// creative //
Fall 2014
The Devil Wears Nada:
I'm Done Skirting the Issue
Daniella Greenbaum
Trigger Warning: Rebelliousness and insecurity ahead.
I open the doors slowly, as if I don’t want to startle what lies inside. I poke my head in and start wondering what I will wear, bracing myself for the ordeal that is dressing. As I pull item after item out of the closet and watch the clothing I reject slowly pile up on a chair, I begin to question each of my past choices. I need to be strategic in my selections. Today, it is important for me to cover my knees.
To cover this particular body part, I find, and pull out, one of the ten identical black skirts that I own. This is a fine choice, and one that I have made every single day for three straight years. The black skirt has become a staple for some women in the Orthodox Jewish community; it proclaims to the world, “I take halacha seriously”, or, depending on its length and degree of tightness “I take how people perceive my dedication to halacha seriously.” Halacha is a collective body of Jewish law that functions as a comprehensive guide to all facets of daily life. It contains many stipulations pertaining to dress. The black skirt is simple and comfortable. It can be dressed up or down, and goes with anything, but most importantly, it can (ostensibly) chicly and non-obtrusively cover the knees. Knees. Knees. The word bears repeating, because like the body part, it is ugly. No melodious lilts in the pronunciation of the word knees, just a silent “K,” a garish letter, much like the knobby part of the knee itself. The covering of this body part, so plainly asexual in nature, has become to some corners of my community the quintessential basis for orthodox Jewish women to demonstrate their dedication to modesty or tzniut. The black skirt, which theoretically covers the knees, has become one of my staples. I settle on one such skirt, completely indistinguishable from the 9 that are hanging beside it in the closet, because in my mind, at this moment, this black piece of cloth is how I identify with my religious group. I choose this skirt because while we as a society talk about the importance of not judging books by their covers, we rarely apply that same logic to the covers with which people choose to dress. So rather than deal with this unfortunate reality, I put on my black skirt and I at least attempt to cover my knees, because on some days I decide that’s the only way to convey to the world that I value my religion. But what to do about a top? I must make sure to cover my shoulders.
Head, SHOULDERS, knees and toes
There are parts of the orthodox world that command covering all of the aforementioned body parts (though I have never encountered a Jewish community that dictates the covering of the eyes, ears, mouth and nose, so our song remains unfinished). Uncovered hair, in many communities, is considered ervah (naked) on a married woman, and must not be shown to the outside world; thus a head covering is required. But, as I am unwed, I need not worry about covering my hair. Yet. Today, I am concerned about my shoulders. My entire life I have covered my shoulders, hiding them from the world. I have never felt the absence of sleeves to be a particularly immodest choice. Tank tops, in my mind, do not serve as a gateway to salacious behavior or the loss of self-respect. Yet, growing up, I viewed covering shoulders as a cultural and religious norm that was important to observe. Until recently, the idea of revealing my shoulders was completely foreign to me. I didn’t want to shoulder the burden of worrying about what shoulder-revealing clothes would say about me to the rest of my world. It didn’t dawn on me that my choice would say absolutely nothing about me in the minds of those around me—that, in fact, my choice was unremarkable, insignificant, and irrelevant to everyone else.
But today, sleeveless shirts aren’t the only type of top that I sometimes feel is verboten. Each day, I also make sure to cover my midriff.
MIDRIFF
The belly shirt is back in vogue. This is probably thrilling to those who have a six pack. To me, its serves simply as another reminder of the ways in which religion affects the way I dress. But even before the bare midriff became socially acceptable in normal settings, it became a standard at the beach. I find the bikini a prime example of society’s dynamic standards of modesty. In the catchy and only slightly irritating song “Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini” the girl in the refrain was “afraid to come out of the locker,” and “afraid that someone would see” because society responded negatively to the bikini. It was seen as risque, and wasn’t until two years after the song was released that playboy first featured a bikini on its cover. While I never had any qualms about showing my usually covered shoulders at the beach, the idea of wearing a bikini, a garment my mother always insists is just a waterproof bra and underwear, seemed foreign to me for most of my adolescence. And yet, I never looked at beach-goers who were wearing bikinis as anything other than completely normal. If anything, I viewed myself as the definitive ‘other’. But my recognition of the bikini as normal beach attire did not do away with my strong personal feelings of opposition towards it. Though I did not give a second thought to beach goers in bikinis, I felt that I would be judged if I abandoned my one-pieces. Though, interestingly, those one pieces, in addition to exposing my usually covered shoulders, also revealed my typically hidden thighs.
THIGHS
Ah, the thighs. A part of the leg that is higher than the knees, the thighs are automatically covered if I wear one of my ten identical black skirts. According to many Jewish legal scholars, or Poskim, the thigh is the translation of “shok”- a part of the body that the Talmud declares must be covered at all times. Unlike the arms, the shok should not be covered tightly, in a way that outlines the body part. So even after I ultimately decided I no longer had an interest in committing to wear only skirts, a decision I did not make lightly, I hesitated for the first 30 or so times that I pulled on the same pair of Lulu Lemon or Athleta leggings, wondering whether I really was breaking part of my legal code. I wavered, not sure whether or not I was still sending the message to my peers that I take my religion seriously, when suddenly the immensity of the time and mental energy that I had wasted debating an issue as mundane as dress hit me with incredible force. Appalled at the amount of time I had spent considering how losing my “only- skirts” status would affect me, I picked up my leggings from the discard pile on the chair, the pile that contained tank tops and camisoles, mini skirts and belly shirts, and decided to stop giving undue importance to my wardrobe.
MIND, HEART, SPIRIT, SOUL (the revelation of all things kitsch)
In the past (I mean life, but also this piece) I’ve been focused on what I needed to cover. I had come to accept the idea that the clothing we choose is the way we present ourselves to the world, and that wardrobe choices are thus inherently meaningful and representative of who we are. Which definitely can be true. For example, if I were to be tried for murder and showed up to court in a clown suit complete with inflatable shoes and a red clip-on nose, I might be signaling a lack of concern to the jury. In that case, I might be inviting literal judgment based on my attire. But for everyday life, for the early morning clothing selections that are made post teeth-brushing but before the all-important consumption of coffee, the black skirt may not be a talking piece of cloth which successfully conveys a dedication to Judaism. It may just be a skirt—mute—as clothing should be. When I made the decision to choose what I wear each day based only on what I feel like wearing, and not on what I think my choices will say about me, I decided to stop asking the inanimate objects with which I cover myself to speak for me, and to start speaking for myself.
// DANIELLA GREENBAUM is a Sophomore in Barnard College and a Staff Writer for The Current. She can be reached at djg2158@barnard.edu. Photo courtesy of roseaposey.tumblr.com.
I open the doors slowly, as if I don’t want to startle what lies inside. I poke my head in and start wondering what I will wear, bracing myself for the ordeal that is dressing. As I pull item after item out of the closet and watch the clothing I reject slowly pile up on a chair, I begin to question each of my past choices. I need to be strategic in my selections. Today, it is important for me to cover my knees.
To cover this particular body part, I find, and pull out, one of the ten identical black skirts that I own. This is a fine choice, and one that I have made every single day for three straight years. The black skirt has become a staple for some women in the Orthodox Jewish community; it proclaims to the world, “I take halacha seriously”, or, depending on its length and degree of tightness “I take how people perceive my dedication to halacha seriously.” Halacha is a collective body of Jewish law that functions as a comprehensive guide to all facets of daily life. It contains many stipulations pertaining to dress. The black skirt is simple and comfortable. It can be dressed up or down, and goes with anything, but most importantly, it can (ostensibly) chicly and non-obtrusively cover the knees. Knees. Knees. The word bears repeating, because like the body part, it is ugly. No melodious lilts in the pronunciation of the word knees, just a silent “K,” a garish letter, much like the knobby part of the knee itself. The covering of this body part, so plainly asexual in nature, has become to some corners of my community the quintessential basis for orthodox Jewish women to demonstrate their dedication to modesty or tzniut. The black skirt, which theoretically covers the knees, has become one of my staples. I settle on one such skirt, completely indistinguishable from the 9 that are hanging beside it in the closet, because in my mind, at this moment, this black piece of cloth is how I identify with my religious group. I choose this skirt because while we as a society talk about the importance of not judging books by their covers, we rarely apply that same logic to the covers with which people choose to dress. So rather than deal with this unfortunate reality, I put on my black skirt and I at least attempt to cover my knees, because on some days I decide that’s the only way to convey to the world that I value my religion. But what to do about a top? I must make sure to cover my shoulders.
Head, SHOULDERS, knees and toes
There are parts of the orthodox world that command covering all of the aforementioned body parts (though I have never encountered a Jewish community that dictates the covering of the eyes, ears, mouth and nose, so our song remains unfinished). Uncovered hair, in many communities, is considered ervah (naked) on a married woman, and must not be shown to the outside world; thus a head covering is required. But, as I am unwed, I need not worry about covering my hair. Yet. Today, I am concerned about my shoulders. My entire life I have covered my shoulders, hiding them from the world. I have never felt the absence of sleeves to be a particularly immodest choice. Tank tops, in my mind, do not serve as a gateway to salacious behavior or the loss of self-respect. Yet, growing up, I viewed covering shoulders as a cultural and religious norm that was important to observe. Until recently, the idea of revealing my shoulders was completely foreign to me. I didn’t want to shoulder the burden of worrying about what shoulder-revealing clothes would say about me to the rest of my world. It didn’t dawn on me that my choice would say absolutely nothing about me in the minds of those around me—that, in fact, my choice was unremarkable, insignificant, and irrelevant to everyone else.
But today, sleeveless shirts aren’t the only type of top that I sometimes feel is verboten. Each day, I also make sure to cover my midriff.
MIDRIFF
The belly shirt is back in vogue. This is probably thrilling to those who have a six pack. To me, its serves simply as another reminder of the ways in which religion affects the way I dress. But even before the bare midriff became socially acceptable in normal settings, it became a standard at the beach. I find the bikini a prime example of society’s dynamic standards of modesty. In the catchy and only slightly irritating song “Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini” the girl in the refrain was “afraid to come out of the locker,” and “afraid that someone would see” because society responded negatively to the bikini. It was seen as risque, and wasn’t until two years after the song was released that playboy first featured a bikini on its cover. While I never had any qualms about showing my usually covered shoulders at the beach, the idea of wearing a bikini, a garment my mother always insists is just a waterproof bra and underwear, seemed foreign to me for most of my adolescence. And yet, I never looked at beach-goers who were wearing bikinis as anything other than completely normal. If anything, I viewed myself as the definitive ‘other’. But my recognition of the bikini as normal beach attire did not do away with my strong personal feelings of opposition towards it. Though I did not give a second thought to beach goers in bikinis, I felt that I would be judged if I abandoned my one-pieces. Though, interestingly, those one pieces, in addition to exposing my usually covered shoulders, also revealed my typically hidden thighs.
THIGHS
Ah, the thighs. A part of the leg that is higher than the knees, the thighs are automatically covered if I wear one of my ten identical black skirts. According to many Jewish legal scholars, or Poskim, the thigh is the translation of “shok”- a part of the body that the Talmud declares must be covered at all times. Unlike the arms, the shok should not be covered tightly, in a way that outlines the body part. So even after I ultimately decided I no longer had an interest in committing to wear only skirts, a decision I did not make lightly, I hesitated for the first 30 or so times that I pulled on the same pair of Lulu Lemon or Athleta leggings, wondering whether I really was breaking part of my legal code. I wavered, not sure whether or not I was still sending the message to my peers that I take my religion seriously, when suddenly the immensity of the time and mental energy that I had wasted debating an issue as mundane as dress hit me with incredible force. Appalled at the amount of time I had spent considering how losing my “only- skirts” status would affect me, I picked up my leggings from the discard pile on the chair, the pile that contained tank tops and camisoles, mini skirts and belly shirts, and decided to stop giving undue importance to my wardrobe.
MIND, HEART, SPIRIT, SOUL (the revelation of all things kitsch)
In the past (I mean life, but also this piece) I’ve been focused on what I needed to cover. I had come to accept the idea that the clothing we choose is the way we present ourselves to the world, and that wardrobe choices are thus inherently meaningful and representative of who we are. Which definitely can be true. For example, if I were to be tried for murder and showed up to court in a clown suit complete with inflatable shoes and a red clip-on nose, I might be signaling a lack of concern to the jury. In that case, I might be inviting literal judgment based on my attire. But for everyday life, for the early morning clothing selections that are made post teeth-brushing but before the all-important consumption of coffee, the black skirt may not be a talking piece of cloth which successfully conveys a dedication to Judaism. It may just be a skirt—mute—as clothing should be. When I made the decision to choose what I wear each day based only on what I feel like wearing, and not on what I think my choices will say about me, I decided to stop asking the inanimate objects with which I cover myself to speak for me, and to start speaking for myself.
// DANIELLA GREENBAUM is a Sophomore in Barnard College and a Staff Writer for The Current. She can be reached at djg2158@barnard.edu. Photo courtesy of roseaposey.tumblr.com.