in a world increasingly crowded yet decreasingly connected. Our looks offer a short-hand language to help establish the playing ground. The key is to not get distracted, dazzled or dis-engaged by someone's bling. It's just a calling card. Take it and then say, "Hello. Who are you?"
She was young, bedecked in a variety of Gucci accessories, large gold hoop earings, fashionable pointy toed boots, a newsboy cap and faux diamond encrusted aviator glasses. Rings and things adorned her hands and the clothes spoke of the hip, psuedo grunge look. Alone at the park, she was sitting at the amphitheatre where my kids were preparing an impromptu show featuring a pantomime martial arts demonstration in slo-mo, a bull fight, a tap dance and a failed attempt at the Sound of Music's "Maria." I watched her in all of her bling, wondering what she did, who she was as many stereotypes flitted through my mind and then got to thinking about how we festoon ourselves as another way to communicate who we are. Years ago, I used to wear a lot of bangles and bracelets on my right wrist. They were a collection of gifts and souvenirs from over the years and would announce my arrival with their symphonic jangling. I removed them once for an interview with FAO for a post in Burundi, thinking it anappropriate to look too decorated. This was to be serious work after all, helping design family plannign programs in an impoverished African nation. I had wanted to look the part of the dedicated aid worker and had been made aware that I didn't exactly fit the Birkenstocked, flanneled shirt profile. My best friend in public health school and I had hit it off immediately when we noticed we were the only ones in a class of 25 wearing heels. We nick-named our selves teh Cosmo Twins and laughed and flirted our way through 2 rigorous years of Statistics, Epidemiology and other dry public health courses. She went on to continue her long tradition of field work and I, well, I balked along the way. The interview went well, but my friend declined to write me a reference, giving me a big hug and telling me she knew and loved me well enough to know I wasn't really cut out for such work.
It wasnt' the allergic reaciton in Zaire's capital city Kinshasa, or the realization that although I spoke French, I didn't speak one of the most imoprtant local languages, Lingala, and therefore could not truly communicate with the women I would be working with. She had sensed that in taking off the bangles, I was more concerned with whether I "looked" the part rather than whether I "felt" the part of the job I was seeking. And I must not have, for I withdrew the application and veered eventually into another profession. I married, the bangles came off as I segued into writing, and spent more time at a desk. Those musical baubles, a certain base melody to my life, now hurt my wrist. I dressed in black T-shirts and jeans; eschewing the heels for comfort and hunkered down state-side.
Fifteen years later, amidst a sea-change, the bangles are back (one in particular a lovely symbolic gift from said peripatetic friend), as are the dangly earrings, the pendants, the heels and brightly colored shirts, swishy skirts. My girlfriend is moving to Tanzania and I'm feeling the urge to get up and go again. But this time, the bangles stay. For if I choose to go, I go with me. Our bling has meaning, whether it be cheap pot gold earrings lined up 12 to an ear, or 1/2 carat diamond studs in both lobes, the NFL championship ring, the shell and leather bracelet, the plastic beaded pendant your daughter makes in craft class. How we dress, our make-up, piercings, tatoos, accessories are just another way to broadcast who we are in a world increasingly crowded yet decreasingly connected. Our looks offer a short-hand language to help establish the playing ground. The key is to not get distracted, dazzled or dis-engaged by someone's bling. It's just a calling card. Take it and then say, "Hello. Who are you?"
posted by Barbery at 10:26 AM
1 Comments:
And yet our baubles, bangles, piercings, the latest fashions, the hottest haircut, can also be a way to hide our true selves from the world by fitting in, by going with the crowd. If everyone has a pierced nipple then how does piercing my own announce my individuality. Can it not also announce, "hey look, I'm just like the rest of you. Can I join your club?" Can these accoutrements be a way of saying, "I want to see myself like those 'cool' people, or I want them to see me as one of them," when one has not yet fully formed their own identity, their own unique style, their own comfort with their own body, their own skin?
And yet I may carry a special stone in my pocket, wear a hidden necklace, a special ring, that has meaning to me, that tells it's own story, or reminds me of a piece of my soul that is there, hidden from public view, to which I may cling.
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