That Damn Kimono Doesn't fit you, Mainer! A Brief Lesson in Fashion.

When I was in 4^th grade, my Mom’s Aunt’s son was stationed with the U.S. Navy in Seoul during the ‘88 Olympics.  When he learned that he had a cousin? of ethnically Korean origin, he, with the help of financing from my Mom, decided to return home as my personal soldier Santa, bearing an assortment of gifts from Korea for me.  It blew my mind that a family member I had never met before would spoil me with lavish gifts!  As any pre-teen girl obsessed with trinket culture, I adored all of the gifts, with the exception of one.  The damn “kimono”.  I would (much) later learn it was not a “kimono” at all, but a "hanbok", a traditional Korean dress.   

During those years, clothing brought me nothing but disappointment.  

I was beginning to realize that I was living in a world made not for petite Asians, but “milk and chicken” (early developing), big breasted, slightly overweight, Caucasian girls.  How was I supposed to wear the same outfit to school on Wednesday as my BFF, if I was shopping at the "Children's Shop" and she was shopping at the Gap?  Other girls at school were wearing their new bras, and I couldn't even fit into a “saekdongot”.  To add insult to injury, Mom assured me that my cousin had even attempted to purchase it taking in consideration my age and assumed size.   I concluded the damn "kimono" was actually made for a 3rd grader sized “normal” person, even in Korea, where people were smaller.   The damn "kimono" brought me more of the same stress telling me the same thing; I was a stunted runt.  I was afforded a tiny moment of body-image damage control reprieve when I noticed the structure of my saekdongot  didn't require the wearer to have breasts for it to fit well, I inferred that at least I didn't have to worry about stuffing my jeogori.  

After a few years of slow growing, when I reached 6th (maybe 7th) grade, a I was finally be able to fit into the damn "kimono".  Luckily, by that time it was still the early 90’s and Glamour Shots was in its heyday; when every young girl, including myself, wanted her 15 minutes of soft-touched photo fame.  

   

Since I had moved to pointe in my ballet class that year, (like a debutante party or quinceañera in the world of ballet dancing) my Mom had decided to crown my graceful accomplishment with a photo op at the local studio.   (Step up from Glamour shots!  I was a spoiled child.)   Of course that meant it was my Mom who decided that my “kimono” would make another great outfit for the sitting.  The Christmas gift-winning photo of the shoot ended up being:  Me, seated legs crossed, atop a stool which was carefully hidden by the drapes of the chima.  With my head slightly tilted to the left, I wantonly gazed down at, implying I just whiffed, the beautiful aroma a pink plastic rose.  Apparently it was the ideal image my Mom was looking for- what she had helped develop me into; her "Oriental daughter" (as she referred to me to her friends as a term of endearment) graceful and petite, smelling the beautiful rose of life.  The enlarged, framed version remains hanging in my parents’ living room as I type this.  

To the average onlooker, my eyes’ epicanthic folds legitimize my right to sport a “kimono” with “authenticity”, but I felt like a fraud even back then.   The cheesy 80's halo filter doesn't disguise the fact the rose was a plastic bauble prop, and that Korean girl in the portrait, ain't exactly a "real Korean".

Julie Chen's less Asian transformation

I had/have no more culturally correct business wearing a “kimono” than I did/do wearing a burqa.  Say it’s Halloween and I’m trying to choose a costume and my options are “kimono” or burqa?  If I was a Korean woman living in Korea, and I saw a picture of me (an ethnically Korean woman) dressed as a geisha in a kimono, my xenophobic self would be greatly insulted I was wearing the "wrong" country's traditional garb, and in fact, that  of my prior oppressors.  If I was a Saudi Arabian woman and I saw a picture of me wearing a burqa, I wouldn't be able to tell who it was anyway.  Does just sporting either “costume” make me more or less racist?  Or is it the intention of the person wearing the outfit that determines if it is racist?  

Skanky or racist Halloween?

I wore a cheongsam-like dress to my senior prom.  It was a royal blue, empire-waisted style dress, silk on the bottom, and sequined on the top, the front clasped by "Asian knot" buttons.  It should also be noted that, as a nerdy, late bloomer, my experience in the dating scene was watching 90210.  A friend set me up on what I like to refer to as a pity-date to prom... with none other than the only Asian (Chinese) guy in our school.  I had never even talked to him before.   But, I'm certain my friend thought she had found a match made in heaven for me, because we were both Asian.  And I accepted.  No other offers had come in; and going stag was decidedly even uncooler than going with an Asian stranger who I wasn't remotely attracted to. 

Luckily, no other Koreans or culturally literate people went to our school, and thus I was never accused of being racist by wearing an Oriental-style dress that was stylishly in-congruent with my Korean genes.  Finding stylish jeans were a problem due to my petite genes.  Especially when the Gap changed its sizing, scale, eliminating mine altogether.  When it came time to find a prom dress, the selection for a petite 17 year old girl in Maine in 1997 proved equally as limited…   After the torture of trying on racks of dresses that sadly bagged and sagged at the chest, and hips, of course it was the “Asian” dress that that fit me (most) correctly without needing alteration and fitting into my price range.   I was inadvertently engaging in cultural appropriation into what others (and myself) wrongly perceived as my “real culture”.   No part of my life growing up in Maine resembled any Asian culture, middle east, or far east.  It was as fraudulent for me to wear a kimono costume as it was for Katy Perry at the AMA's.  Kinda.

Based upon the theme of her performance and her chosen outfit, Katy Perry seemingly admires “orientalism” and the (“good”) stereotypes that embody it; petite, demure, graceful, and good at math.  We all know she will probably never be any of those, but we have to be careful of our criticisms; we do not want to be the kind of people who quash others’ cultural assimilation dreams. 

Can you believe the audacity of pop stars to exploit and fetishize Asians?!  (See Margaret Cho’s reaction to Gwen Stefani & her Harajuku Girls) Why does it come as such a surprise that would anyone want to make a fetish of something?  Any champion of free markets will tell you that a scarce commodity gets a higher value.  

My Mom answered this question for me back when I would throw myself my own pity party and cry about my flat chest, and inability to gain weight to get curves and "become a woman". She simply explained it as "because it's what you don't have.   "Lacy, you're lucky you don't have huge boobs and can fit into cute clothes, and you don't have to worry about your weight.  You're lucky you are petite and graceful.  When I was young, we were poor and Grammy and Grandpa didn't have the money to pay for dance lessons, and piano lessons, and all of these things you do."  And she was right.  Many of my friends ended up on the other (but not opposite) side of the body image spectrum; dealing with anorexia or bulimia, that almost killed them.  Despite knowing that Mom was frustratingly always right in the end, it still took many, many years to get to a point where I felt like I actually "fit in" in any kind of dress.

In no way am I saying that some costumes are not racist.  Dressing up in blackface is most definitely racist. (In my book.) Why would some white chick today dress up in blackface?   Black or Native Americans could not actually become actors during the time blackface ruled American theatre and then Hollywood.  Why would anyone dress in a costume that that glorifies this subjugation and segregation of people with more melanin?

Jesse Owens swept the 1936 Olympics as the king of western racists, Hitler, watched in horror. What greater an idol to have… the guy who, by means of his amazing athleticism, without words or bombs, gave the Nazis an epic “fuck you” by demonstrating the unsuperiority of the German "race" in a race, and simultaneously proving that black people can be Americans too, and that you can smoke a pack a day and still win the Olympics.  I’d love to honor Mr. Owens in any way possible.  Heck, I’d consider dressing up as him for Halloween one year, but I just don’t think it’s feasible to be able to dress in a Jesse Owens costume making it believable and not racist.  I wonder if my old prom dress still fits?

      

Entropic Fall-ing into the Devil (of) Winter

It's that time of year again.  

When entropy is a live action film just outside of your door. 

Just the thought of it makes me shrivel like a dick in a feminist convention or icy water.  "Look at that gorgeous foliage!! "Is what wealthy elderly leaf-peepers on buses say.  Why is fall a season?  As far as I can tell it lasts for a good two to three weeks, at best.  I'd really love to love fall... like I've said before, if for nothing but for my own sanity.  But for some reason, my brain processes fall as my sanity sitting on a dark cold precipice looking into an infinite cold, dark abyss.  

After eight years in California, where the meaning of Season has a stronger connotation to food spicing than foreboding winter weather, you'd think I would have learned or at least conditioned my brain to know better than to linger on the melancholera that chokes out my psyche during the winter months.  I'd like to "rationalize" it as something primal within me; maybe something twisted into my mind-bogglingly complex, double helix genetic code, which is incapacitating my ability to mentally shut down the urge to hunker/bunker down, shut off all sensors, and fatten up for the winter.  But that's just me being a hopeless romantic about being something decidedly unromantic; 

A depressed, self-deprecating slug.  

Each year I renew my vow to be reborn, like the phoenix out of the ashes! (Which of course I have a tattoo of... helps remind me of my struggle, in case I happen to forget.) Usually I renew my vows to my rebirth in the springtime, following the same schedule of almost every living organism wishing renewal or birth, or rebirth, minus humans on New Year's.  But every year, without fail, the cold winds whip around my doorstep, and simultaneously, those ugly orange, red, and yellow leaves fall and clog my gutters, each one of them falling and collecting into a beautiful castle wall of detritus; 

That somehow encapsulates me into the cocoon of mental hibernation.

Somehow, I've made it through many winters.  But, we all do.  Survival is the great will of life; no one wants to die, unless they want to die.  It's not like my struggle has been even well, a struggle.  I've always had food, water, and an obsession about clothing.  I'm not a spring chicken.  And apparently not a winter chicken.  I doubt being a chicken was ever my calling.  I'd hope to be a (sacrificial) lamb.  Of course, because again, I'm romantical like that.

Look how selfish depression is.  

Who do I talk about in my blog.  Me.  Oh! The Importance of Being Earnest!    Pity partying!  So, where was I going with this?  Ah, yes.  Physiologically... I'm retarded during the winter months.  (Side note: When I present links, it's purely out of navigational convenience; not because I think you lack the inquisitive spirit to google it yourself) Should you catch me at (not) my finest point (winter), I apologize to you.  My mother knows this "seasonal" change occurs in me.   That she accepts it, is another problem.  

But, It shatters my heart.  

My boyfriend knows and experiences every part of it.  My animals know and feel it too.  
I'm minced meat.  Only people or things I care about become my depression's victims.  It (the depression) rips me to shreds before I can even identify it in a lineup or the cops can forensically trace the DNA to a particular culprit.  Is it even real?  No.  The Devil is your own subconscious. 

My subconscious is quite the little devil!~

So, if I am cognizant of this seasonal change, why don't I use my big homosapien brain and do something, anything about it?  It's a constant battle.  Not between good and evil.  It's just a fucking battle.

I love you & thank you,

Lacy

Since I (think I) meant for this blog to incorporate a recipe for each entry, I give you the recipe for entropy and depression!!:   :/

Wilted Swiss Chard Soup-

Wilt chard or use some wilted chard.  I don't care.- add garlic.  Blend. serve hot.  Maybe with some grated Parmesan cheese.  Or any cheese.  maybe serve some bread with it.  Salt and pepper. Maybe light a candle.  Maybe serve as an appetizer to a steak.  I don't know. Sounds kinda gross.  Maybe it's good.  You can't knock it unless you've tried it.  shut the fuck up, be glad you have a meal.

and a soundtrack to go along with your shitty, tasteless, garlicy, dinner.