We are not the refined, neatly cut dresses and pants that adorn our bodies. We therefore cannot be reduced to labels on the collar of our shirts.
The thread count on the cotton we wear, dwarfs in comparison to who we are.
We exist inside the evening little black dresses and beautifully crafted traditional regalia. They are to conceal and hide us.
To collate us with dresses is to unsee us. Is to miss us.
We are under the tuxedos and Italian cut-to-fit suits. We are behind, differently branded Sun glasses, they are not us.
We represent strength; blood and sweat.
Inside the clean cut clothes, are broken, over stretched, strong and feeble bodies. There are bodies with fine and bold lines, aftermath from years of war with weight.
Marks of different story lines.
Under the floral and pinstripe suits are bodies with an opposing story. Bodies negating the public image. We cover bodies marked with scares of all sizes.
Scars telling our stories.
Clothes cover us, they hide us – they enables us to blend in, to assimilate. To look like everybody. They hide unique stories marked on our skins.
They disguise our protruding tummies, concealing parts that have lost elasticity, they hide and censor us, they edit us.
But by all means, cover up. Hide under there. Allow us to talk about the piece of cloth that hides you and not you. We will remember, one day, that whatever texture and label, clothes are like table clothes. It is the table that matters…