Books and Their Covers

I have always reassured myself that I am not a judgemental person. My friends all come from different age-groups, ethnicity's, genders, creeds, occupations and ideologies. I don't talk baby-talk to children or condescend to octogenarians.

But the other day, sitting sipping a coffee and gazing out the window at the passing parade, I was mortified to discover the worm i'the bud (and not, thank goodness, i'the coffee). Even I, that paragon of open-mindedness and acceptance, make assumptions - or at least have certain expectations - about people dependant on the way they present.

I was idly scanning the passers-by at the time. This is actually quite a unique and novel experience for me because usually it is the passers-by scanning me. An occupational hazard of being a foreigner in China. It suddenly occurred to me that there was something different about the usual Saturday afternoon conglomerate here compared with, say Sydney or London. Well, not different perhaps: it was the same assortment of smart secretaries, harried housewives, bombastic businessmen, languorous lovelies and cheap and cheerfulls to be seen on any city street anywhere.

And that's exactly where I cottoned on: I was assigning all these people persona, life-styles and occupations loosely based on their appearance. And o.k., if I wanted to wriggle out of the judgementalism I could claim that this was not actually unrealistic: secretaries do tend to wear suits and high-heels and look like corporate clones; housewives often wear a harried air, comfortable shoes and shopping bags with green stuff rather than designer labels prominent; and those on a budget, by necessity, tend to dress from chain-store racks and "brighten up" their choices with personalised accessories.

But the difference here, in China, is that none of the above has any relevance whatsoever.

It struck me then that this is perhaps the reason behind the fact that I feel so comfortable in China, too. Yes, its true that people stare and point. But its simply because they have never seen a foreigner of any ilk before. It has nothing whatsoever to do with how you are dressed - which is the main reason I get the subdued whispers, sidelong glances and different attitudes I have been known to encounter in some Western cities. (And let's not even MENTION the reaction in some Western suburbs!). Not that I am some deformed crone, or have a single eye in the middle of my forehead or anything, but, although it took me many years finally to admit what my teachers, best friends, lecturers, and assorted members of the public had been telling me all my life...I do tend to be a little...well..different. Oh, all right - the word eccentric has even been thrown around too.

It has absolutely nothing to do with trying to make a statement of any kind. I just like clothes. And jewellery. And shoes. And I don't feel bound by any particular external need to arrange them in any particular order. Some mornings I get up and regard myself as a tabular Rosa - to be decorated like a Christmas tree with bells and chains and silk squares. Another morning I may feel the need to disguise my monthly bloat with scarves and flowing draperies; or an Indian sari or a Melanesian Meri-blous. On another (far less frequent, admittedly) day I'll feel like swanning around in sheer black stockings, tailored Chinese brocade, matching glasses and upswept hair. I kinda figure that its my body - I have complete autonomy over it and will adorn it to fit my passing fancy and not anyone else's. My only constant is that I wear a minimum of twelve rings, five bangles, a nose ring, a discreet star tattoo under my right ear (the other tat may well be the subject of a whole other blog) and bright pink, purple, blue or red hair. And not one single person in China makes any judgment based on this.

Actually to digress a moment (Ah hah! Bet you thought the last two paras. were one huge digression?) I had only been in China a few days when a newly acquired friend came to visit. I was cleaning out my flat at the time and dressed in an old goth. t.shirt with the sleeves ripped out and vast areas of red bra showing, a pair of stained and obscene cut-offs and a grubby anklet. My visitor suggested I take a break and asked me to come for a wander around the almost deserted campus. What he didn't tell me until I stood in his immaculate office, was that he was taking me to be introduced to the Dean of the University, to whom I offered a grubby paw reeking of bleach and rubber glove. When I afterward wailed about what a drastic first impression I must have made and asked him why he didn't get me to change first, my new friend looked amazed and then grinned. "Oh, don't worry. He probably thought it was the latest cool look from the West. I did!"

So, although visiting academics have been known to look a little sniffily in my direction, not one of the staff or students has ever considered there was anything remarkable about whatever I choose to wear. But it wasn't until last Saturday that I finally worked out why.

My sweeping generalisations above fitting people's occupations etc. to their clothes just don't apply in China. I have landed, finally, in a country where 1.3 billion people have exactly the same attitude towards dressing as I do: we please ourselves.

It is inevitable that I have from time to time attracted the label of New Age or Hippie - especially in summer when I favour long flowing skirts and leather sandals entirely for practical reasons. At other times I have been asked do I do my clothes shopping overseas - when I am wearing Vinnies designer label cast offs - or carrying any one of the six incredible pigskin leather handbags I picked up from the tip one joyous afternoon. I have been dismissed as inconsequential when I have pottered into the supermarket in paint-stained overalls and barefeet. Everyone can claim similar experiences.

Except in China.

Here in China there has never been a hippie movement, a New Age movement, a Green movement, an Eighties Big Hair movement. In Ningbo there are no goths or street gangs or emos or dole bludgers. No-one has ever been told that boys who wear pale pink or lavender or embroidered shirts are pansies. Or that girls who wear army fatigues and boots are butch. Everyone works hard and conscientiously and it doesn't matter whether that's as a painter, an office worker or a shop assistant. A persons image is not defined by their appearance. And in a big city in this newest capitalist country in the world, the incredible array of goods available are not regarded as "unsuitable" for any particular group.

The woman tottering past in a denim mini-skirt and incredibly high pencil thin heels is probably not a street walker but the harried housewife. The bloke over there with the oversized basketball-type shorts, silver chain and backward cap is probably an office worker. The girl with the gathered knee-length skirt, demure Peter pan blouse and flat pumps might be the street walker while the one with her, wearing the sequined top, gold threaded shorts and net stockings is probably her sister, the PhD candidate. Its beautiful, bizarre and entirely as it should be.

On the particular Saturday afternoon on which this revelation hit me I reached the end of my coffee with a somewhat melancholy feeling. I thought of all the people I knew in other countries who weren't so lucky. Imagine if clothing was not considered tarty, or bad taste, or cheap, or too young or too old in other countries?

The middle aged lady down the corner shop might emerge from the chrysalis of trackie daks and runners wearing paste diamond shoes and a dress made of layered net. Council workers could walk around in pin-stripes and ties after work and taxi drivers would call them "Sir". Your local chemist might emerge from his high counter wearing a pale pink embroidered shirt over black silk shorts and a pair of silver Keds. While your doctor could attend you sporting a pair of pearl-encrusted short-shorts and a t.shirt with with Minnie Mouse in hot-pink applique.

And it would never enter anyone's head to call me eccentric.