I am not bundled up in the summer. I wear cotton and sandals.
As a middle-aged woman I shy away from shorts; my legs aren't what they used to be. When I am alone, I pull off my bra. In the backyard when I am pulling weeds, I do have a few skimpy outfits that, only because I have some pride, I would not wear on the street. Summer is the season and watermelon and iced tea. . It's cotton time again.
And then I think of her.
On a very hot and very humid North Carolinian day, I saw a Muslim man walking with a woman covered from head to toe in black. His white, short sleeved shirt gave him freedom to swing his arms back and forth, which he did while the woman tottered along in her shroud. I could feel the perspiration on my back and my thighs were sticking together; I, dressed in a cotton dress. I glared at the man. If only I could have put him in that heavy black cloth and freed the woman.
I often think of that anonymous woman.
And when I recall her form and posture, her prescribed, anonymous life, I think of my American female friends, Catholics, Protestant, Jewish, Agnostic, Humanist. Whatever.
We have live in a kaleidoscope of rich choices. We live in a world of red convertibles where we ride with the wind in our face and our hair streaming behind us. We can bare our bodies to sunlight. We have choices.
Ballet dancer, belly dancer, musician, sculptor, painter, tennis player, champion swimmer, majorette, gardener.
Nurse, Ph.D., teacher, professor,scientist, reporter, political activist, community leader, writer, lawyer, singer, actress, poet, cook, waitress, Physical therapist assistant, admininstrator, sales person, office manager.
We open our closets' doors:
Tutus, tights, evening dresses, grubby blue jeans, white shorts, halter tops, one piece bathing suit, short skirt, overalls. white uniform, business suit, blue jeans, tee shirt, desinger dress, apron, professional clothing.
In the morning we shower, put on perfume, wash our hair:
Blonde hair, straight hair, frizzy, permed, grey or curly. Bangs. Ponytail. Short. Long.
We put on our outfit. We go to our lives. Good, bad, indifferent, wonderful; they are our lives.
I see that woman in black often.
Today she was on the front page of The Wall Street Journal in an article about the "whiff" of change for Saudi women. I learned that Saudi women are working in segregated workplaces. Like American women, they work to augment the family income. Some are even studying to become lawyers although they will never try a case in a courtroom. They can't. The judges are male. Always a "but."
Muhammad instructed women to cover their adornments, which at first read is complimentary. Beautiful women and alluring women. Beautiful women are modest women who do not tempt men. Such a simple thing, this veiling of women. An act of kindness all the way around.
Ballet dancer, swimmer, tennis player. Tutu, bathing suit, trim white shorts.
To me the veil, this long abaya, burqa, or chador, is a fence of fabric stronger than steel, for it imprisons creativity and potential. I couldn't last a hour under its weight without fighting for my life. But I am an American woman who can speak her mind and make her own decisions. No one tells me what to wear.
But the veil goes deep, goes deep into the psyche. It is not cloth that can be thrown casually into the dirty clothes hamper.
How can I not wonder how many talented women have suffocated under the veil. If their dark, darting eyes tell their stories, they may live lives of quiet desperation. Do they cry in frustration? Do they scream when they are alone? Clearly, Islam means submission, and as women they submit to physical, emotional, and intellectual suffocation. The Muslim world has deprived itself of infinite accomplishments. Submission comes with a big price.
Somtimes I wonder, if Muslim women ever dream of dancing on a stage. Does a Muslim woman ever imagine herself riding in a red convertible and having the sun on her face and her hair streaming behind her?
Tomorrow I may do just that.
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