Calliope
09-11-2007, 07:40 PM
Other than a few old-time pockets of 1960s middle-class affluence in Holyoke MA, this is a scrappy little barrio so impoverished no Starbucks has yet taken root.
It's a tough, trash-strewn town - lowriders pulse megabass through gleaming shards of broken booze bottles. A tiny patch of mercantilism - hair salons, lunch dives, liquor joints and the occasional hiphop clothes boutique. It's a very gendered environment - all the guys in black & platinum, baggy gangsta and NASA sneakers; all the babes in pink & gold, supertight jeans and mirrored heels.
Um, so here I come waltzing in - the only white person in a 10-mile radius, the only iPod holder in a 5-mile radius, wearing pinkpinkpink top, jeans and Crocs. Pink Tinkerbell umbrella, too. Ooops.
I go to the Dollar "Bargain" Store - a riot of Catholic kitsch and pirated faux merch. I am looking in the children's aisle to see if there's any unusual goodies for my girls. Figurines, mainly - mermaids and angels - and none of it looks like it could survive a mailing all the way back to California, however tenderly packed.
Suddenly, my foot is lightly tapped. A woman yells out (in the kind of voice exasperated mothers address their children), "Watchit, Maria, you're stepping on her!" "Her" being me.
I venture to guess there's gonna be an awkward moment when I turn around. I haven't shaved in a few days. But, nope, none whatsoever. Maria, aged 7 or so, just immediately stands next to me and starts chatting like we're old school pals. "Ooo - lookit that, ooo - lookit this," she insists. Her mother is oblivious and keeps on shopping down the aisle. Maria and I compare various toys, discuss Tigger & Piglet on a lunchbox, Bratz versus Dora the Explorer, and generally paw over everything.
If Maria's mother has by now read me as guy, she acknowledges nothing. Once read as female, female 'til otherwise.
(It was great to see my rapport with little girls still goin' strong!)
Emboldened by that contact, I take a chance and go into "Divas," the hottie gal shop. The prices are not to be believed ($20 jeans) but not as much bling as I expect, or demand. All those consignment True Religions in Menlo Park have me jaded, alas. The babes in the store eye me scrupulously but refrain from giggling, which I did expect. Cool.
I move on to the main attraction on the street - "Freshly Dipped: Fashions From The Bronx." Military fencing over the windows, supersize nuke-proof padlocks - ghetto cool. The rap music blasting is bilious, the cigar smoke is visceral, and the dreadlocked dude behind the counter exudes the ferality of a Lifer-w/o-Parole. He's curling his hairy upper lip - and looking me over real slowly.
I spy a c-r-a-z-y pair of lowcut flared jeans w/ intense smoke-blue dragon tattoo stitching. Oblique pockets and belt loops - urban rococo. Brand: Antik Denim. $35 - unreal. In Menlo Park, these would be $200, easy, at the corporate Lucky Brand. Only one pair, waist 28. I try 'em on, they're perfect. Now the dude has a sale and a happy mood, so he tells me, "Hey, I'll giva ya a discount if you add a shirt." I look over at the wall display - billiard balls, Scarface, nigga stuff - and suppress a grimace. The guy says, "No, not those," and hands me a petite pink top embroidered with "Princess," and says, "these." There's no trace of irony or ambiguity or condescension in his vibe whatsoever.
Nevertheless, the jeans will do it for me. "Let me write cha out a receipt before ya go," he says, and I oblige. I hit the streets, brisk pace, in the pouring rain, Peggy Lee blasting. When I get back (to my brother's pad), I get my jeans out. They're sexy and twisted and have I ever scored. Then I see the receipt: "Feemale jeans, 35, cash." Feemale? Can't spell that well - or, ??? Funny, if that pink top had said "Feemale" instead of "Princess," I woulda bought it.
Anyway, a curious day, and probably I won roulette. Still, it makes me wonder, do I do better not (formally) enfemme, but just being my girlish (albeit bioboy) self?
It's a tough, trash-strewn town - lowriders pulse megabass through gleaming shards of broken booze bottles. A tiny patch of mercantilism - hair salons, lunch dives, liquor joints and the occasional hiphop clothes boutique. It's a very gendered environment - all the guys in black & platinum, baggy gangsta and NASA sneakers; all the babes in pink & gold, supertight jeans and mirrored heels.
Um, so here I come waltzing in - the only white person in a 10-mile radius, the only iPod holder in a 5-mile radius, wearing pinkpinkpink top, jeans and Crocs. Pink Tinkerbell umbrella, too. Ooops.
I go to the Dollar "Bargain" Store - a riot of Catholic kitsch and pirated faux merch. I am looking in the children's aisle to see if there's any unusual goodies for my girls. Figurines, mainly - mermaids and angels - and none of it looks like it could survive a mailing all the way back to California, however tenderly packed.
Suddenly, my foot is lightly tapped. A woman yells out (in the kind of voice exasperated mothers address their children), "Watchit, Maria, you're stepping on her!" "Her" being me.
I venture to guess there's gonna be an awkward moment when I turn around. I haven't shaved in a few days. But, nope, none whatsoever. Maria, aged 7 or so, just immediately stands next to me and starts chatting like we're old school pals. "Ooo - lookit that, ooo - lookit this," she insists. Her mother is oblivious and keeps on shopping down the aisle. Maria and I compare various toys, discuss Tigger & Piglet on a lunchbox, Bratz versus Dora the Explorer, and generally paw over everything.
If Maria's mother has by now read me as guy, she acknowledges nothing. Once read as female, female 'til otherwise.
(It was great to see my rapport with little girls still goin' strong!)
Emboldened by that contact, I take a chance and go into "Divas," the hottie gal shop. The prices are not to be believed ($20 jeans) but not as much bling as I expect, or demand. All those consignment True Religions in Menlo Park have me jaded, alas. The babes in the store eye me scrupulously but refrain from giggling, which I did expect. Cool.
I move on to the main attraction on the street - "Freshly Dipped: Fashions From The Bronx." Military fencing over the windows, supersize nuke-proof padlocks - ghetto cool. The rap music blasting is bilious, the cigar smoke is visceral, and the dreadlocked dude behind the counter exudes the ferality of a Lifer-w/o-Parole. He's curling his hairy upper lip - and looking me over real slowly.
I spy a c-r-a-z-y pair of lowcut flared jeans w/ intense smoke-blue dragon tattoo stitching. Oblique pockets and belt loops - urban rococo. Brand: Antik Denim. $35 - unreal. In Menlo Park, these would be $200, easy, at the corporate Lucky Brand. Only one pair, waist 28. I try 'em on, they're perfect. Now the dude has a sale and a happy mood, so he tells me, "Hey, I'll giva ya a discount if you add a shirt." I look over at the wall display - billiard balls, Scarface, nigga stuff - and suppress a grimace. The guy says, "No, not those," and hands me a petite pink top embroidered with "Princess," and says, "these." There's no trace of irony or ambiguity or condescension in his vibe whatsoever.
Nevertheless, the jeans will do it for me. "Let me write cha out a receipt before ya go," he says, and I oblige. I hit the streets, brisk pace, in the pouring rain, Peggy Lee blasting. When I get back (to my brother's pad), I get my jeans out. They're sexy and twisted and have I ever scored. Then I see the receipt: "Feemale jeans, 35, cash." Feemale? Can't spell that well - or, ??? Funny, if that pink top had said "Feemale" instead of "Princess," I woulda bought it.
Anyway, a curious day, and probably I won roulette. Still, it makes me wonder, do I do better not (formally) enfemme, but just being my girlish (albeit bioboy) self?