My life here mirrors the streets of Amman, twisting and climbing and doubling back. If a road is not curving left or right, then it is surely sloping in and out of multi-tiered tunnels. Getting from point A to point B is challenging unless you are familiar with the maze of asphalt, sure of the direction of streets lacking one-way signs a foreigner like myself requires. The street names listed on Google Maps rarely match the small green placards drilled into sidewalk walls, hanging obstructed by heady jasmine bushes. Likewise, the reality of where I am going and how I will get there – both in personal and professional matters – consistently strays from my preconceptions of my situation in Amman. I’m finding that in this city, the easiest and fasted route to your destination is found in looping around the giant hills it was built upon, and that attempting to carve out a direct path through them takes more time than I can afford.
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I want to tell you about my knees. A little risqué for a public blog, I know. My first day of work in Amman, I stood on the sidewalk trying to catch a taxi and breathing through the anxiety gripping my stomach. Perhaps arriving at my hotel a couple of hours before sunrise muddled my head, but most of that nervous energy was focused on my ankles. I’d purchased my pants at a thrift shop in New York, where the slightly-higher-than-usual cut had seemed professional and chic. That first day, however, I blushed as I stepped into the cab, sure that the skin above my feet was offensive. Flash forward 2 ½ months later to my birthday, wearing a dress that, although work appropriate and conservative by U.S. standards, fell just at my knees. The process of getting to the point where I both wanted to and felt comfortable wearing that dress is something that I’ve fixated on for quite some time.
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I want to tell you about my knees. A little risqué for a public blog, I know. My first day of work in Amman, I stood on the sidewalk trying to catch a taxi and breathing through the anxiety gripping my stomach. Perhaps arriving at my hotel a couple of hours before sunrise muddled my head, but most of that nervous energy was focused on my ankles. I’d purchased my pants at a thrift shop in New York, where the slightly-higher-than-usual cut had seemed professional and chic. That first day, however, I blushed as I stepped into the cab, sure that the skin above my feet was offensive. Flash forward 2 ½ months later to my birthday, wearing a dress that, although work appropriate and conservative by U.S. standards, fell just at my knees. The process of getting to the point where I both wanted to and felt comfortable wearing that dress is something that I’ve fixated on for quite some time.
Cultural consciousness, respect, and integration are all
critical if you want to work and live as an expat, no matter where your
origination and destination. Dressing appropriately is a big part of that and
can have a strong effect on interactions and relationships at all levels. I’m
sure this isn’t new to anyone, as we can all agree that the way you dress has
an impact on interactions even in your own country. Back home, wherever home
is, the boundaries for what is appropriate to wear in each situation have been
absorbed since we were young; in a foreign place, understanding these
boundaries becomes more difficult. You realize that although there are rough
edges sketched around what is acceptable, that space is full of grey matter and
subjective decisions. Although I would not have worn my birthday dress back in
June, time helps solidify hard stops and personal hesitations. By August, it
was clear that there was some wiggle room for my lower legs and upper arms, if
I was willing to bear the anticipated leering in the streets. To attract the
least attention it’s best to dress modestly, so on one hand the decision for
what to wear stops there. But then again, there’s that dress (it really is
lovely).
The ways and places fabric hangs from my body does not seem,
at first glance, like something that should have a connection with my well-being
and mental health. For this reason, my initial instinct is to lean towards
conservative cultural norms. There comes a point, however, when that fabric
morphs into a representation of all of the restrictions felt in a foreign
culture, when it’s hot and I don’t want to put a cardigan on and I DO WHAT I
WANT. It becomes almost necessary, on a personal level, to push some boundaries
– within reason – by wearing what you feel your best self in. When you’re
living in a new place (do we count 6 months as living somewhere?), you need to
ground yourself in some ways in order to thrive. This can involve making
friends, finding favorite spots in the town/city, and – apparently – dressing
with more personal style. For short trips and wanderings, I don’t think there’s
enough time to untangle where you stand within all of that grey matter; keeping
your feet on land for longer chunks of time gives you the opportunity to do this.
Anymore, my ankles make a regular appearance in Amman. I
have stopped grimacing when I see other foreign women with a little leg out, or
walking around in sleeveless shirts. I am trying to remind myself that though
there are a few hard lines, including items that are actually disrespectful,
damaging, and appropriative rather than appreciative of culture, it is not a simple
matter of black and white. Learning not to judge is, as always, a process. But
I’m learning, and slowly getting used to seeing my knees again (but only on
special occasions).
Peace & Love
Elyse
