Suit Or Sari? On Professionalism And ‘Ethnic’ Dressing
By Guest Contributor Sayantani DasGupta, cross-posted from Stories Are Good Medicine
I had the pleasure to attend a women’s leadership conference this past weekend. It was a fantastic opportunity to meet innovative and dynamic women from seven different decades, and I was so inspired by much that I saw and heard.
But it was a lecture by a popular professor–an expert in public speaking and issues of gender and communication–that left me unexpectedly troubled. And it’s taken me a couple days to figure out why.
I last saw this professor lecture more than 20 years ago–and she’s still the same funny, sharp-witted, and insightful speaker I remember from back in my college days. She urged us conference participants to be assertive, not aggressive, in our speech, to think about standing and sitting with confidence, to avoid lilting upward at the end of our sentences, to resist being cut off by others while we’re speaking.
All of this made a lot of sense to me. I know that women are often taught to defer to others in conversation (“no, no, you go ahead”), that we may unconsciously adopt physical postures of passivity or childishness (the cocked head, the crossed leg stance while standing), that we may sound as if we’re apologizing, for even our names (“my name is Sayantani??”).
And yet, when the lecture got to the issue of dressing for presentation success, I began to feel distinctly uncomfortable.
“Don’t wear skirts that are too short,” she said, “And, man or woman, if you’re planning on crossing your leg at the ankle (a gesture men often do), please wear calf-high socks. There’s nothing as distracting as a hairy leg, female or male.”
Okay, no hairy crossed legs, check. Seemed simple and logical enough.
“Don’t wear patterns, scarves, obvious jewelery or dangling earrings–they distract from your face and your message,” she urged.
Okay, I guess I could see that, I thought, thinking dubiously of the patterned scarf I was wearing, as well as the embroidered Indian top, the gold paisley shaped earrings, also from India.
“Don’t wear patterned clothing. I stick mostly to black, and perhaps one solid color to pop,” the lecturer added. She was wearing black pants and a red blazer.
That was the advice that continued to bother me. After all, just the night before, at the conference’s formal gala, I was among one of few women in ethnic dress (a salwaar kameese, dupatta, and fancy jacket), and got nothing but compliments. It’s a deliberate gesture of ethnic pride I often make at formal occassions, but it’s also a practical one–my nicest and most dressy clothes are usually Indian clothes.
Over the next few days, I began to wonder: Do such pieces of advice eliminate personal style–either regarding speaking or dressing? Do they mandate an appearance of ethnic homogeneity? I mean, did Aung Sung Suu Kyyi or Winnie Mandela or Indira Gandhi (all powerful global women leaders and speakers) avoid patterns and jewels? In this rapidly shrinking global world, was it possible for all women to dress alike anyway?
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