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Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za
DRESS IDENTITY MATERIALITY

eDiteD BY ReLeBoHiLe MoLetsAne cLAUDiA MitcHeLL Ann sMitH
Published by HSRC Press Private Bag X9182, Cape Town, 8000, South Africa www.hsrcpress.ac.za First published 2012 ISBN (soft cover) 978-0-7969-2362-2 ISBN (pdf) 978-0-7969-2363-9 ISBN (e-pub) 978-0-7969-2364-6 2012 Human Sciences Research Council The views expressed in this publication are those of the authors. They do not necessarily reflect the views or policies of the Human Sciences Research Council (the Council) or indicate that the Council endorses the views of the authors. In quoting from this publication, readers are advised to attribute the source of the information to the individual author concerned and not to the Council. Copyedited by Juliet Haw Typeset by Nicole de Swardt Cover design by Firebrand Cover photo by Marina Faust Printed by [Name of printer, city, country] Distributed in Africa by Blue Weaver Tel: +27 (0) 21 701 4477; Fax: +27 (0) 21 701 7302 www.oneworldbooks.com Distributed in Europe and the United Kingdom by Eurospan Distribution Services (EDS) Tel: +44 (0) 17 6760 4972; Fax: +44 (0) 17 6760 1640 www.eurospanbookstore.com Distributed in North America by River North Editions, from IPG Call toll-free: (800) 888 4741; Fax: +1 (312) 337 5985 www.ipgbook.com
Contents
Tables and figures vii Acknowledgements ix Acronyms and abbreviations x DRESS, IDENTITY AND METHOD Reconfiguring dress 3
Claudia Mitchell, Relebohile Moletsane and Kathleen Pithouse Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za
1 2
White women in black clothing: Overtures towards Africanness in dress in a South African context 19
Juliette Leeb-du Toit
3 4 5
Stories fluttering in the wind: How clotheslines write our lives

Hourig Attarian
41
Take a picture: Photographs, dress, gender and self-study

Ann Smith
57 72
Aesthetics and identity in contemporary South African fashion

Desiree Lewis
6 7 8
ACCESSORISING DEMOCRACY Gender and the politics of the Basotho blanket

Mathabo Khau
95 112
Ayashisa 'mateki: Converse All Stars and the making of African masculinities
Kopano Ratele
Do clothes make a (wo)man? Exploring the role of dress in shaping South African domestic workers identities 132
Sithabile Ntombela
9 10
A loud silence: The history of funeral dress among the Ndau of Zimbabwe
Marshall Tamuka Maposa
148
Dressing sex/wearing a condom: Exploring social constructions of sexuality through a social semiotic analysis of the condom 162
Ran Tao and Claudia Mitchell
11
DRESSING TO LEARN/LEARNING TO DRESS Who wears the trousers here? Women teachers and the politics of gender and the dress code in South African schools 181
Pontso Moorosi
12
Was it something she wore? Gender-based violence and the policing of the place of girls in the school space 196
Naydene de Lange
13 14 15
The gender politics of the school uniform

Nolutho Diko
208
The perfect matric dance dress

Linda van Laren
225
Angeke ngibe isitabane: The perceived relationship between dress and sexuality among young African men at the University of KwaZulu-Natal 242
Thabo Msibi
16
Khangela amankengane: The role of dress amongst rural extension workers in KwaZulu-Natal 259
Bongiwe Mkhize
17
DRESSING FOR SOCIAL CHANGE Wearing our hearts on our sleeves: The T-shirt and the South African activist agenda 277
Relebohile Moletsane and Peliwe Lolwana
18
The art of representation versus dressing to be invisible: Who am I dressing for in contemporary Rwanda? 288
liane Ubalijoro
19 20 21
Rewriting the script: Drag, dress and the body politic

Crawl Evans and Robert J Balfour
304 323 341
Sari stories: Fragmentary images of Indian woman

Nyna Amin and Devarakshanam (Betty) Govinden
Personal adornment and creative process as micro-resistance

Marlene de Beer
Picture credits 354 Contributors 356 Index 358
Tables and figures
Table 8.1 Table 8.2 Figure 4.1 Figure 4.2 Figure 4.3 Figure 4.4 Figure 4.5 Figure 4.6 Figure 4.7 Figure 5.1
Profile of the five domestic workers Employers profile 139
139
Three little girls with matching dresses 61 Three young women with matching hairstyles 61 Predictions (of what sort) for a clever girl? 62 Wearing an accessory of a different sort 63 Signing 1965 64 Signing 2009 65 The missing picture 66 Nkhensani Manganyi, South African TV personality and owner of the clothing range, Stoned Cherrie, August 2003 80 Figure 5.2 Trio I 2007 85 Figure 5.3 Ayanda Makhuzeni 2007 88 Figure 6.1 Basotho blanket seal of quality 98 Figure 6.2 Mathabo and her blanket 101 Figure 6.3 Drawing of Basotho blanket 105 Figure 7.1 Woman wearing All Stars with denim jeans 114 Figure 7.2 Man wearing black All Stars takkies with black suit 115 Figure 7.3 The author in a kurta 116 Figure 8.1 A woman wearing a domestic workers uniform 134 Figure 8.2 A woman in a coverall pinafore 141 Figure 9.1 Map locating Chipinge and Chimanimani districts in Manicaland province, Zimbabwe 150 Figure 9.2 A man wearing an example of machira dress 155 Figure 9.3 Members of the UCCZ Ruwadzano Council 158 Figure 9.4 Versatile chitenje fabric 158 Figure 9.5 Examples of Zambian chitenje worn at a funeral 159 Figure 10.1 Delegates look at dresses made from condoms at an exhibition ahead of the 15th International AIDS conference in Bangkok, Thailand, 09 July 2004 164 Figure 10.2 A Trojan condom advert in a Shanghai subway car 168
vii
Figure 12.1 Figure 14.1 Figure 14.2 Figure 16.1 Figure 16.2 Figure 16.3 Figure 16.4 Figure 16.5 Figure 17.1 Figure 17.2 Figure 17.3 Figure 20.1 Figure 20.2 Figure 21.1 Figure 21.2
A female student in school uniform in a rural district 202 Lillys sketch of her matric dance dress drawn when she was in Grade 8 230 Photograph of Lilly in her matric dance dress, taken on the day of the dance 230 The author and students visiting a small scale poultry farmer at Adams Mission, south of Durban 260 The author and students in appropriate attire for the field 263 The author and a colleague exchanging information with a member of the uMlazi Farmers Association 264 Women dancing in traditional dress to welcome the author and students 265 The author dressed in traditional Zulu attire for a parade at Mangosuthu University of Technology 266 TAC HIV positive T-shirt 280 Gender, race and HIV 282 Protesting gender-based and sexual violence 283 Fatima Meer in a sari at the microphone during a Passive Resistance Campaign 335 Kasturbai Ghandi in a cotton sari with her husband Mahatma 336 Poppie and embroidered heart medals 346 Street name enamelled brooches 350
viii
Acknowledgements
As the editors of Was it something I wore? Dress; Identity; Materiality, we are indebted to the contributors for having faith in us and agreeing to contribute to a relatively new area of interdisciplinary research. When we came together on 2526 August 2009 at the Was it something I wore? Writing and Research Workshop, held in Durban, to deliberate and give each other feedback on our draft chapters, many of us were entering uncharted territory in working with dress as material culture in social research in South Africa. We are particularly grateful toJuliette Leeb-du Toit, Sarah Nuttall and Desiree Lewis for leading an exploration ofa variety of theoretical and practical approaches to the study in this area. Their contributions at the workshop introduced us to some of the conceptual frameworks and debates, and to a variety of methodological approaches to dress studies that have woven their way into many of the chapters in this volume. The book as a whole would never have been the rich collection it is without Ann Smiths mentorship during the writing and editing process. Although we are writing this set of acknowledgements as a team, Relebohile and Claudia would like to acknowledge the critical role Ann has played in working closely with so many of the contributors and in helping to build a community of practice in the area of dress studies in social science research. We would also like to thank Mathabo Khau who helped us keep track of the various stages of the chapters and who organised the writing workshop and its follow-up activities. Finally, we acknowledge the support of the Human Sciences Research Council for providing the intellectual space and initial funding, and the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada for their financial support. Relebohile Moletsane (University of KwaZulu-Natal) Claudia Mitchell (McGill University, Canada) Ann Smith (University of the Witwatersrand)
ix
Acronyms and abbreviations
AAM Anti-Apartheid Movement ANC African National Congress ARVs anti-retrovirals CGE Commission on Gender Equality COPE Congress of the People GASA Gay Association of South Africa GLOW Gay and Lesbian Organisation of the Witwatersrand IFP Inkatha Freedom Party NEPAD New Partnership for Africas Development SACC South African Council of Churches SAPA South African Press Association SASA South African Schools Act TAC Treatment Action Campaign UCCZ United Church of Christ in Zimbabwe UN United Nations
and method ty ress, identi D section 1
1 Reconfiguring dress
Claudia Mitchell, Relebohile Moletsane and Kathleen Pithouse
Is It somethIng I am wearing? This is a question that can be used to frame our narratives in relation to constructing and performing personal and social identities. It is also the kind of question that can be used to challenge the socio-political status quo in that people may actually wear their causeson their t-shirts, in choosing traditional attire, specific costumes, pieces of jewellery or other garments and accessories. Which meanings and what significance are attached to them by different sectors of South African society? What does this signify in the context of South Africas new democracy? How does dress position body and identity in different social and cultural spaces? To what extent is dress a visual signifier of the construction of a chosen identity and a chosen performance? How does dress signify oppression and/or liberation for women? Is this different for men? How might dress construct contemporary childhood? Dress, we know, plays a central role in the literature and art of South Africa, from Can Thembas well known short story The Suit, to the staging of a larger than life representation of a domestic workers uniform in A Woman in Waiting, a play by Yael Farber and Thembi Mtshali, to the more subtle representation of pink in dress in Penny Siopiss artistic work on Pinky Pinky. 1 What are the embodied narratives (McSharry 2009) that emerge from a study of dress and gender in southern Africa? Dress also dominates the landscape of everyday life in many different ways. Most women, for example, have personal (and social) experiences of an incident, or incidents, in which they felt (or were actually) harassed, inappropriately touched, looked at, verbally abused or chastised, and for some, even sexually assaulted and/or raped because of what they wore or did not wear. From their school days when either male peers or teachers (both male and female) took offence at the length, shape, colour, or some other feature of their skirts, or at the type or quality of garment they wore, to contemporary instances in which women have been harassed, attacked and publicly humiliated because of what they were wearing, most women can tell these kinds of dress stories at different points in their lives.
Often, in such dress narratives, women recall how their personal, social and political identities and characters have been judged, often unfavourably, and how this has resulted in their being censored and punished. In recent years in South Africa, such policing of womens dress and bodies has been increasingly prominent, public and (often) violent. With the resurgenceand sometimes reinventionof conservative patriarchal values and norms and the concomitant heteronormative discourses governing sex and sexuality, girls and women have been at the receiving end of the wrath of some self-appointed guardians of culture in our society (also see Moletsane, forthcoming). These cultural policewomen and -men often use dress as the reason for censoring womens and girls expressions of their identity, by publicly policing and punishing those who are seen to be defying these cultural norms. None of us can forget, for example, the woman who, in 2007, was stripped naked, marched down the street of a Durban township and beaten as punishment for her daring to wear trousers. She was seen to have done so in defiance of the local culture police (a gang of men, often supported by some women) who deem it unAfrican and, in particular, unZulu for women (and girls) to wear trousers. In another incident, Nwabisa Ngcukana (25) was stripped naked, had alcohol poured on her head and [was] assaulted at Johannesburgs Noord Street taxi rank on Sunday 17 February [2008]apparently because she was wearing a mini skirt.2 And, by way of a third example, can any of us ever forget the rape trial of Jacob Zuma (now president of South Africa) in which he cited his accusers dress (the kanga3) as indicative of her readiness to have sex with him? And can we forget the 100% Zulu Boy t-shirt, which his supporters wore at the time of the trial, as well as during the days leading up to the 2009 elections, in support of Zuma both as the man on trial as well as a potential president?
But why Was It Something I Wore?

As we can see from the examples above, dress is more than just an item of clothing. On 17 December 2004, Sandra Weber and Claudia Mitchells edited book, Not Just Any Dress: Narratives of Memory, Body and Identity (2004), was launched in Durban, South Africa. The editors had begun this project in 2001 as part of a (mostly) North American project in which dress became the organising feature for a number of narrative essays exploring body and identity in womens lives within a birth-to-death framework. Each chapter explored the idea of not just any dress in relation to a particular rite of passage in which the dress has traditionally been used as a social marker and symbol, laden with layers of historical and cultural meaning. The items of clothing in Not Just Any Dress, including the isishweshwe4 (Ralfe 2004), the
Was it something i Wore?
subject of an essay written by a South African, have entered the popular imagination and are already familiar as material culture to many readers: the baby dress, the little girl dress, the communion dress, the school uniform, the prom dress, the wedding dress and the burial dress. The authors work with dress as material culture, drawing on memory work, autobiography, popular culture, feminist theory and image-based research to tell their thoughtful and evocative stories.While only one of the chapters in that book focuses on dress in the new South Africa, it was clear from the responses of the largely South African audience at the launch that there is undoubtedly a set of narratives and questionsabout dress in South Africa that need to be explored: to what extent is dress a visual signifier of liberation or of continuing oppression and marginalisation? How does dress, like the domestic workers uniforms sold in Pick n Pay and other supermarkets, provide ironic comment on social situations? To what extent do people wear their causes, like their support of womens empowerment, on their t-shirts? And how does dress become newly and visually configured in the age of HIV prevalence? So, here is our book, the title of which, Was It Something I Wore?, has been adapted from a title used by Mitchell in her chapter in Not Just Any Dress which focuses specifically on gender-based violence. While the essays in Was It Something I Wore? include but are not limited to addressing issues of gender-based violence, it is, we think, an appropriate title to signal the type of interrogation that is needed at this point in the history of the developing democracy of South Africa, and in surrounding countries. As social scientists, working in the geographical South, we regard the significance of dress as symbol and marker to be at least as potent here as it is in the North and perhaps even more so here. There is a long history, for example, of the relationship between Western and African dress, the social, cultural and economic uses of dress, as well as its role and significance in general. The South African and wider African context allows similar and different issues to be explored through dress compared to those examined in the first 2004 North American collection. At the same time, we also draw on the international community through the inclusion in the book of several chapters that draw on, for example, studies in China, and on studies that refer to the trauma of the Armenian and Rwandan genocides. The book is located within the broader context of dress studies research in Africa and beyond, ranging from Taylors The Study of Dress History (2002), to Allmans Fashioning Africa: Power and the Politics of Dress (2004), to Kuchler and Millers edited book Clothing as Material Culture (2005). Allmans book draws attention to the links between the economy and politics on the one hand, and dress on the other. In South Africa, an international conference on Dress in southern Africa held at the University of KwaZulu-Natal in August 2005 in Pietermaritzburg and organised by Juliette Leeb-du Toit (see Chapter 2 in this volume) further
reconfiguring dress
demonstrated the growing interest, regionally and internationally, of academics across a wide variety of disciplinary areas in dress studies. But within the context of dress studies, this book speaks, we think, to the evolution of a community of practice around the study of dress and other forms of material culture in social research. Starting from the vantage point that many social science researchers in and around South Africa may be new to the study of dress and/or material culture as an entry point to the questions that they might have been exploring for many years, we embarked upon the project through the use of pedagogical strategies. For example, we sent all authors a copy of Weber and Mitchells (2004) chapter Theorizing dress stories simply as a starting point for the idea of dress as both phenomenon and method. Later we convened the Was It Something I Wore? Writing and Research workshop, held from 2526 August 2009, that would highlight both the writing of the chapters and the research methodology itself in relation to working with material culture. The aims of the workshop were to: (1) fine-tune and focus our manuscript, Was It Something I Wore? (2) facilitate dialogue among scholars interested in broadening and deepening an understanding of methodologies within social research that focus specifically on gender and dress as material culture in South Africa; and (3) build a network of social research scholars working in the area of dress and material culture in South Africa. To this end, the workshop included a number of presentations that engaged us in thinking about various perspectives on, aspects of, and issues in dress research. First, the introductory presentation by Claudia Mitchell (2009a) on Dress as material culture in social research drew attention to several possible ways of reading and working with dress in social inquiry. These included dress as social text, as social artefact or object, as social symbol, and as social narrative. Mitchell also drew attention to the power of dressboth as phenomenon and methodologyto evoke introspection, reminiscence, and reflexivity on the part of the wearer, viewer, and/or researcher of such dress. Additionally, Mitchell discussed the complex and, at times, perilous terrain of the private/public interconnections and interactions between and amongst the self of the wearer, viewer, or researcher and the social context of, and audience for the dress. Finally, Mitchell returned to the question of the social import of dress research and challenged us as workshop participants and authors to look beyond the boundaries of the workshop and resulting edited volume to consider the question, What do we do with this work?. Mitchell (2009b) returned to this question in her second presentation, Dress fitting and methodology, in which she introduced the method of video-making as one way of doing dress research and of producing a creative artefact which serves as a public research text that can reach a range of audiences and which can be used for a variety of communicative and research purposes.
Juliette Leeb-du Toits (2009) paper at the workshop, White women in black clothing discussed the socialness and mutability of dress and reminded us how seemingly distinct and fixed dress cultures evolve at the interface between peoples and across historical boundaries. This presentation also made us aware of the relationship between dress and what can be described as selfing or the ongoing processes of self-construction, self-representation and self-reflection that occur as we select and wear our dress (or, at times, have it imposed upon us) within and in response to contingent, changing socio-political and individual conditions and situations (Pithouse 2007: 15). At the workshop, Sarah Nuttall presented a series of ideas on Images, identities, cultures, which drew attention to the significance of places and spaces in dress inquiry, emphasising how self-stylisation through dress occurs in relationship with ones physical and socio-cultural location and how it can also remake that location. The presentation invited us to consider dressing as an artistic process and the self-conscious fashioning of human identity through dress as a work of art. Images, identities, cultures also brought to the fore the shifting politics of dress and style in South Africa and the interconnections between and amongst identity, dress, and the post-apartheid rise of consumer culture. Nuttall (2009) posited that an earlier politics of resistance among South African youth was now shifting to an emergent politics of style. Her paper also emphasised how matters of dress are interwoven with and interact with race, class and gender relations. In her presentation, Spectacle and the body, Desiree Lewis emphasised the embodied nature of dress research by examining what she described as a pervasive culture of physically expressed authoritarianism that manifests in the disciplining of women and the control of black womens bodies in contemporary South Africa. Lewis evoked for us a number of recent public spectacles that vividly illustrate this display of discipline and control. These spectacles included the public assault by male taxi drivers on a young woman for wearing a mini-skirt (as discussed earlier in this chapter) and the public burning of pictures of South African president Jacob Zumas kanga-wearing rape accuser by a group of mostly female Zuma supporters shouting, Burn this bitch! Lewis also drew our attention to the subversive potential of spectacle, which can satirise and thus undermine authoritarianism. By way of example she discussed the Mini-skirt Protest in which hundreds of [mini-skirted] South African women demonstrated at a commuter taxi rankcalling for an end to harassment for wearing mini-skirts5 (Lewis 2009; see also Chapter 5 in this volume). The workshop and the book as a whole point to some of the critical areas that can be studied through dress research or dress studies. Dress research can provide a framework in which the complexity of a society can be captured in a manner that few other forms of research can do: it can capture not only the diversity of the
reconfiguring dress
society but also the complex relationships between Africa and the West and some of those between black and white, or between heterosexuality and homosexuality and other combinations and oppositions. Dress research can facilitate discussion about issues as serious as the implications of informal trade in southern and eastern Africa, the politics of prison, concerns around migrant labour and domestic workers, poverty, gender-based violence, and the HIV epidemic. In educational contexts, dress research can inform classroom pedagogy and reflexivity by focusing attention on such issues as: how might teachers and students (at all levels of the education system) interrogate and think more deeply about the social significance of dress? And how might such a rethinking of dress deepen and extend our inquiry into critical issues in education?
Overview of Was It Something I Wore?

Was It Something I Wore? is divided into four main parts. Section 1, Dress, identity and method, positions the chapters within the broad body of scholarship on dress, material culture and method. Chapter 1 introduces the book and provides an overview of the chapters. Chapter 2, by Juliette Leeb-du Toit, White women in black clothing examines the interface between aesthetic and ideological readings in the constructing of intercultural dress, and the reception of this by those who wear such dress and those who interpret or shape such exchanges. The chapter does this by taking the reader through a history of dress encoding in South Africa which, has, for the most part, developed along racial, class, ideological and nationalist lines. She then traces this history from the mid-20th century, during which many white women in South Africa elected to wear various garments of African attire. As she points out, however, as early as 1948 various commentators had suggested that the wearing of African beadwork would distinguish the South African woman as authentically African. This shift was not initiated merely as an overture to the exotic mystique of Africa but was born of sincere attempts to reflect an inclusive African identity that symbolised a sense of place and cultural distinctiveness. Leeb-du Toit concludes that, coupled with emergent ideological and political change, such intercultural dress exchange increased dramatically in the wake of both segregationist nationalism and its opposition by white liberalism and African nationalism. She then traces the ways in which, by the 1970s, both white nationalists and liberals used such dress to highlight very divergent aspirations, and how, in recent decades, intercultural dress has entered into mainstream fashion, with new agendas attached to patriotic nationalism.
Chapter 3 by Hourig Attarian, Stories fluttering in the wind, complements the denotative and historical readings of dress in Chapter 2 with an essay that highlights the significance of the connotative, personal narrative in dress studies. Attarian uses the metaphor of the clothesline within the overall area of narrative and autobiographical life history research. In this chapter, Attarian fuses a visual and textual multigenerational narrative describing childhood experiences with laundry and clotheslines, which come to symbolise deeper lessons in understanding family secrets, resilience, survival and a lifeline across generations. The narration of stories of mothers, daughters and granddaughters that the author recounts serves as a type of healing, of coming to terms with the memories of loss and dispossession. In the second part of the chapter, Attarian takes a closer look at the methodological challenges of engaging in self-study that is anchored along the blurred boundaries of autobiographical inquiry and life history research. And, although Attarian is speaking of her memories of her Armenian-born grandmother, and how this work has informed her own intergenerational research that took place in Canada, it will be clear that there are many commonalities that make this essay an appropriate one for researchers in southern Africa. Chapter 4, Take a picture by Ann Smith, draws on the relationship between memory and photography to trace significant moments in her personal history that have some bearing on dress in relation to the personal and the social. These photos range from one of her as a small (middle) child with her two sisters to one of these same three subjects more than 10 years later, and from her as an academically promising young schoolgirl to her as a postulant on the way to becoming a nun. Perhaps most telling is the pair of photos that show her as a heterosexual bride and, more than 40 years later, as a partner in a same-sex civil union. In between these is a missing portrait of herthis gap a political statement in itselfas a lesbian activist. Drawing on the use of the visual (family portraits) and memory work within a framework of self-study, Smith explores the significance of her earlier assimilation into heteronormativity and her later oppositional politics towards such a stance, as she considers the shifting relationship over six decades between dress (as indicative of identity) and material culture. Section 1 ends with Desiree Lewiss Aesthetics and identity in contemporary South African fashion. The chapter comes out of a recognition that in present-day South Africa, the self-styling of bodies can often be seen as expressions of vibrant and joyous resistance in the face of multiple and ubiquitous forms of power, authority and repression. Where struggle in South Africa has generally been explored in terms of clear-cut political events and action, this chapter considers how fashion, bodily adornment and display can function to subvert insidious forms of power and repression. Repression in contemporary South Africa often
reconfiguring dress
involves the covert surveillance of bodies, and the physical bodys compliance with dominant scripts of sexuality and gender, with norms of obedience and conformity, and with globalised conventions of taste, sophistication and power. Focusing on the dress and bodily display of certain youths living in South Africa today, Lewis considers how these youths redefine a sense of self in relation to prescribed subject positions, and how fashion, self-styling and bodily display can be read as intensely politicised and richly symbolic forms of defiance. While dealing with general trends in aspects of subcultural performance (for example, young black South Africans frequenting Maponya Mall in Soweto, Johannesburg), it also focuses on the artwork of Nontsikelelo Veleko, the Standard Bank Young Artist of the Year for 2008, and shows how her photographic responses to iconoclastic young men and women living in South Africa deepens our insight into the symbolic significance of refashioning subjectivity through bodily display and self-styling. In Section 2, Accessorising democracy, the chapters focus directly on dress in the context of democratic states, addressing such issues as the politics of dress, manifest, for example, in the Basotho blanket, the domestic workers uniform, and the role and use of fashion in contemporary youth culture(s). The section begins with Mathabo Khaus essay, Gender and the politics of the Basotho blanket. Khau contemplates the blanket as a very important and treasured accessory among the Basotho people and this is evidenced in the use of the word blanket in everyday discourse. The peculiarity of the Basotho blanket, she writes, is that it is often used within sexuality discourse and as such has deep sexual connotations. This chapter discusses the literal Basotho blanket and its symbolic status. It looks into the gendered symbolism of the blanket and the different sexual expectations of Basotho society for women and men, with particular emphasis on the gendered negotiations of being and becoming a woman. In Chapter 7, Ayashisa 'mateki, Kopano Ratele discusses the forcesboth structural and psychologicalthat flow into and emerge out of fashion as it relates to the making and dynamics of African mens identities. In order to make these forces concrete, Ratele draws attention to a common fashion item of an African man in modern-day South AfricaConverse All Star takkies (sneakers). In so doing he describes and discusses the layered contexts within which African men make choices about clothes and he offers possible psychological explanations about the identities that clothes are meant to represent. Ratele draws on his autobiographical reflections, and suggests that the main set of contexts in which African mens and womens fashion decisions are situated are those of the contemporary global and local economy and culture in which designer labels are manufactured and sold. These are, as the author points out, contexts which reflect unfavourable economic and cultural relations between African countries on the one hand, and North American and Western European societies on the other.
10
Chapter 8 by Sithabile Ntombela, Do clothes make a (wo)man?, comes out of the recognition that many households in South Africa employ domestic workers as housekeepers and/or child-minders. Ntombela discusses the fact that it is mostly women who are employed in these positions and the uniforms they use make it easy to identify them. This chapter explores how their uniforms determine the identities of these domestic workers in relation to how they view themselves and how others view them. In Chapter 9, Marshall Maposa offers an exploration of funeral dress in African communities. In A loud silence, Maposas contribution focuses on the central but often overlooked role of dress during mourning and particularly at funeral services. It traces the changes in funeral and mourning dress over time and simultaneously demonstrates how these trends also depict a change (or the lack thereof) in gender roles and stereotypes. Using Foucaults method of genealogy and historical discourse analysis, Maposa reminds us of the powerful messages of dress donned at funerals in relation to gender, fashion, social class and other markers of identity. He points to the potential for using dress to open up debates that could lead to social action in these spaces. Section 2 ends with Ran Tao and Claudia Mitchells chapter, Dressing sex/ wearing a condom, which is organised around questions firmly based in this era of HIV prevalence, such as, Are you wearing a condom? and Who would ever think that a small latex sheath could be so controversial?. This chapter engages in an exploration of sexuality as social construction in Chinese contexts through accessing social memory in relation to sex and sexuality among a group of 25 young Chinese people. Located in a chronological narrative of Chinese sexuality, the condom can also be read as a semiotic sign of changing sexual culture that signifies transforming sexual notions and perceptions, and sexual subjectivities in Chinese societies. In Section 3, Dressing to learn/learning to dress, the chapters study dress and its role in educational contexts. The section starts with Pontso Moorosis chapter, Who wears the trousers here?. Drawing on three case studies, Moorosi interrogates the ways in which schools can police the female teachers body by regulating dress. She asks: how does dress as material culture interact with teaching and what influences does it have on the learners and the broader school community? Are demands for, and expectations of morality in the school context gendered? What are some of the power dimensions affiliated with the dress code for women teachers? The author concludes by suggesting the need for the inclusion of dress stories (and trouser stories) as a way of deepening our understanding of the social positioning of women teachers and women leaders in educational settings. If women teachers bodies are regulated, so are the bodies of female students, as Naydene de Lange explores in Chapter 12, Was it something she wore?. As De
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11
Lange observes, gender-based violence is a complex issue which can take on various forms in the school context. It can be overt as well as covert, affecting the position of the girl at school as well as her aspirations and the actualising of her potential. While exploring gender-based violence with women teachers in one rural school, De Lange found that the teachers offered an example in which the neatness of a uniform suggests some affluence in a poverty-stricken environment, and, as such, positions the girl who wears it as a target for discrimination and subtle gender-based violence. In South Africa, where schools have a preoccupation with the wearing of school uniforms, and where uniforms are seen to be a necessity and a prerequisite for attending school, having a uniform or not speaks not only to the socio-economic status of the learner and her family but also becomes a mechanism to control access to schooling. In effect, the school uniform determines who will and will not be able to set themselves free from the cycle of poverty through schooling and further study. Exploring the power of school uniforms, De Lange concludes, can facilitate an understanding of gender-based violence against learners in and around schools. In Chapter 13, The gender politics of the school uniform, Nolutho Diko draws on memory work as well as on fieldwork in contemporary South African schools in order to investigate the significance of school uniforms in the context of gender equality in schools and communities. The chapter examines the ways in which the school uniform can be read or interpreted as a social text within the broader issue of equality between boys and girls in South African schools. Still on the theme of dress in schools, Linda van Laren, in Chapter 14, The perfect matric dance dress, draws on her own firsthand accounts of helping to get her daughter ready for the matric dance and on her daughters account of the experience. She uses, too, the sketches produced by her daughter for a local dressmaker who makes clothes for the women of this family and who designs and makes matric dance dresses. Van Larens work on teenagers preparing and dressing up for this occasion draws on sociology, popular culture and autobiography. The next two essays address the issue of dress in higher education. In Chapter 15, Angeke ngibe isitabane, Thabo Msibis exploration of the perceived relationship between dress and sexuality among specific young African men highlights the issue of dress in relation to young men preparing to become teachers. Msibi presents various ways in which certain forms of dress can serve to destabilise some of the heteronormative discourses about masculinity and manhood. Reporting on a study with African male student teachers, the chapter explores some of the complexities surrounding gender performance and heterosexual relationships, and illustrates the complex interplay between the commodifiction of women and dress as a symbol of manhood. Concluding that the men were forced to dress in certain ways so as not to be seen as gayan identity that almost all the participants tried to
12
evade by any meansMsibi observes that the fear that informs this dress sense was so powerful that the participants ensured that they did not cross the line. To avoid being labelled as gay, the men use their everyday routine of dressing up to arrange their dress styles in a hierarchical manner, ranging from those styles privileged through hegemonic masculinity to those subordinated through their supposed femininity. Chapter 16, Khangela amankengane by Bongiwe Mkhize, discusses teaching students, in an agriculture and extension programme at a South African university, about appropriate dress codes to prepare them to go out into rural communities. Mkhize draws attention to the politics of dress and the ways in which a rural extension worker might be rejected by local farmers and others working in rural areas simply for wearing the wrong t-shirt or, in the case of female students, for looking too much as though they are from the city. The chapter is relevant in that it challenges the curriculum of professional studies in higher education. In Section 4, Dressing for social change, the chapters address issues of dress representation in various contexts in the family, in the community and in societies. The section asks: to what extent do individuals and groups wear their causes? What does clothing communicate about the wearer, his or her life, identity, worries and concerns? How does dress position the wearers and their identities in different social and political spaces? In Relebohile Moletsane and Peliwe Lolwanas chapter, Wearing our hearts on our sleeves, the authors explore the extent to, and ways in which t-shirts visually signify oppression, liberation or identity construction and performance in the context of South Africas developing democracy. Through a textual analysis of t-shirts and t-shirt slogans and images, they examine the different ways in which the t-shirt has been used as a medium of expression and activism in democratic South Africa. They examine the various embodied narratives that emerge out of a study of the t-shirt, and its social, cultural, political and economic uses. Furthermore, the authors examine the intersection of race, class, gender, and ethnicity, and the ways in which these are together and separately informed by, and in turn inform, the discourses on the different t-shirts that individuals and groups choose to wear. Chapter 18, by Eliane Ubalijoro, The art of representation versus dressing to be invisible, is an autobiographical search for identity through dress, in which the author explores the influences that have shaped how she locates herself and her dress in contemporary, post-genocide Rwanda. Moving away from wishing to be invisible while living in a foreign country during and immediately after the genocide, to dressing for hope, Ubalijoros narrative explores Rwandan history through the symbols of her childhood gleaned from oral history, imagery and daily life. Ubalijoro concludes her chapter with an exploration of the possibilities for
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using autobiographical research, particularly a study of dress, as an entry point for changing the ways in which girls and boys develop and perform their femininities and masculinities in a newly democratic context. Chapter 19, Rewriting the script, is by Crawl Evans and Robert J Balfour. The authors look at the embodied acts of dressing and dressing up and of being undressed, by examining the politics of drag in the practices (and purpose) of the gay pageant in relation to recent local (post-colonial) South African events involving the undressing of women, as well as in relation to the exhibition of Saartjie Baartman as a curiosity within the wider context of the colonial Victorian cultural practices (and purpose) of the demi-monde. They discuss how this might open up ways of understanding and performing gender and (homo)sexuality. The chapter situates the position of the body and dress (drag) within contemporary feminist and queer debates on identity and sexual politics. Exploring the notions of dress as both doing sexuality and identity, and of being, Evans and Balfour suggest that the embodied practice of dress, particularly in relation to the transgressive and subversive elements of the gay pageant, has relevance for how we understand being dressed and undressed (and the social significance of this) in various socio-cultural spaces. In Chapter 20, Nyna Amin and Devarakshanam Govindens reading of stories about saris reveals the intricate battles that have been waged to establish a stable conceptualisation of Indian women. Using the strategies developed by Laclau and Mouffe (1985), Sari stories analyses six stories, or memory fragments, to illustrate how the sari is central to the discourse produced. The analysis entails identifying the discourse, its meanings and silences, its taken-for-granted meanings, and the struggle to fix meanings. Amin and Govinden assert that Indian women who wear saris have, at times, to engage with, succumb to, and resist stereotypical descriptions of being Indian. They wear saris for different roles and functions; some have adapted Indian dress to their work and some, such as a group of women from the Indian diaspora, use the sari to prove they are Indian, while others ensure that what they wear is appropriate for culture and career. Indian women, the authors suggest, are constantly placed in categories that narrow or broaden their roles, functions and identities. These categories may be constituted in ways that either embrace or other them in discourse, and that silence discursive articulations or scaffold hegemonic articulations. The chapter suggests some ways in which the women may offer resistance even while donning their saris. The book ends with Marlene de Beers chapter, Personal adornment and creative process as micro-resistance. This chapter examines the ways in which the creative process is an autopoietic exploration of identity as uniquely embedded within social, cultural and personal experiences. As an artist and educator in the design field, De Beers approach to the creative art of making is multidisciplinary and includes the continually evolving process of learning. The author illustrates
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how, in order to facilitate the construction of meaning and knowledge in the context of personal experiences and memories, she uses self-reflection and interaction with the environment. De Beer reflects on how the process, materials, and medium of making can be used as methods to explore existing ways of being and to question social constructions of identity. In particular, she uses jewellery as a medium of expression and concludes that, because of its diminutive size, its intimate relationship to the body, and its traditional historical functions, such as the expression of status and social identity, jewellery has inherent restrictions. These restrictions can be transformed and used by the artist and the consumer (and the reader) as methods of questioning historically prescriptive roles.
Setting a new agenda for social research in southern Africa: Visual cultures, textual research and social change
When potential authors were first invited to consider what difference the inclusion of dress could make to their own research agenda, we had no idea of the breadth and depth of issues that would arise. We now see dress as opening up a new space for social science research more broadly in the region. Drawing on a variety of methods, including memory work, visual studies, autobiography, life history, textual analysis, and ethnographic studies, and located within cultural studies, queer theory and feminist theory among others, the chapters in this book demonstrate the diverse ways in which dress might be studied in social research, and simultaneously the varied ways in which dress can become an organising feature in posing and answering critical areas of research. The uses of dress and other forms of materiality in social research are integrally linked to visual research more broadly, and indeed, as can be seen in so many of the chapters, the inclusion of a photographic image of the thing or object being worn is central to the exploration. In some of the essays we can see that the use of family photos is central to the study of dress, as is evident in Ann Smiths essay on reconfiguring the family album. In others there is the question of proof, or the visual evidence, as we see in the chapter by Relebohile Moletsane and Peliwe Lolwana on t-shirts. The variety of methods also leads to a range of genres of writing, from autobiographical narrative to photo essay, from the theoretical to the descriptive, andfrom analytical report to political and social scrutiny. However, perhaps the most important point to note is the fact that the chapters in this collection address a variety of pertinent social issues and themes confronting contemporary communities in southern Africa. These include, among others, the understanding that because of the insidious interaction among the many crises facing communities in the region, including gender inequality, heterosexism,
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homophobia, poverty, gender-based (and sex-based) violence, and the HIV epidemic, development (or under-development) tends to have differing impacts on women and men. At the conclusion of the Was It Something I Wore? Writing and Research workshop, it was clear that we had just scratched the surface of issues relating to dress (and the absence of dress in the case, say, of the Kwamafunsa ceremony and virginity testing) and that there are many more social issues that could be explored through the various methodologies of dress research. The range of topics and dress-related issues covered in the book are of course by no means complete, and continue to evolve both in relation to media and popular culture as well as to changing social conditions. As Morgan Freemans 2009 Hollywood film Mississippi Prom came into local theatres, we saw that the issue of the prom (matric dance) dress, covered here by Linda van Laren, could have a racial significance that runs far beyond the borders of South Africa. And then there are other dress-related issues in southern Africa that simply will not go away. Maposa (in this volume), for example, writes about dressing for funerals as part of the socio-political context of death in the region. Unfortunately, as long as the rollout of antiretrovirals (ARVs) continues to be of critical concern, and as long as issues of social stigma in relation to HIV and AIDS exist, there will continue to be many other death-related dress narratives and accessory stories yet to be written: the dress stories of burial dressing, dress as a marker of poverty, and even young girls wearing the dot, thus signifying their participation in virginity-testing ceremonies. As can be seen in approaches to addressing such issues, education, agriculture, sociology, social work, and public health research are just some of the areas that can draw on dress studies to deepen understandings and to improve social conditions. Finally, we want to suggest that this book is just one aspect of how dress can be taken up within multidisciplinary and interdisciplinary research. The participants of the Was It Something I Wore? workshop enthusiastically proposed that we might take our work further by looking beyond the borders of South, or even southern Africa, to engage in conversations with a broader community of scholars. And indeed, the concluding discussions at the workshop pointed to exciting possibilities for the establishment of new knowledge areas through transdisciplinary scholarly collaboration. Interventions such as the writing and research workshop and this book offer opportunities for the birth of new communities of scholars in the social sciences.
Notes
1 In the Pinky Pinky seriesPenny explores the psychological and mythical terrain of South African teenage girls. Pinky Pinky is a mythical figure that makes himself known to pre-pubescent and pubescent girls in the predominantly black townships and schools
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of South Africa. He tends to be an urban creature but has put in an appearance in rural areas. Pinky Pinky haunts toilets, mostly public toilets, and places where teenage girls find themselves alone. He molests girls and has been accused of rape. Pinky Pinky is a very real figure for many girls and embodies the fears and anxieties that girls face as their bodies develop and their social standing changes. 2 3 Accessed 23 September 2009, www.socialistsouthafrica.co.za/index.php?option...id The kanga is a brightly coloured cotton wrap worn by women, mainly in East Africa. In Jacob Zumas 2006 rape trial, he cited the rape accusers dress as one of the factors that led him to believe that she wanted to have sex with him: I said to myself, She has come to my study in only a kanga and she has got under the covers, so she should have no problem if I take off my clothing. (Gifford & Maughan, Zuma: I had to oblige, The Mercury, 4 April 2006. Accessed November 2009, http://www.themercury.co.za/index.php?fSectionI d=&fArticleId=vn20060403231053455C508960 4 5 Isishweshwe is the ethnic, printed cotton fabric synonymous with traditional African dress. Hundreds of women in miniskirt protest, Mail & Guardian Online, 4 March 2008. Accessed November 2009, http://www.mg.co.za/article/2008-03-04-hundreds-of-womenin-miniskirt-protest Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za
References
Allman J (2004) Fashioning Africa: Power and politics of dress. Bloomington: Indiana University Press Kuchler S & Miller D (Eds) (2005) Clothing as material culture. Oxford and New York: Berg Laclau E & Mouffe C (1985) Hegemony and socialist strategy: Towards a radical democratic politics. London: Verso Leeb-du Toit J (2009) White women in black clothing. Presentation at the Was it something I wore? Gender and dress as material culture in social research in southern Africa workshop, Durban, 2425 August Lewis D (2009) Spectacle and the body. Presentation at the Was it something I wore? Gender and dress as material culture in social research in southern Africa workshop, Durban, 2425 August McSharry M (2009) Schooled bodies? Negotiating adolescent validation through press, peers and parents. Stoke on Trent: Trentham Books Mitchell C (2004) Dressing death: Elsie never wore a prom dress. In S Weber & C Mitchell (Eds) Not just any dress: Narratives of memory, body and identity. New York: Peter Lang Mitchell C (2009a) Dress as material culture in social research. Presentation at the Was it something I wore? Gender and dress as material culture in social research in southern Africa workshop, Durban, 2425 August Mitchell C (2009b) Dress fitting and methodology. Presentation at the Was it something I wore? Gender and dress as material culture in social research in southern Africa workshop, Durban, 2425 August Moletsane R (2011) Culture, nostalgia, and sexuality education in the age of AIDS in South Africa. In C Mitchell, T Strong-Wilson, K Pithouse & S Allnutt. Memory and pedagogy. London & New York: Routledge
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Nuttall S (2009) Images, identities, cultures. Presentation at the Was it something I wore? Gender and dress as material culture in social research in southern Africa workshop, Durban, 2425 August Pithouse K (2007) Learning through teaching: A narrative self-study of a novice teacher educator. PhD thesis, University of KwaZulu-Natal, Durban Ralfe E (2004) Love affair with my Isishweshwe. In S Weber & C Mitchell (Eds) Not just any dress: Narratives of memory, body and identity. New York: Peter Lang Taylor L (2002) The study of dress history. Manchester & New York: Manchester University Press Weber S & Mitchell C (2004) Theorizing dress stories. In S Weber & C Mitchell (Eds) Not just any dress: Narratives of memory, body and identity. New York: Peter Lang Weber S & Mitchell C (Eds) (2004) Not just any dress: Narratives of memory, body and identity. New York: Peter Lang
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2 White women in black clothing: Overtures towards Africanness in dress in a South African context
Juliette Leeb-du Toit
In what follows I consider how changes in the dress of heterogeneous groups of white women, from different cultural and ideological backgrounds, reflect either predictable or unexpected overtures or ruptures that challenged dress conventions associated with whiteness as essentially derivative of European or Western prototypes.1 Significantly,despite being subject to unificatory persuasion or polarising legislation and stereotyping, neither black nor white South Africans can be said to represent clearly identifiable racial or ethnic distinctiveness, with multilayered inflections present in each group that belie any totalising expression of racial or cultural homogeneity.2 In using the terms white and black in this chapter, I therefore knowingly enter into a semiotic field marked by assumptions, stereotypes and a range of self-definitions that are subject to ongoing scrutiny. Originating in a diaspora of diverse peoples of European descent that settled in South Africa from the mid 17th century onwards, South African whiteness reflects a multilayered and complex amalgam. Racial classification has been upheld in the West3 and in South Africa for centuries, intended to divide, control, suppress and marginalise. 4 In South Africa, being white and of European descent has often been deployed to collectively express belonging, difference and associated authority in a partly fixed yet porous distinctiveness and flawed prominence in terms of such racial origins. As the encroaching centrality of European power and control in the region was established, especially from the 18th century onwards, the assumed nature of whiteness was perpetuated in a partly fictional, invisible construction determined more by what it identified as absent in the other. Its assumed significance, derived from both Christian and rationalist argument, though tempered somewhat by Enlightenment thought, accrued over centuries, and was perpetually under construction. But whiteness in South Africa also became attached to competition and animosity between two distinct though inextricably entangled white groups, namely English-speaking and Afrikaans-speaking whites. Despite the latter having been regarded as a subaltern whiteness, their affinities were located
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in terms of privilege and race. Many however still claim to retain a distinctive whiteness (Steyn 2004: 144, in Passmoor 2009).5 Legislated after 1948, as an outcome of the process of apartheid, race6 became a divisive instrument of the State,7 in which race became ideologically attached. Whiteness was no longer an invisible norm but became visible both to itself and to others, inevitably inviting critical scrutiny. In this it was unlike conceptions of whiteness in the rest of the world (Steyn 2001). The apartheid foregrounding of race not as a scientifically measurable phenomenon but as a socio-legal construct, marginalised those deemed other (Posel 2001: 88, in Passmoor 2009). This implies that race was not denigrated per se. Rather race, and blackness in particular, remained attached, rather paternalistically, to postEnlightenment concepts of nature, and to desirable difference and symbolic meanings. However, attached to shifting perceptions of self and other located in cultural and historical change, whiteness was to be modified by political allegiance/ influence that further inflected its nature and affinities. Thus while whiteness was initially attached to the power of the centre, ruptures in the centre resulted in shifting perceptions of what whiteness was presumed to be or have been. Eichers contention that dress functions as a history of contact with other peoples (1995: 2) is an appropriate point of departure for what follows. The visual construction of dress and ethnicity among black South Africans has been shaped by various intercultural contacts, predominantly from the colonial centre. After centuries of exchange and indigenisationof cloth, dress and associated embellishmentsvarious encodings of black South African traditional dress have evolved, becoming, by the late 19th century, particularly distinctive. Black South African dress encodings have functioned within a complex framework of borrowing, in which the adoption of aspects of Western-derived dress, by at least the mid 20th century, became the norm for most black South African women in both rural and urban areas. In urban areas in particular the wearing and assimilation of Western-derived dress became attached to modernity, reflecting a degree of access to and absorption of Western education, lifestyle, aspirations and often the acceptance (at times selectively) of Christianity. Yet coincident with this, women in rural areas developed and retained specific dress patterns that were collectively embraced and which were attached to particular regions, groups and ethnicities. Their dress encoding drew heavily on European-derived goods, beads and cloth in particular, modified from the outset by particular design preferences and creative processes that irrevocably marked their selective assimilation into indigenous dress forms. The Western-based sourcing for the materials became subsumed into what has been termed traditional dress, attached to specific cultural groups in a range of manifestations that surpassed the intention and function of the Western materials used. These dress patterns were retained and often coincided
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with the wearing of elements of Western-derived dress for working wear or when entering urban centres but are, even in the present, still used for traditional ceremonial practice and official occasions. Significantly, these modes became more clearly defined towards the end of the 19th century when, in the hopes of gaining greater political and cultural recognition before Union in 1910, an emergent Pan-Africanism developed. Initially, from the 17th to mid 20th century, dress among white women living in South Africa mostly emulated prototypes from the mother countries from which they hailed, with more rudimentary dress variants occurring among wearers in the countryside (Strutt 1975). However, black South Africans were not the only peoples to draw on Western and other culturally specific goods, as many other South Africans have been prompted to assimilate and exchange dress items from other groups. The wearing of dress identified by white South African women as African and implicitly sourced in black South African dress codes, however complex their sourcing and origins, has emerged at particularly salient periods in the history of South Africa. From at least the 1940s onwards, aspects of what was perceived as indigenous African dress became a desirable source of emulation for some white South African women. The motivation for such dress choice varied, often located in a sense of self and place, a desirous affinity for Africa and the construction of a perceived Africanness, as well as being attached to emergent and, at times, flawed associations with patriotism and, later, nationalism. The result of a number of intersecting factorssuch as desirable individuation, overtures to exoticism and modernity, and attached to ostensible partisanship and liberalismsuch crosscultural dress conveyed both alterity and presumed interracial affinity. By the late 1960s, such cross-cultural dressing was even perceived as mildly subversive, attached to liberalism and partisanship in support of an oppressed majority and their struggle for independence. However, to locate such dress only in terms of an anthropological, ethnographic, social, political and historical framework is restrictive because several allied factors contributed to the reinforcing of such dress, not least the foregrounding and popularising of Africanness and indigeneity throughout the second half of the 20th century. This was reflected in the performing and visual arts and, further, was attached to the globalisation of the exotic and Africa. The impact of a local and international tourist market also contributed to the demand for indigenous dress, beadwork and functional items such as basketry and carving items that reflected a vernacular idiom. The embrace of African ethnic clothing by white South African women reflects an important moment in the recognition of black South African alterity, its wider manifestations and significance. This recognition assumes that black South
White Women in black clothing
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African cultural dress is a signifier of a specific ethnicity and its representatives. The acknowledgement of such dress embraces the visibility, rather than the invisibility of black women and their dress, and is, in effect, a more complex validation of who they are and what their dress represents. Their difference is sanctioned and upheld, validated as an authentic representation of a distinctive cultural expression in South Africa. Many of the white South African wearers of African dress were doubtless conscious of what their dress choice might convey but many were probably oblivious of the wider implications associated with their preferences. It is important therefore to situate this phenomenon both in terms of intentionality and reception. Currently, the phenomenon of intercultural dress exchange is subject to scrutiny in some quarters, in which problems attached to intercultural dress are questioned, regarded as originating in nave liberal rapprochement, altruism, othering and even appropriation. However, well aware that while current academic scrutiny might cynically deconstruct and even deride this phenomenon, the intention of the wearer has as much import as that of the critic. Given that the construction of self, however flawed, is located in a process of self-interrogation and incompleteness, crosscultural dressing marks a complex process of repositioning and renegotiating of self in relation to both a cultural and contextual self-interrogation. Attached to historical events, shifting ideologies and the veneer of inclusivity brokered both by modernity and globalisation, cross-cultural dress challenges and eludes the specificities of the particular and the exclusive in a multicultural context, upholding rather the porosity and interconnectedness of ostensible boundaries that demarcate race, ethnicity and nationhood. In a contemporary South African context these factors remain contested or are subject to revision, with the result that any traversing of perceived boundaries inevitably will give rise to criticism or, at the very least, a process of interrogation of intent and outcome. *** Composed of widely disparate peoples with complex and often loosely forged identities, for centuries South Africans (both colonised and colonial) have been variously prompted to assert their distinctiveness, not least in dress. Initially dominated by practicalities associated with covering, concealing and protecting the body, religio-cultural exigencies became equally important in the construction of dress. Further distinctiveness in dress occurred when people were confronted with change resulting from historical or political events, engendering both overt and covert displays of affinities with, or opposition to prevailing policies, institutions or groups. Coupled with prevailing strategies of inclusion, exclusion and even coercion, dress became a visible sign of proximity between races and a degree of
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intercultural engagement. In this way, dress came to function as a vital barometer of either cultural stability or social and ideological rupture in South Africa. But while processes of self-definition and cultural display in dress reflected change and even displacement, they also functioned as a counter to marginalisation and oppression, later becoming allied to the assertion of emergent individuation, exercises of selfdefinition and associated aspirations. The interface between foreign and indigenous peoples has had a relatively long history in South Africa. The inception of contact with other peoples originated with the emergence of trade from central Africa, the Arab world, the East and Europe, probably from as early as the 12th century. From the 17th century onwards, when more permanent European settlement occurred in South Africa, dress gradually came to demarcate difference, particularly in terms of race, ethnicity and even class. Yet even so, by the late 17th century Western dress included vast amounts of textiles sourced in the East, and many garment styles were sourced there as well. With the rise of a European presence at the Cape during the 18th century, many established European preferences in dress were introduced and adapted, originating primarily from the diverse communities that settled there. Prompted by a European diaspora of mainly Dutch, French, German and British migrants who sought better economic prospects, asylum from persecution, adventure and the prospect of rewarding proselytising in South Africa, early European migrants/ settlers were loosely allied in terms of their Western heritage. Their dress defined them historically and nationally/regionally, 8 but also distinguished them from a colonised other, marking the boundaries between them9 (Chapman, in Eicher 1995). Dress for the other was reinforced by European missionisation, and was attached to moral attributes and propriety. Ultimately, European dress reinforced colonial authority, celebrating cultural superiority and functioning as a marker of Western perceptions of civilisation. The response to these dress codes by indigenous peoples in South Africa varied, and this was reflected in dress patterns, cloth usage and embellishment. An increase in the use of European-sourced goods and the adaptations of second-hand clothing accrued largely in the mid to late 19th century, coincident with an increased entry of indigenous communities into the Western economy and labour market and the aggressive marketing of British and European goods from the industrial North. Significantly, their incorporation of Western goods has not been regarded as appropriation but rather as a result of organic assimilation, tempered, of course, by coercion. Black South African traditional dress codes are consequently not, in essence, technically indigenous, 10 but involve a process of selection, incorporation and adaptation located in an amalgam of materials and features originating primarily in European dress, its materials and even styles. 11 These indigenised dress encodings gradually became signs of cultural authentication. Womens bodies, and
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dress in particular, became repositories for tradition (Bridgewood, in Eicher 1995: 30), sustaining a sense of continuity as a counter to modernity and rupture in the face of enforced economic and cultural change.12 In just over a century and a half, these adaptations resulted in the establishing of traditional dress codes, reflected in specific cloth preferences, beadwork patterns, colour choices and combinations. Many of these have remained relatively stable and consistent, becoming associated with particular groups such as the amaZulu and the amaXhosa. But ongoing changes have been identified over the last century, as indicated below. More recent adaptations after 1994 are reflected in a burgeoning South African fashion marketa result of the reinvention and re-application of traditional styles as nationally and cross-culturally significant.13 For most indigenous peoples, 14 exposure to European dress codes was initially rare, other than in encounters in urban contexts or at rural mission sites and traders posts. Associated with notions of propriety, in some areas neck-to-knee covering was later legislated for all indigenes entering the urban colonial sphere. In mediating Western dress, traders who embarked into the interior, and along the east coast, in particular, established a selective market among peoples inhabiting the areas in which they plied their trade. They functioned as important culture brokers in that they ensured the perpetuation of certain preferences that were based on an awareness of, and response to, market needs. Not surprisingly, established indigenous dress codes were reinforced or altered as imported trade items and industrially produced goods were gradually absorbed. White settler dress codes were, in turn, also affected by trader holdings and the availability of goods these traders carried, with many items shared by both settler and indigene, especially with migrations from the Cape and eastern seaboard into the interior. This was particularly marked after the Voortrekker/ pioneer migrations in the 1830s. As an example, the shared use of blaudruk (isishweshwe), an indigo cloth sourced in Europe, Britain, America and Hungary, as well as Czechoslovakian beads, by Trekker, pioneer and indigenous groups, represented but some of these intercultural uses of materials (Leeb-du Toit 2005b). Thus while South Africa reflects a complex history of encounter and cultural exchange, an interconnectedness15 among its peoples was apparent from the outset, as individual and community were shaped by religious, economic and political interactions located in both indigenous and extraneous, mostly Western, sources. Such interaction, however, needs to be examined more closely as it was inevitably marked by disparities in power relations, misconceptions and appropriations that countered the ostensibly well meant civilising mission and moralising intentions of the colonial endeavour.
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Seen against a backdrop of complex tensions between European cultural predominance and competing ideological interests prevailing in South Africa, cultural identity in clothing marks the boundaries between self and other, in which each cultural group in contact defines itself (Chapman, in Eicher 1995: 16). To the colonised in South Africa, dress, whether organically sourced or inflected by European additions, defined cultural difference, foregrounding and marking the supremacy of specific ethnicity in contrast to that of other groups. Vested in these dress codes were deeply significant prioritory encodings that were rooted in ideas of prudery, gender, age-grade associations and changes in status and identity. 16 Dress that emulated Western prototypes represented either a point of entry into, or resistance to the colonial sphere, 17 reflecting not only mission- and colonial-inspired proximity and associated demands for propriety but also desirable emulation. 18 This is again best expressed in the usage of isishweshwe, originally predominantly worn by those deemed schooled or identified as Christian converts, but which has now assumed a widespread traditional and national connotation (Leeb-du Toit 2003). Dress, like culture, consists of boundaries that are ideologically and psychologically designed to individuate the self while also attaching intriguing remnants of intercontinental trade and cross-cultural absorption to heritage and identity. Initially the colonial centre dominated exchange patterns and values; this soon changed as settler communities asserted their dress priorities, as did cultures on the periphery that selectively absorbed Western cultural modes and products, shaping the nature of trade goods and implanting a sense of marked cultural particularity to their usage. In the process, the colonial product was irrevocably subverted, transforming it into a newly connoted article associated with otherness in terms of values and association.19 Thus, while dress denoted difference, it also signified potential proximity and exchange, reinforcing Chapmans reminder that fashions in dress often tend to move from the centre to the periphery (Chapman, in Eicher 1995: 15).20 Traders, too, contributed to this exchange and carried cloth and dress items shared by both coloniser and colonised, as a result of which early preferences based on cost and functionalism prevailed. In this dress, preferences and embellishments sourced in foreign cultural spheres also reflected economic wellbeing. The perception, therefore, that the use of cloth and clothing was only the result of coercion on the part of Western settlers, traders and missionaries is flawed. Representing only a partial truth, such contentions deny the presence of individual and collective preferences, the identification of values of association (in colour choice, for example) and the presence of alternative exigencies that shaped assimilation, such as national and regional affinities.
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As Eicher (1995) reminds, dress21 involves a process of self-definition and definition by others in terms of gender, and serves to provide social meaning, determining cultural identity in a specific community, distinctive both geographically and historically.22 However fixed, such definitions are fluid and based on the interplay of historical forces, where dress functioned as a silent but articulate voice, conveying complex aspects associated with its composition, reception and interpretation.
Challenges to prevailing cultural authority

Aspirations towards cultural authority and, later, nationhood marked one of the first major challenges to European colonial imperialism and centrality. Occurring largely in the 19th century, such challenges were variously expressed, not least in dress, by both dissident colonial and colonised. Ironically, Dutch pioneer dissidents in South Africa (later termed Afrikaners) and black African communities sought increasingly to isolate their identity from that of the British imperial centre by traversing established boundaries and inventing new or altered visual ethnicities. This contrasted with the aspirational absorption of European dress codes among urban dwellers, who were more prone to absorb mainstream preferences (Strutt 1975). Dress that fostered or became attached to aspirational (albeit abortive and problematic) national-idealist encodings flourished in the late 19th and early 20th century, ironically coincident with the accelerated refining of ethnic dress among black South Africans that was evident from the late 19th century onwards. While emulation of European, British and American prototypes23 persisted, some white communities developed variants of emergent national and ethnically specific dress codes for official display. Reflecting changing political and ideological frames of reference, from the mid 1870s an amalgam of predominantly Dutch settlers gradually began to define themselves as Afrikaners, their ideals in language, religion and culture reflected in the founding of the Genootskap van Regte Afrikaners (Society of Real Afrikaners) and later, in 1880, the Afrikaner Bond (Afrikaner Union). Increasing tensions between English- and Afrikaans-speaking settlers24 emerged prior and subsequent to the Anglo Boer War (also known as the South African War) (18991902), and after Union in 1910. Afrikaners sought to foreground their claims to equality and later supremacy in the political sphere by deploying several strategies to highlight their identity and aspirations. Recognising the value of deploying cultural signifiers to reinforce their integrity and status as a white community that embraced Africa, they wanted to construct a self-image that was distinct from the British, whom they and many of their European sympathisers regarded as exploitative and self-serving, imperialist capitalists.25
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By the turn of the century the rural Boer or Afrikaner woman upheld the ideals of womanhood, domesticity, propriety and religiosity, and this was located in both the ideals and dress of her female Voortrekker predecessors. In post-Trek communities, now auspiciously termed pioneer communities, the Boer woman in kappie (bonnet) and serviceable dress epitomised the indomitable and steadfast contributor to the Boer struggle during the Anglo Boer War. Her iconic image, depicted on the front pages of LAssiette au Beurre and Le Petit Journal, the French political/satirical journals, internationalised this image of the Boer woman (in her identifiable dress) as a victim of Queen Victorias indifference, Kitcheners intransigence and British imperialism in general. This dress also heralded the roots of a national (later Nationalist) paradigm that, from the 1920s onwards, was to be reinforced as epitomising resistance and indigenisation. Culturally positioning themselves in direct opposition to imperialism and the Anglophile liberalism reflected in the South African Party led by Jan Smuts, in 1938 thousands of men and women gathered at the opening of the Voortrekker Monument in what came to be identified as Afrikaner traditional dress, which originated in Voortrekker and pioneer dress codes. Attached to emergent political entrenchment by the Nationalist Party, this dress was sanitised and rendered ethnically exclusive, and was seen to embody particularised Nationalist affinities. Significantly, however, it has been discovered that several cloth types used by post-Trekker/pioneer women were shared by black South African women as well as by other marginalised groups. The use of isishweshwe, earlier widely known as bloudruk or blou sis, has been located in pioneer/post-Trek dress.26 This shared use of indigo and brown isishweshwe/bloudruk testifies to early shared cloth preferences, later to be discarded in the selective and conceptual reconstruction of Voortrekker and pioneer identity (Leeb-du Toit 2005a). It has also been ascertained that coloured communities in the Cape (at Genadendal) and also in the greater Kokstad area also wore this cloth type but that as soon as their status improved, and as black communities predominantly came to use this cloth, they discontinued their usage of it. In part, this cessation might have stemmed from class and race tensions that emerged increasingly in the post-war period, some informants suggesting that this shift occurred in the 1940s, and that it was possibly allied further to the improvement, both economic and educational, in the lives of coloured communities (Kopman, personal communication, 2009).27 While Voortrekker/pioneer dress reflected a minority identity, it became increasingly referenced by the State in the public and international sphere as typifying white South African identity, especially in the period from 1948 to 1980. The construction of a popular Voortrekker dress code soon emerged, becoming associated with Volkspele (folk games), dancing groups and cultural activities.28 By
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the 1930s, this was accompanied by the militaristic dress for males and females of the Voortrekker Youth Movement,29 a counter to British prototypes in the Scouts and Girl Guides. The construction of Voortrekker/pioneer dress and its assimilation into a national dress code after 1948 illustrates the coercion and co-option of dress as a signifier of national aspirations. Yet for many South Africans this dress encoding was perceived as controversial, insensitive and exclusionary, and was even ridiculed by Anglophile white liberals who maintained that its associations with a segregationist regime rendered it unsuitable as national dress. With the accelerated foregrounding of Afrikaner identity and emergent nationalism in the 1930 s, culminating in the rise to power of the Nationalist Party in May 1948, some Afrikaners initially elected to reflect on their African affinities in the interests of nation-building. In the political sphere, Governor-General ER Jansen reminded his followers that what distinguished them from others, the British in particular, was that they felt that they belonged to Africa and were shaped by its geography and cultural contexts. There were many ways in which this crosscultural rapprochement was identified, not least in expressions of engagement and belonging reflected in dress. But while such overtures towards indigenisation and multiculturalism initiated visual resistance to cultural exclusivity and dominance, at the same time appropriating or subverting propriety in dress encodings, they were premature and abortive. Surprisingly, the embracing of cross-cultural dress encoding was mooted as early as 1947, when in the Afrikaans womens journal Fleur30 it was suggested that indigenous African design located in the beadwork and grass weaving of the amaZulu and amaXhosa was desirable. Using examples from the collection of Dr Maria Stein-Lessing,31 an art historian from the University of the Witwatersrand in Johannesburg, it was suggested that indigenous designs were far more appropriate for Afrikaans women and were of such high quality that they should be substituted for inferior imports from abroad. Stein-Lessing, a German Jewess, was among the many members of the European diaspora who moved to South Africa before and after the war. She opened a commercial outlet, lAfrique, to market the beadwork and items she collected in the field. Stein-Lessings prominence and her perceptions of Africa and its cultural resources played a minor but crucial role in contributing to the foregrounding and celebration of local black South African creativity and designs. Many white South African women had already responded to the suggestion in Fleur, and in the 1950s beadwork similar to that shown in Fleur had become highly fashionable, available mainly at tourist outlets in Durban and its surrounds in present-day KwaZulu-Natal, as well as in the Eastern Cape.32 The sanctioning of such items coincided with cross-cultural hybridity in design and the visual arts,
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shaped earlier by the efflorescence of ethnography and anthropology in the early 20th century, where a romanticised affinity for African culture resulted in an accruing syncretism.33 Ironically, while indigenous African material culture was viewed nostalgically and as one with which white South Africans could identify, fears about emerging African modernity and black political aspirations, manifest more particularly in an urban context, remained disconcerting to many white South Africans. The binarism between the urban and the rural was reflected in both the political and ideological sphere, with the rural African representing the unspoiled native whose tradition and culture was viewed nostalgically. By the 1940s, as opposition to the apartheid state grew, located in the United, Liberal, and Communist parties and organisations such as the Black Sash, Race Relations and the South African Council of Churches (SACC), women in particular formed allegiances across cultural divides. This was expressed especially after the 1956 defiance by over 20 000 black women (supported by dissident white womens groups) who brought attention to their grievances by marching to the Union Buildings in Pretoria. Both subject to patriarchal dominancein the personal and economic spheremany white and black women found common ground in the private and interpersonal sphere, becoming increasingly allied in the political sphere, albeit in more liberal contexts. Emergent interest in international debates on womens rights and feminism marked such allegiances, as women in South Africa from all races began to realise their potential authority in the political and social spheres and in fostering equality and democratic principles. In their allied vision for a future free of discrimination and one that embraced fundamental human rights, cross-cultural allegiances were often profound and enduring. By the 1960s, many white South Africans felt estranged from all that was associated with the segregationist regime. Not wishing either to associate themselves directly with a colonial past or with a culturally exclusive white minority, they sought to ally themselves with an African identity and context. With political dissidence often subject to banning and restriction, white partisanship was reflected in bona fide organisations that addressed the alleviation of poverty and envisaged social upliftment, redress and political equality. Many of these organisations were dominated, and even initiated, by women from all races. Indicative of new intercultural support and engagement, for some dress came to signify a new alterity to the white mainstream in all spheres. Couched comfortably within a coincident and widespread international popular cultural trend marked by the assimilation of alternate ethnic dress that, since the 1960 s, had become associated with anti-establishment dissidence and protest, such dress was less noticeable at first because other African and Indian cloth and dress forms were widely worn. When local black South African traditions in clothing began to be
29
embraced by white women (and a few men) a clear partisanship was implied. This saw the appearance of Basotho blanket ponchos, isishweshwe and Xhosa garments (mostly skirts), and the wearing of traditional or tourist African (mostly Xhosa and Zulu) beadwork. Such dress included silk-screened cloth made by African women from the Evangelical Lutheran Church Arts and Crafts Centre at Rorkes Drift and this cloth was partly located in an amalgam of Swedish, Finnish and indigenous design. While Rorkes Drift cloth was designed by Zulu women from the region around Shiyane (Rorkes Drift), this cloth was mostly produced for export to the Nordic countries and for the more exclusive interior design outlets such as Afro Art in Stockholm and other urban centres, though it was also available locally at the Craftsmans Market in Hyde Park, initiated by Helen de Leeuw, and at Klaus Wasserthals stores in Pretoria. These markets had identified the designs as both African and modern, representing one of the first expressions of modern yet African design in a South African context. Dress across ethnic lines was generally the domain of women. Most women I have interviewed were from well educated backgrounds and many were, in addition, part of a conservative left. Jenny Aitchison, for example, initially wore and collected Indian prints, then African dress after she started teaching in the 1970s.34 Later she met and married John, an activist member of the Liberal Party who was subject to several banning orders by the State which restricted his movements, public communication and social interaction. In this context, her electing to wear African-sourced dress underlined a partisanship attached to his political stance and even assumed a subversive dimension in that it betrayed her support of the wider ramifications to which he was partythe struggle for democracy in South Africa. Many of her items of clothing were made from isishweshwe, a cloth that at the time came to be exclusively associated with the dress of black South African women. She notes: not only did I like the designs on the cloth [isisheweshwe] but by wearing items Id made from it I could align myself with a black majority which was marginalised and oppressed by apartheid policies, and could show respect for it, although the clothing I made was not exactly like that which blacks would have made. Wearing this cloth differentiated me from other members of the white minority that either supported the Nationalist Party or did nothing to resist it. It was a way of making a political statement without opening my mouth (Aitchison, personal communication, 2004).35 Her wearing of isishweshwe for maternity clothing also subscribed to a propriety of which she was initially unaware, as married or pregnant African women are expected to wear German print at some stage in their lives, usually when they are mature, signifying their status and authority as childbearing women or as respected mothers or matriarchs. Her material support of the plight of African women resulted in her ordering more traditional dress items from
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her aunt, a nurse who worked in the rural Eastern Cape (formerly Ciskei) and who commissioned local women to make clothing and beadwork for her. For women such as Aitchison, the wearing of items of African dress reflected an alterity and distinctive Africanised modernity that was oppositional and challenging to mainstream dress, culture and hegemony, rendering the action of the wearer potentially subversive.36 In this, white women were also addressing inequalities of race, gender and classin effect testing their independence and antiestablishment support of other women who were subject to dominance. I, for one, took several isishweshwe skirts with me as my version of a South Africanness when I was studying abroad in Italy between 1972 and 1974. Later, when I was studying in France in 1975, I was invited to attend South African embassy functions in Paris where my sister worked briefly as a translator. I made certain that I wore my red Xhosa skirt which I had specifically asked my mother to send to me. I believed my dress choice to be intentionally subversive, as I chose not to identify myself with the governing state while briefly in its enclave abroad. However, I was also only too aware that the wearing of ethnic dress had become highly fashionable in certain circles back home, not least in enlightened or even mainstream academic and artistic spheres. My clothing at home would have designated me as being arty, doubtless liberal, probably intellectual and only then as partisan. Little did I realise at the time that in wearing ethnic dress I was also in part alluding to difference and segregation, especially if viewed in the context of the newly formed Transkei homeland from which items such as mine were being mass produced and then marketed in boutiques in the Transvaal and Cape provinces. The establishing of the homelandsareas demarcated and isolated politically and economically from other areas in South Africawas intended for culturally specific black South Africans, but inevitably these areas were tainted by exclusionary racist policies. Thus while ethnicity was celebrated by white women wearing black clothing, an ambiguous and complicit reading also applied. Did such cross-cultural dressing and overtures to Xhosa ethnicity suggest a sanctioning of separation and difference, or was it a tacit sign of empathy for an artificial homeland and a protest against the associated segregationist policies imposed by the State? Was I inadvertently, while celebrating my appreciation for, and interest in traditional cultural groups and ethnicity, unwittingly aligning my display of self with an appropriation of the stereotypical African as an unchanging, fixed, ethnically specific dress encoding? While intercultural dress encoding had an implicit reading in a liberal and oppositional sphere from the 1960s onwards, the State too, sanctioned ethnic referencing in dress, art and culture. In 1960, fifty years of Union were celebrated, to be followed in 1961 by the declaration of a Republic of South Africa and a final cession from colonial Britain. In what followed, in a process of nation-state
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formation, local ethnic identity and dress from the perceived ethnic periphery again became an object of interest and celebration at the centre as an apparent counter-current to the predominance of Western and, in particular, British imperialism (Chapman, in Eicher 1995: 20).37 Chapman maintains that this can occur only when a group is no longer a threat to the centre, consequently becoming an object of romantic interest (Chapman, in Eicher 1995: 20). This, interestingly, reflects the situation in Australia and New Zealand where first-nation minority culture has also been appropriated as an adjunct to, or in definition of national and even white settler identity. In the 1960s, within the context of a markedly different cultural and political sphere, dress was used by the South African state to suggest an idealised co-operation between the races. Yet within the confines of a segregationist context, with implicit tensions and mutual suspicion, such suggestions were suspect. Belying an ominous strategy of exclusion, in 1961 the apartheid state launched its Homelands or Bantustan policy in earnest, resulting in several areas with assumed ethnic exclusivity becoming demarcated for so-called independence in enforced segregated areas administered by local black authorities. In the process, the States celebration of their regional and ethnic distinctiveness, reinforced in their independence celebrations, was widely publicised officially, locally and internationally. Much as this policy has been justifiably maligned from all quarters, to many Africans and Nationalists (English and Afrikaans speaking) this quasiindependence represented at least some degree of autonomy. However problematic and corrupt the governance of the Bantustans was to become, the envisaged economic benefit to these rural communities was welcomed. Bantustans received preferential development grants that sought to retain production and labour within their geographical confines, curbing migration to the urban centres. This gave rise to the development of several entrepreneurial ventures in the Bantustans, among which was the manufacture of traditional clothing. The so-called flagship of the Bantustan policy was the former Transkei (now a part of the Eastern Cape) which gained self-governance between 1972 and 1976 (Davenport 1991). In the 1970 s, Xhosa identity and ethnicity was foregrounded as the prevailing culturally specific identity in the region, in the process marginalising other regional groups such as the Thembu, Mfengu and others. As a result, Xhosa attire, in particular their skirts, were produced in large quantities in centres sponsored by, among others, the Xhosa Development Company (XDC), intended for tourist centres, ethnic boutiques and craft outlets frequented predominantly by a white clientele. Currently Xhosa and Tembu dress has again been foregrounded in designs by fashion houses such as Sun Goddess and Stoned Cherrie.38
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In a 1973 Department of Information state-sponsored publication, Panorama, I located several images of this new ethnic dress vogue; for example, a white mother and daughter wear Xhosa-based ethnic skirts of K-sheeting (formerly known as kaffir sheeting). This loosely woven cotton cloth is still made today, and is now pre-dyed in keeping with local African preferences. Set against a backdrop of increasing segregation, such ideals of intercultural exchange are testimony to the convergence of nationalist, subversive or empathetic signage. Regardless of her intentions, the white wearer was unwittingly engaged in appropriation and a romanticism that was, however, also allied to segregation and white dominance located in geographic and economic separation and enforced independence and interdependent strategies. Such clothing was, however, soon to assume greater political currency associated with the liberation struggle. A fact that is little known, except to those who observed his departure for incarceration after his conviction at the treason trial in 1964, is that Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela elected to wear his traditional royal Tembu garments when he was being led into prison. Significantly, the photograph of him wearing this garment was suppressed in South Africa for over thirty years until after his release in the early 1990s, and it is widely assumed that the renewed popularity of his clothing only ensued when he became the first president in a democratic South Africa. While it is important to locate the wearing of African dress by white women within a shifting political framework, another factor that contributed substantially to this phenomenon was located in the performing arts. The visibility of African traditional dress codes was particularly noticeable during the 1960s, when several major theatrical productions contributed to its renewed appeal. In 1959, the production of King Kong, a highly popular jazz musical, was performed at the University of the Witwatersrand to a racially mixed audience, and this, among other factors, prompted a widespread demand for Zulu and Xhosa beadwork. This was followed in 1972 by Umabatha (by Welcome Msomi) and in 1974 by Ipi Tombi (by Bertha Egnos Godfrey and her daughter Gail Lakier). The impact of these productions was considerable both in South Africa and abroad. They contributed to an immediate appreciation of black South African jazz, popular and traditional music and dance and, not least, aspects of African dress. The dress of the members of the cast was a rudimentary interpretation of Xhosa dress (with Zulu cultural overtures) and these variants were gradually adapted for a white urban and tourist market. But the wearing of cross-cultural dress remained fraught with historical and situational subtexts and a range of complex perceptions and intentions, and was subject to approbation as well as criticism. Veronica Baxter, the daughter of traders in the former Transkei, recalls that she wore isishweshwe dresses from an early age. Within a trader context this dress was perhaps not unusual as the cloth was carried
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in the store and her mother, who made items of clothing for the rural community, naturally used remnants of the cloth for her daughters clothing. But with her entry into a white school context Baxter was ridiculed by her peers, in a way that was tantamount to racist utterances, for wearing German print dresses [of isishweshwe] (Baxter, personal communication 2002).39 My own experience in wearing isishweshwe reflects on the ways in which my intention solicited a very poignant response that has remained with me to this day. Shortly before I left to study abroad in 1972, I passed some Sesotho-speaking, working-class women on my way to work. 40 One of them stopped and complimented me (in Afrikaans) on the traditional isishweshwe skirt I wore and thanked me for wearing their clothing. In thanking me they seemed to suggest that by wearing their clothing I was in effect identifying with them and with their cultural preferences and, for me, their significance. Given the year, 1972, on the cusp of major change in the region and within a fomenting context of dissent among urban Africans, this affirmation and support of my wearing isishweshwe was particularly poignant. Not only did their comments make me realise the impact my wearing isishweshwe had or might have but it also repositioned my intention in continuing to wear isishweshwe in the future. In wearing the skirt, I was, for the first time, given an insider perspective on what contemporary African women identified in my wearing of their clothing. Although the attitudes of these working-class women were inspiring for me and suggested a degree of partisanship between us, the opinions of my peers were less supportive. My colleagues, academics at a law faculty where I worked, were bemused and tolerant, aware that I was perhaps a nave, politicised leftist who often engaged in political debate with them. Later, in the South African embassy in Paris, wearing a similar skirt, and on another occasion a Xhosa skirt, I was regarded as ideologically suspect. 41 Heather Schreiner, originally from Britain but married to a South African, believed such dressing to be pretentious. A member of Amnesty International and the Anti-Apartheid Movement (AAM) she regarded her tasks as an activist as real work, as opposed to white posturing by pseudo-liberals in South Africa who assumed that their dress conveyed their political partisanship. 42 As Hendrickson reminds us, Bodily signifiers present an ever-present semiotic possibility for expressing identity and intention, for asserting the legitimacy of the status quo or subverting it[]Treatments of the body surface allude to linkages between oneself and people, power and knowledge beyond the immediate, local context (1996: 1415). In recent years, in a process of nation-state formation, local ethnic identity again became an object of interest and celebration, as Xhosa and Zulu ethnic dress and associated traditionalism became politicised (in relation to the first democratic
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elections) and then depoliticised in the wake of internecine conflict in South Africa. For a time, in the interests of national reconciliation and reconstruction, it was even regarded as suspect and regressive. Currently, fashion designers have reclaimed traditional dress codes and fabric, incorporating South African dress from all racial groups into mainstream design, in the process creating a national encoding that has emerged in the wake of over a century of complex interfaces shaped by colonialism. My own assumptions about the role of dress in cross-cultural borrowings are doubtless flawed. I was perhaps mistaken about the presumed partisan readings and shared idealism, even nationalism, located in dress. By the late 1980 s I, too, was later prone to discredit some white borrowers as co-opting ethnicity, as a politically correct overture and empathetic partisanship that was seldom translated into actual support for the disempowered. For some time during the udlame (the internecine struggle, especially rampant in KwaZulu-Natal), the wearing of ethnic insignia of any kind became an anathema as it appeared to ally one to Inkhatha and not the ANC in the region. But as this ethnic moratorium receded, by the mid to late 1990 s cross-cultural referencing again became attached to utopian ideals of emerging nationhood. But dress across ethnic demarcation, whatever its sourcing, has a problematic history and reception, especially in the West and not least in South Africa where difference has been contentiously foregrounded or marginalised for centuries. It was noted by Joanne Eicher, that in several instances where those 43 who dressed in local clothing out of sympathy with the people or who either befriended nationalists or sided with radicals advocating protest were termed traitors by their countrymen (Eicher 1995). In a South African context similar tensions prevailed at specific times when either the wearer, originator, peer or viewer were ideologically estranged or at least dubious of the others intentions. My research has unearthed some ambiguities that require further scrutiny. Ultimately, dress and the self is a condition of disguise that can move forward and backwards in terms of who we are and also in terms of who we would want to be in a vastly changing frame of reference (Nochlin 1989). It has been suggested that the clothes we wear affect the way we think, but the inverse also holds, in that the way we think is reflected in the clothes we wear, a conscious expression of what we wish to convey about ourselves and how we wish to be perceived. While our dress choices shift, associated with changing preferences attached to time, place and affiliation, they remind us of moments when what we elected to wear was attached to particular ideals, partisanship or defiance. These remain a visual reference to an ethos and its expression as one of the many elusive, embedded dimensions of our being.
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Notes
1 This chapter originated as a paper first delivered to the British Design History Society Conference: University of Ulster, Belfast, Ireland. 39 September 2004. The use of the terms black and white are problematised. 2 3 Significantly, psychoanalysis regards the recognition of heterogeneity as one of the few positive results of post-colonial trauma (Lopez 2005: 156). Ratcliffe maintains that much of the worlds population regards race as an empirical truth. However, to some, it may be little more than a convenient set of descriptors; to others it represents something considerably more sinister. It is a way of ordering groups hierarchically and deterministically, that is the inferiorization of certain groups is deemed to apply in all places and for all time (Ratcliffe 2004: 27). 4 In South Africa, the concept of whiteness is located in the tradition of prevailing colonial hierarchies. In utilising race as a means to legitimate the domination of other peoples, whiteness in South Africa came to be ideologically attached, further realised in exercising control over most systems of knowledge. Through this control of knowledge, Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za whiteness was able to define and change its others to suit the model of humanity which was regarded as the norm by European and white standards. Because all structures of knowledge production and critique were controlled by white power structures, whiteness itself became incapable of being scrutinised as an active force in the development of cultural norms and identities. Instead, through processes of control and domination by whites, whiteness itself has become somewhat of a tacit norm, a hegemony that until recently has been beyond criticism, and will remain beyond mainstream criticism until the white centres relinquish their power to new centres of ideological discourse (Passmoor 2009). The re-inscription of race under apartheid resulted in a formal re-inscription of race that inevitably affected race relations (Schutte 1995: 3). In Europe and North America, whiteness was associated with superiority and a hegemonic norm, invisible to critique and scrutiny (Passmoor 2009). 5 Passmoor (2009) notes: It is widely regarded that the rise of extreme Afrikaner nationalism in the early 20th century is a reaction to the defeat of the Boers at the hands of the British in the South African War of 18991902 As a result the divide between the Afrikaner and English ethnic groups has been perceived to be deep enough to be untranslatable (Steyn 2001: 147). 6 Perhaps not surprisingly, in present-day South Africa, the State has retained the polarising terminology used for the classification of peoples which is dependent on their racial type, despite its rejection of racism and overtures to inclusivity, patriotism and nationalism. Race has again been foregrounded in view of the policies of redress that are central to current economic reform and restitution. 7 In reference to apartheid, Posel notes that it also had a lot to do with the systematic bureaucratization and normalization of race. With the advent of apartheid (which built on white supremacist foundations laid decades earlier), South Africa became one of the most thoroughly racialized social orders in the world (Posel 2001: 88). 8 Early settlers of European origin had little that was distinctive other than that which identified them as colonial, with their mother-country preferences further marking their choice of clothing. In addition, status, too, was displayed by the amount and quality of the
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cloth acquired, largely reflected in the lighter cloth of those settler women whose tasks did not include or were not restricted to labour activities but who had the leisure to indulge in other pastimes (Strutt 1975). 9 Traders variously carried cloth intended for native trade and often at the same time for trader, farmer and trekboer or trekker wives. Ironically, itinerant traders eventually catered for the rural African and trekker/farmer communities where shared preferences in less expensive, functional and essential goods developed. 10 The essential components that constitute both settler/colonial and ethnic dress are derived from extraneously sourced goods, modified to express different cultural functions and meanings. 11 Hendrickson points out that Africa and the West are mutually engaged in a semiotic web in which meanings and readings are negotiated (Hendrickson 1996: 1). Africa uses Western-manufactured products to shape its identity while colonial settlers and the West have equally drawn on African ethnicities in dress to define their shifting indigenisation and forging of an indigenous identity. However, while European modes prevailed, there is increasing evidence of the impact of the large body of migrants from the East who settled in the Cape and later in Natal. These originally included slaves, political refugees and Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za dissidents in the Cape and, in the late 19th century, passenger and indentured Indians into the region of Natal. Their influence remains considerable in terms of beadwork, patterns, cloth preferences and even the early use of indigo and other cotton cloth (Leeb-du Toit, SAAAH, 2003). 12 Such authenticity in the face of imperialism, while modernity is being negotiated by men, resulted in dress reflecting a counter to modernity and rupture, conveying group identity and implicit stability and wealth. 13 Colonial encounters precipitated a change in the organically sourced dress of black groups in the region. The first encounter with such communities was the domain of the missionary or trader. Both church access and conversion or entry into colonial towns required neck-to-knee covering, realised through the supply of cheap cotton cloth or being given discarded or second-hand, previously white-owned, clothing. These offcasts, together with desirable emulation, precipitated subsequent copyist modes reflected variously in Xhosa dress, the later widespread use of isishweshwe by various cultural groups and the use of Western clothing styles. The adaptation and development of these clothing styles was located in the close collaboration of traders and missionary wives. The former supplied a limited range of cloth and other materials, later producing readymade garments to African women, while the latter assisted in sewing instruction and encouraging propriety in dress. 14 Information on dress preferences among indigenous peoples at the time is scant, identifying mostly the wearing of organic materials, fibres and hide as protective covering. Early studies of the amaZulu peoples, for example by Bryant (1965) and Krige (1950), reinforce this evidence. 15 At the August symposium held in Durban to discuss the publication of Was It Something I Wore?, Sarah Nuttall elected to choose a more discursive term for the interface between peoples in South Africa which she terms Entanglement. (This is also the title of her 2009 publication). The term suggests a matrix of encounter and interaction, and critically examines current aspects of this interface.
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16 Many white settlers and traders were well versed in traditions of propriety as established, for example, among the amaZulu, where, in terms of the ukuhlonipha traditions (of patriarchal respect), women in particular were subject to strict laws regarding body covering, materials to be used and age-grade associations with dress. As a result, the absorption of aspects of European dress reflected continuities in indigenous contexts, albeit in different materials and goods. 17 This cloth was assimilated within a relatively short period in the late 19th century when, in various cultural groups, cloth was regarded as central to the cultural and gendered expression of indigenous clothing. 18 In this, dress conveyed the relationship between different groups, and expressed aspirations to succeed, ethnic pride, or a challenge to hegemony. 19 I also challenge the perception that the usage of cloth and clothing was only the result of coercion on the part of Western settlers, traders and missionaries. Representing only a partial truth, such contentions deny the presence of individual and collective preferences and choice, the possibility of association (implicit in colour choice, for example) and the presence of alternative exigencies that shaped its usage, such as national and regional affinities and allegiances. Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za 20 Then they are replaced by another centre and the same occurs again. Here there is an indifference to boundaries yet at the same time there is a perceived sameness and continuity. The perceiving culture borrows from the perceived. The perceived culture is regarded as inconstant, unreliable, irrational, colourful, given to excess or inadequacy (Chapman, in Eicher 1995: 16). 21 Eicher considers that all aspects of dress are to be embraced as one phenomenon, including cloth, ornament, music, smell and so on. 22 The ideas behind ethnicity connect to the preservation of an identity for individuals that links to a meaningful heritage (Eicher 1995: 4). Ethnicity is based on self-definition and definition by others, but is largely fluid given that groups move in time and space. In this way ethnic dress helps to position a person at a given time and place. 23 It was not unusual for this derivativeness to be direct because, even up until the 1920 s, it was common for clothing to be purchased from catalogues (such as those of Fortnum and Mason) in which villagers could buy mail order clothing, shoes and other items. 24 This tension was rooted in the departure in 1838 of large groups of Voortrekkers from the main site of settlement in the Cape. As British imperialism sought to include Boer Republics in its colonial empire, these tensions flared again in the Anglo Boer War and again, in the political sphere, throughout the 20th century. 25 An emergent Afrikaner nationalism saw General Herzog challenge British allegiance, with this challenge manifest in opposition to the war effort in the First and, later, the Second World War, with the result that Afrikaner nationalists increased their political force. 26 Examples of this dress may be seen at the Bloemfontein Museum, the National Cultural History Museum in Pretoria and the Voortrekker Museum (part of the Msunduzi Museum complex in Pietermaritzburg). 27 Kopman, E, personal communication with JC Leeb-du Toit, September 2009. 28 Versions of 19th-century settler dress, in new fabrics such as pastel nylon, were worn at cultural occasions. The constructedness of Voortrekker dress between 1930 and the 1960s saw the emergence of variants in plain and pastel colours that embraced contemporary
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synthetic cloth. Such was their national profiling that by the 1950s this dress code, given its sourcing in military and settler dress codes in general, came to be regarded as a South African national dress, with many cultural representatives from South Africa wearing such dress, including at the Miss World competitions. 29 The Voortrekker Youth Brigade was founded in the 1930s with then Governor General, ER Jansen, as one of its founder members. With their motto hou koers (keep direction) they galvanised the Afrikaner youth to develop their skills in the interests of building the Afrikaner nation. 30 From its inception Fleur was regarded as central in mediating the ideals of Afrikaner womanhood, ideals supported by Calvinism. 31 Nessa Liebhammer curated an exhibition of some of the items collected by Stein-Lessing at Museum Africa, Johannesburg, in 2009. 32 There has always been a degree of cultural crossing. South African holiday-makers frequented the tourist beaches and sites on the eastern seaboard in what is presently KwaZulu-Natal and purchased beadwork and basketry as holiday souvenirs. Ivys in Durban, with other outlets countrywide, was well known as a primary source of ethnic beadwork, tourist carvings and so on. Increasingly, in regions such as KwaZulu-Natal, Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za Zulu women initiated the marketing of beadwork at the beachfronts throughout the region, contributing substantially to a national tourist exposure to Zulu beadwork traditions. 33 In part this was recognised, too, by many immigrant designers in the ceramics field as well as in jewellery and crafts. Inspired by 1950s modernism these designers were well versed in an ethno-cultural syncretism that had emerged in the post-war years, as also evidenced in Sweden and Germany, and, in South Africa, developed further by expatriates from Europe. 34 She saw the prints in a local Indian-owned store that she passed en route to her workplace (personal communication, 2005). 35 Gertrude Strauss (a publisher) claims that she wore such dress as part of an appreciation of its functional qualities and its beauty. Her mother-in-law, however, wore such dress in a politicised context. As a member of the Black Sash, she and other members allied themselves visually to the cause of black resistance by wearing clothing that distinguished them from other whites and that signified their empathy with African women in particular (personal communication, 2005). 36 Aitchison J, personal communication with JC Leeb-du Toit, Pietermaritzburg 2004. 37 King George IV begins to wear Highland dress, Parisian salon society starts to take an interest in ancient Breton verse, and so on (Chapman, in Eicher 1995: 19). 38 The development of a quasi-ethnic rooted dress code also occurred in the peripheral fashion industry as traders such as Helen de Leeuw and the African Art Centre developed a dress code of loose-fitting kaftans and ethnically sourced pinafores that utilised local cloth and Swedish and Finnish cotton and woollen textiles. De Leeuw also favoured the use of indigo isishweshwe and can be counted among the first to launch a range of clothing for women, men and children in this cloth, setting a trend that was widely emulated at the time. 39 Baxter V, personal communication with JC Leeb-du Toit, Pietermaritzburg 2002. 40 I was about to leave for Italy, where I was the recipient of an exchange scholarship to study Art History at the Scuola Internazionale dellArte in Florence, and later at the Ecole du Louvre in Paris where I did a postgraduate courses in Museology and Restoration.
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41 It is quite disconcerting to recall the extent to which personal opinions and criticism of the State rendered one suspect at the time. One of the staff linked to the military attach was convinced that my sister and I were suspect, and my sister was later indicted and her desk searched. Suspected of being a communist, and having been a member of the liberal/left NUSAS (the National Union of South African Students) when a student at Wits, my sister was on one occasion warned that on her return she would never be allowed to teach again in South Africa, given her dissident political views. 42 Schreiner H, personal communication with JC Leeb-du Toit, Pietermaritzburg 2003. 43 Eicher (1995) cites five womena poetess, a wife, a missionary, a nurse and an admirals daughter.
References
Bryant AT (1965) Olden times in Zululand and Natal: Containing earlier political history of the Eastern-Nguni clans. Cape Town:Struik Davenport TRH (1991) South Africa: A modern history. London and Cape Town: Macmillan Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za Eicher J (1995) Dress and ethnicity: Change across space and time. New York: Berg Publishers Eicher J & Erekosima TU (1995) Why do they call it Kalabari? Cultural authentication and the demarcation of ethnic identity. In J Eicher (Ed.) Dress and ethnicity: Change across space and time. New York: Berg Publishers Hendrickson H (Ed.) (1996) Clothing and difference. Embodied identities in colonial and postcolonial Africa. Durham and London: Duke University Press Krige EJ(1950)The social system of the Zulus. Pietermaritzburg: Shuter and Shooter Leeb-du Toit JC (2003) White women in black clothing. Paper presented at the South African Association of Art Historians Conference Durban. July, 2003. Leeb-du Toit JC (2005a) Isishweshwe/ujamani: Indigo cloth in South Africa. Paper presented at the Design History Society Conference, London Metropolitan University (35 July 2005). Leeb-du Toit JC (2005b) Indigo in South Africa: Isishweshwe in context. Paper presented at the Dress in Southern Africa Conference, University of KwaZulu-Natal (1012 September) Lopez AJ (2005) Postcolonial whiteness: A critical reader on race and empire. New York: New York University Press Nochlin L (1989) Women, art and power: And other essays. London: Thames and Hudson Passmoor R (2009) Understanding Whiteness in South Africa with specific reference to the art of Brett Murray. Unpublished MAFA dissertation, Centre for Visual Art, University of KwaZulu-Natal, Pietermaritzburg Posel D (2001) Race as common sense: Racial classification in twentieth-century South Africa. African Studies Review 44(2): 87113. Accessed 19 August 2009, http://www.jstor.org/ stable/525576 Ratcliffe P (2004) Race, ethnicity and difference. New York: Open University Press Schutte G (1995) What racists believe. USA: Sage Publications Steyn M (2001) Whiteness just isnt what it used to be. Albany: State University of New York Press Strutt D (1975) Fashion in South Africa, 16521900: An illustrated history of styles and materials for men, women and children, with notes on footwear, hairdressing, accessories and jewellery. Cape Town: Balkema
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3 Stories fluttering in the wind: How clotheslines write our lives

Hourig Attarian
The mark of a good woman, used to say my grandmother, Zohra, is how she hangs her laundry. I was ten when my paternal grandmother, Zohra, came to live with us. She was a petite, headstrong woman, hardened and somewhat embittered by her lot in life. When she moved in with us, she was quick to establish her authority as supreme matriarch over what she deemed as the two most important realms in our housethe kitchen and the laundry room. A smart woman, before long she realised she had to share her command in the kitchen with my mother. However, under no circumstances would she relinquish her role as woman-in-chief of the laundry room. Doing laundry and managing the weekly wash of clothes and linens was an elaborate ordeal in my childhood days. Laundry rooms almost always doubled as bathrooms in Beirut houses. We were lucky to have two in our house, so that one could be consecrated completely to this most important of household tasks. In one corner stood a tall metal cauldron-like structure, the quintessential linen boiler every self-respecting Beirut household had to own. Ours worked on propane gas. I can still see the bubbles of the boiling water, my grandmother Zohra picking the piles of bed linens from a wash basin with wooden boiler tongs and gently setting them in the boiler, the smell of soap bubbles and steam rushing through my nostrils, and I remember longing so much to be given the privilege of stirring the wash in the boiler with those oversized pincers, with the full force of my tiny arms. Step away, step away, my grandmothers voice would alert me, as she picked up the dripping hot linens from the boiler with the tongs and, in a sweeping circular motion, dropped them into the washer in the other corner of the room. Almost always sizzling hot droplets of water would singe my bare feet, but I would still not budge from my spot in the doorway of the bathroom. There was too much fun to be had in standing barefooted with soapy water all around, steam enveloping my body, watching clothes spinning furiously first left then right, with water gushing out of the washing machine with every feverish turn of the spinning wheel.When the cycle died down as abruptly as it had started, my grandmother lifted the soaking clothes into the spinner, where they would spin, spin, spin frantically, until all the water was squeezed out. Then in would go my grandmothers hand again, against the porous walls of the spinner to peel away the clothes that had stuck to its walls with full force. She would
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place them neatly in piles in the wash tub, ready to go to the balcony to be hung in equally neat rows. This is where my real lesson in life would start. Almost all apartments in Beirut were wrapped with balconies on all sides. The laundry lines, which were metal or plastic wires, hung from two parallel metal rods and were adjusted usually to the balcony railings on the kitchen side of the house. Thus, the laundry would be hung away from prying eyes on the street, usually facing the other kitchen-side balconies of neighbouring buildings. My grandmother seemed to have a silent pact with the weather, especially during the rainy days of winter, when there would be strategic sunshine breaks during the day, to enable her to pace the various cycles of boiling, washing and spinning with hanging the laundry to dry in a timely fashion. And so, the wash tub arrived on the balcony, with me in tow, eager to discover the secret of those hanging lines. No one is to see from outside what goes on inside your house, expounded grandma Zohra, as she passed a damp cloth over the laundry rails with one skilful stroke. This is the equivalent of how not to hang your dirty linen in public for all to see, I am to understand later, as I revisit these laundry hanging episodes in my memory. First you hang the bed linen on the line furthest away from you. Make sure to hang like colours with each otherwhites with whites, coloured ones, progressively in their shades. Never, never mix colours and whites. And use the laundry pegs economically. Three pegs for two pieces, so that each laundry piece is attached to the other. It would look so much better and neater from the outside. Make sure that when you take out the piece from the tub, you first unfold it right outside the rails, then flap it, stretch it, stretch it, stretch it, then flap it again. That way you even out the creases and it will be less work when ironing. See, how Im doing it? Now you fasten the pegs. Hand me that next bed sheet. I watched with eyes wide open as the sheets stretched out under her puny arms, one neatly next to the other. Her all-white sheets, then my colourful and flowery quilt covers. I loved how the wind waved my green and yellow flowers in the sun. Once you have created this linen wall with the sheets, you can then hang the rest of your wash with ease of mind. You know no one will be able to see the rest of your laundry. Now hand me the pillow cases and towels, her voice commanded. I can see that no one will be able to see our shirts and pants and dresses and socks and stockings and underwear. No one will be able to penetrate the innermost secrets of our family. Now it is the turn of the pants. Hang them inside out, so the pockets can dry easily. The shirts, you have to flap and stretch them out well, then hang them bottom up. Dont forget, three pegs for every two shirts. Same as the sheets. And dont forget not to mix the colours here as well. First the white shirts, then the coloured ones, in progression of shades. Now were ready for those undershirts. Have you flapped them well? You can hang those either from the shoulder straps or right under the arms, or even bottom up from the waist. If you hang them bottom up, you can use three pegs instead of four. And they will make yet another steady cover wall for whats to come next. Yes, now you can finally hang the underwear, almost on your last laundry line, together with the socks and stockings. Make sure you hang the sock pairs together, right next to each other. We dont want to go looking for pairs when were folding them.
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I watched silently, making frantic notes in my head. Since I rarely did other chores in the house, I came to enjoy this new learned task. It became one of my early lessons in aesthetics watching out for matching colours and shapes, striving for that perfect line. On days when there was a particularly big wash, all three generations of women in our familymy grandmother, my mother and mewould be on the kitchen balcony, hanging the laundry together, chatting and laughing, my mother and grandmother complimenting me on a neatly-hung piece of clothing, or showing me the tricks of the trade in flapping, stretching and hanging. Reaching out to the furthest lines for the sheets was always the most difficult for me. My mother would take care of those and leave me the closer lines. My grandmother, however, eager never to lose a teaching opportunity, would comment on the rights and wrongs of wash and laundry, pointing out examples of each on the neighbours laundry lines. It was thus that I learned to gaze at clotheslines closely, watching them transform into lifelines, trying to guess and imagine personality types, likes, dislikes, even inklings of family stories or secrets, especially if laundry were left dancing out in the wind, without the protective barricade of sheets and quilt covers. My grandmothers favourite example of the epitome of laundryhood was in our adjacent building. She often wondered how the young housewife with two young children managed to have impeccable laundry lines almost daily, the wash hanging in perfectly symmetrical straight lines, shining brilliantly white under the sun. Those were during the difficult days of the war years in Beirut, with daily electricity and water shortages. Surely, this young housewife would have to be the best womanhood could offer, if her laundry was a gateway to her self. Yet, tragedy reigned in that household in the form of a gambling and alcoholic husband and signs of ongoing domestic violence. The laundry line had become her only control, her only hold on life. That is how I came to understand that clotheslines can also hide as much as tell the stories of our lives. Laundry lines also bore witness to survival and defiance. My maternal grandparents lived in close proximity, in the apartment below us. My maternal grandmother, Tefarig, hung her laundry on their veranda, on clotheslines that were stretched higher up, from wall to wall, instead of from the usual rods on the balcony railing. Hanging the wash there meant strenuous exercise for your neck and arm muscles. One calm sunny afternoon, while my grandmother Tefarig was busy fastening the laundry pegs on a wet nightdress, three shells landed in almost immediate succession in the courtyard across the street. My grandmothers arms stayed frozen upright as her ears were filled with a stinging noise. A few minutes after the clamour in the street had died down, we were all hovering over my shocked grandmother. She kept looking at us, bewildered. What are you saying? I cant understand you. I cant hear you. Why are you talking in muted voices? There is a din in my ears. I cant hear you. My head feels hot. I left the wash on the balcony. Its all wet. I was hanging my nightdress. Girl, go and get the laundry pegs. Bring the tub in. It was very hot outside. I could feel it in my hair. She brushed her thick grey hair with one sweep, still giving us a confused look. And all we wanted to do was hug and cuddle her. My mom went out on the veranda to do as her mother had asked and came back in almost immediately, laughing, my grandmothers nightdress in her hands. It had a big gaping hole right above where my grandmothers head must have reached while
stories fluttering in the Wind
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hanging it. Grandmother Tefarig was surely born under a lucky star for not being taller, or else the shell shrapnel piercing her nightgown would have lodged in her forehead, instead of just brushing her hair and hitting the wall behind her. The laughter rang out louder in the sitting room. My grandmother was alive; the only victim on that hot day on our street was her nightgown. In those same war years, my mother perfected the act of laundry hanging and took it to new heights. Every time the sound of shells would fill the hours of the day without warning, she would resort to unexpected washing bouts, even though it would not be the designated laundry day of the week. My grandmother Zohra would look forgivingly at those transgressions. She understood the deep urge that led to them. Just as calmly and serenely my mother would then walk out onto the balcony and hang the clothes, without haste, with precision and a sharp eye to colours and straight lines. Her defiant act of normalcy was her guardian shield against the madness of the destruction around us. My mothers and grandmothers laundry lines flutter in my memory now, stretching out as a lifeline across generations, carrying the seeds of stories in the wind.
Where to begin? How to map? What to frame?

My quest for knowledge is powered by a desire not just to understand my own past and come to terms with the divided and alienated consciousness that comes from it; but also to put together, in a sort of bricolage of a fragmented consciousness, a body of knowledge and a way of knowing that spring not from something imposed from outside but from what is rooted within. (Kuhn 2002: 119120) My narrative of childhood experiences with laundry and clotheslines symbolises for me deeper lessons in understanding and storying family secrets, resilience, survival and a lifeline across generations. For this reason I also chose to use it as the opening, framing narrative of my doctoral dissertation. My research looked at matrilineal, autobiographical narratives as they appear in the contexts of family stories and memories. The term matrilineal is used in a broader sense here and not a strict biological one, to denote the stories of great-grandmothers, grandmothers, mothers, daughters, and granddaughters. My work was also about the exploration of pain. My self-study traced the stories of a collective of five women of a common Armenian heritage, all residing in Canada, who represented various generational, homeland and diasporic portraits and experiences. Charting the narratives of my participants and myself inevitably meant dealing with stories of inherited exile, dispossession, loss, trauma and survival. We all carried the burden of being descendants of genocide survivors. The 1915 Armenian genocide has left deep scars to which we still collectively and individually struggle to become reconciled. The reconstruction and retelling of our
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generational, matrilineal, autobiographical narratives was also an attempt at healing and coming to terms with the often indescribable experiences of our grandparents or great-grandparents generation. Over the course of about two years, our small collective of four women and I met around my dining-room table to tell our stories and engage in prolonged discussions. In between our meetings, we continued the circle of our conversations in digital space, through emails and an online forum. In listening to one another and narrating our lives we inevitably ended up creating the story of our unique circle, our own collective. Through the many layers of our intertwined stories of memory, trauma and displacement, I used the family album metaphor as a foundation for my narrative framework and to weave together all our autobiographical reconstructions in textual and visual representations. My opening narrative of clotheslines became a key frame in my own autobiographical reconstructions because it offered, in very concrete ways, an opportunity to look into how womens life experiences are embodied and represented. Given my interest in womens generational life stories and the impact of trauma, storying clothes(lines) and what they signify became emblematic of other, sometimes hidden, sometimes difficult memories and stories. Understanding my story by actually retelling it made sense to me. The act of narrating, telling and retelling the stories of our life experiences carries a deep interpretative stance. I believe that we consciously refine and redefine our identities through storying ourselves, because it is an essential way of understanding ourselves, our actions and reactions within a historical and social context. Taking Clandinin and Connellys perspective that narrative thinking is a key form of experience and a key way of writing and thinking about it (2000: 18), I saw the stories the collectives members and I narrated and retold as ways of expressing and building personal identity and agency (Squire et al. 2008: 6). The lessons I learned from my grandmother resonated in my encounters with feminist methodologies in studying and representing womens lives. Feminist perspectives have shown us how the flesh of story embraces, disturbs, and connects more strongly than disembodied, neutralized text writes Lorri Neilsen (1998: 10). My starting point is my own journey. My questions revolve around both the self as researcher and as a legitimate form of study. I write from what has informed my position, my questionings and my narratives, realising that it may lead to more questions concerning ways to go forward, to deconstruct, reconstruct and essentially connect. Agreeing with Kamanos Gamelin that the travel through self-study taught me that vulnerability is the place, the stance from which I write and teach (2005: 185), I deeply believe that our process of unravelling our stories to each other in our small collective became a transformative experience. Through the trust we shared and, most importantly, by learning to make the subject object, we engaged in an
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autobiographical inquiry premised by interpretive self-reflexivity and healing. This process allowed us to reclaim our vulnerabilities as sources of inner strength. The final weaving of the stories of mothers, daughters and granddaughters in my work embraced this understanding of vulnerability as the locus of writing. Methodologically, my work lies at the blurred boundaries of autobiographical inquiry and life history. In this framework there are complex dialogical relationships between researcher, participant and research topic, and the lines are blurred between researcher and participant. The emphasis is on collaborative constructions of research processes and on the necessity for self-reflection. It is through the collaborative structure of the research that a web of complementary narratives is woven and an awareness of competing narratives of the researcher and participant is felt. Dress inquiry and dress stories easily nestle in those blurred boundaries between autobiographical inquiry and life history/story through the nuanced narratives of the lives and memories they tell. Beginning with my earliest encounters with feminist methodologies, the concept of the knower being an intimate part of the known (Belenky et al. 1986) has always struck a deep chord. Lorraine Code writes, knowledge is a construct that bears the marks of its constructors (1991: 55). Knowledge is contextual. It is the specificity of the context that shapes both the knower and her knowledge of the known. It is from this standpoint then, that the researcher with her multiple subjectivities is also implicated in the processes and analyses of the research. Harding reminds us that the best feminist analysis[]insists that the inquirer her/himself be placed in the same critical plane as the overt subject matter, thereby recovering the entire research process for scrutiny in the results of research[]the researcher appears to us not as an invisible, anonymous voice of authority, but as a real historical individual with concrete, specific desires and interests. (Harding 1987: 9) In this paradigm, Harding argues, the context of the researcherthat subjective element of beliefs and behaviours, and how they have an impact on both the set-up and the analysis of a particular research studyhelps increase the objectivity of the research and decrease the objectivism which hides this kind of evidence from the public (1987: 9). Similarly, Dorothy Smith argues that a socially constructed world can never be understood from the outside and that the only legitimate way of knowing it is from within (1987: 92). This is where I begin my journey as a researcher and where I anchor my need to bring in my narrative, my autobiography as my initial stepping stone into my research study. In doing so, I am also aware of the constant need to keep the balance between detachment and involvement, which Geertz labels experience
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near and experience distant (1983: 223). I realise that the self-narrative I weave, while providing the necessary involvement in the research subject, can also act as a distancing tool only if accompanied by reflection. Graham suggests that writing ones autobiography or writing autobiographically engages a conception of knowledge as a function of reflective self-consciousness and of the active construction and reconstruction of personal experience (1991: 89). Could it be that going through each of these layersreflective self-consciousness, active construction, and reconstruction of personal experience affords the distancing and the detachment necessary for doing autobiographical research? The emerging metaphor is that of a spiral. In the hub revolves the axis of involvement and, with each layer of reflection superimposed, the spiral moves outward and above, providing the distance needed in the interpretive phases. Self-narrative is a powerful tool for a researcher. Britton argues that in order to fully possess the experience we feel an urge to weave our lives into a narrative (as cited in Graham 1991: 12). Callaway, on the other hand, talks about how reflexivity becomes a continuing mode of self-analysis and political awareness (1992: 33) and about the need to be aware of our changing subjectivity (1992: 36). It is this selfanalysis of changing subjectivities that I see at the root of my own autobiographical approach. The dual notion of detachment and involvement is ever present. The self-analysis provides the detaching principle while the awareness of the multiple layers of subjectivities in constant flux is the underlying involvement. Callaway also quotes Okely who writes, I deliberately confront the notion of objectivity in research by starting with the subjective, working from the self outwards. The selfthe past selfbecomes a thing, an object (1992: 43). For me, this is a prime example of reconciling an insider/outsider schism through autobiography. The temporal split that a retrospective self-narrative affords, offers a new lens in constructing such a detached/involved model. This same concept is evident in dress inquiry methodologically, because narrating the clothes can become an act of finding deeper connections between what is within and what is expressed visibly. At the same time, through storying the dress, we are making the subject object by peeling away the layers of the self to tangibly reveal what is within, by an act of undressing the self. The autobiographical act is also essentially one of memory reconstructions. The self-reflexive nature of autobiographical narratives is evident again here. By reconnecting our selves with our pasts, we literally reconstruct layers of our lives. Chandler points out that narrating a life story can[]be seen as an essentially dialectical process, which inevitably paves the way to re-evaluation and new questionings (1990: 25). The re/membering carries with it not only a sense of recreating the past but also, consciously and unconsciously, of creating a new past in the present. I refer here to the borderland between memory and imagination in our recounting of events. The uniqueness of autobiography, hooks argues, is not so
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much in the retelling of the events as they have happened but as we remember and invent them (1989: 157 [italics added]). The act of re/membering, then, is steeped in the interpretation in which we constantly engage, through a temporal lens. This is the essential core of any self-reflexivity we undertake through the autobiographical act, which in turn also has an impact on how we perceive and shape the present. In many ways, it certainly carries the seeds of a healing quest in its folds. [H]ooks words echo again: Writing the autobiographical narrative enabled me to look at my past from a different perspective and to use this knowledge as a means of self-growth and change in a practical way[]Remembering was part of a cycle of reunion, a joining of fragments, the bits and pieces of my heart that the narrative made whole again. (hooks 1989: 159) This is the starting point of my positioning, both as a researcher and a participant in my research study. My personal trajectory is one of displacements, my life journey a map of crisscrossings around the globe. For more and more people[]the world is coming to resemble a diaspora, writes Pico Iyer in his book The Global Soul (2000: 10). I have finally started making sense of it alltrying to find a language for my longings and my sense of feeling lost, of constantly feeling the need to be in search of something. My writing has become a deep, soul-searching experience. It has given me a sense of stability I have hardly had in my life; it has become the only constant I can trust. Making the decision to come back to writing is not a whimsical choice but rather one that is driven by a deeper need to explore the roots of my not belonging. I have finally discovered a much sought-after anchoring. We live in complicated times; there are so many layers of our self with which we need to be in touch. I am the granddaughter of Armenian genocide survivors, an eyewitness to and a survivor of a brutal civil war in Lebanon, an immigrant woman living in a multicultural and multilingual society in Canada, doing research on autobiographical narratives of women that are at the intersection of survival, memory and identity. I am interested in looking at what is constructed, reconstructed, and re-presented, through these narratives, and the impact they have on negotiations of self and identity. In many ways I have found that I have come full circle. In recent years, in my attempts to come to terms with the painful memories of my adolescence in a war-torn country, I have sought answers in the harrowing tales of my survivor grandparents. Their compelling narratives have been a source of inspiration. The more I have listened to them, the more I have been able to untangle the hidden knots that make up my life story. My life experiences shape my outlook and bridge the gap between my life and my work.
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As women we are always faced with the personal versus public dichotomy and our efforts to reconcile the two. From very early on, I discovered that the personal is political. The choices we make are political whether we are aware of this or not. We carry the potential of history-making through our own little lives, our personal narratives, our life stories, no matter how inconsequential they may appear to others. How do we weave a coherent narrative of our lives? How do we frame our narratives in the process of creating our self-portraits? What gets lost and what is captured in the frame? What do we choose to frame in and through our narratives, both individually and collectively? Where do we map the self in our frames? These are some of the questions that interest me. In the course of my work with women, of studying their lives and my own, I have also discovered that the act of weaving and giving voice to those narratives comes close to resembling a lifeline extended from them, the participants, to me, the researcher, and vice versa. It is a lifeline that nourishes, sustains, and nurtures.
Context and text: The power of storying

When we work with life history, the autobiographical act is not complete until the writer of the story becomes its reader and the temporal fissure that has opened between the writing and the reading invites negation as well as affirmation. (Grumet 1991: 73) My interest in womens generational narratives and life writing was anchored by my encounter with Edith Sizoos edited book, Womens Lifeworlds: Womens Narratives on Shaping their Realities (1997). The book involves a cross-cultural perspective on how women saw their realities being shaped. Fifteen women from various cultural, religious, linguistic, social and geographical backgrounds were asked to write their matrilineal, generational narratives, stretching from their grandmothers to their daughters, with a special emphasis on factors, opportunities and constraints that have had a determining influence on their lives. The participants were later asked to add a reflective section to their writing, this time moving from the descriptive to the analytical, from the personal to the collective (Sizoo 1997: 10). The aim was to provide a deeper historical and social context, as well as a more profound understanding of the choices the women faced. Sizoo writes that the book is concerned with womens ownsubjectiveperceptions of their environment and the forces which drive them in shaping their lives the way they do[]The expectation was that these narratives would provide rich material for enhancing the understanding of similarities and differences in womens lives over time and across space. (Sizoo 1997: 6)
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This fascinating collection of womens life narratives reinforces a number of key issues we are faced with in feminist engagements, ranging from holistic approaches to integrate the public and private domains in our lives to the fluidity of identity/identities with a constant flow in and out of different subjectivities. Speaking about researcher situatedness in the process of working on these narratives, Shanti George, in her afterword to the same book, talks about the essential bridge between context and text that materialises with such an experience. This approach is also what gives authenticity to the work and provides an opportunity to integrate the many dimensions, layers and selves that women inhabit within their personal and professional lives (Sizoo 1997: 247249). All these issues reverberate in dress stories as well, where choice of clothing becomes an indicator not only of the many layers and selves we inhabit but also how fluidly we navigate between our inner and outer worlds in our shifting identities. Georges experience echoes what resonates loudly in Lorri Neilsens words when she asserts, we are learning that we are no longer mere creators of text, we are texts ourselves (1998: 10 [italics added]). In other words, I believe that our research engagements, the stories we choose to tell, our positionings, our multi-layered selves, are all part of the process that validates as well as leads to deeper interrogations of the text. It is Neilsen who reminds us again that research is the process of learning through the words, actions and revisionings of our daily life. Inquiry is praxis that cannot be boxed up and delivered; it is a story with no ending (1998: 89). It is important to tell our stories from inside-out and to find meaningful ways to do so. As a research methodology, life history addresses feminist concerns about present lives in context, while acknowledging the intersubjective process of meaning making (Munro 1995: 141). The collaborative aspect of the research process, the essential self-reflexivity in which the researcher engages, and the commitment to make the research a vehicle for transformation and empowerment, are all important cornerstones of life history research. In addition, as pointed out by the Personal Narratives Group, certain aspects of gender relations can specially be clarified through such a methodology. More specifically, these are the construction of the gendered self-identity[]the relationship between the individual and society in the creation and perpetuation of gender norms[]and the dynamics of power relations between men and women (Munro 1995: 141). In their explorations of life history research, Cole and Knowles (2001) emphasise that apart from the larger context in which personal narratives are placed, life history as a discipline also offers a unique way of examining the generalities through the many folds of the particular. Through life history research, a subtle mosaic of individual life experiences come together to give us a broader understanding of a wider context. They write:
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In as much as it is humanly possible, life history inquiry is about gaining insights into the broader human condition by coming to know and understand the experiences of other humans[]It is about understanding the relationship, the complex interaction, between life and context, self and place. (Cole & Knowles 2001: 11) Moreover, Cole and Knowles shed light on the complex dialogical relationship between the researcher, the researched and the research topic. In this equation the lines are blurred between researcher and participant, placing an emphasis not only on collaborative constructions of research processes but also on the necessity of self-reflexivity. The researcher self is visible in the research text and the researcher is every bit as vulnerable, as present, as those who participate in the research argue Cole and Knowles (2001: 14). In her article on research dilemmas involved with representing life stories, Erin Mills (2002) argues that two competing narratives co-exist and become intertwined in the research encounterthe biography of the researched and the autobiography of the researcher. This is true whether the researcher is explicitly aware of the autobiographical process or not. The research project becomes our story, our narrative, and it is nave to assume that it should be any more unified or coherent than that of our research subjects, asserts Mills (2002: 122). In order for the two narratives to complement one another rather than create dissonance, the researcher needs to engage in a critical process of self-reflection. This reflexivity is no easy task. It demands a high level of accountability as well as a degree of collaboration with the research participants in all phases of the research, from the very early stages of constructing the research framework to the later stages of analysis and interpretation. The researcher needs to address and question the essential issue of the power dynamics that exist between her/himself and the researched. As researchers we are equally accountable to the voices of our participants and must be very careful not to impose our voice, our narrative over that of our participants. What we interpret, how we negotiate, increases in complexity as we acknowledge the collaborative nature of our research, because the voices of the participants attain an active interpretive role within such a paradigm. The issue here revolves around acknowledging those multiple voices as well as their possible points of intersection, collusion and convergence. We construct who we are by understanding how we negotiate self and identity. Life history research within a broader paradigm of feminist inquiry and with its reciprocal nature involving mutual storytelling (Munro 1995: 144) offers a portal to more engaged, empowering ways of knowing, being and becoming. In this process it is essential to remember that the integration of knowledge, if not
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attached to womens everyday experience, objectifies women, their experience and the cultures in which they are born (Kamanos Gamelin 2001: 22). Thus, it is imperative to construct a methodological framework that is sensitive to the dialectical perspectives of both the researcher and narrator. By setting up a collaborative structure, by giving up our powers as researchers, by inviting our participants to have a more active role, we can help equalise the researcher-researched relationship. Instead of having competing narratives we can then, rather, unravel a web of narratives in which the voices of the narrators clearly resonate alongside that of the researcher. The self-reflexivity in which we then engage as researchers may add another, vital dimension to exploring our choices and examining our selves as legitimate foci of study.
Back to the clotheslines

How do my autobiographical work and my methodological perspectives relate specifically to the narrative of my grandmothers and mothers clotheslines that I recounted at the beginning of this chapter? And, more explicitly, how do we link this to the study of dress? At the time of the actual writing of this episode, I was deeply immersed in the writing of my doctoral dissertation. Through my writing, my daily encounters with generationally transmitted stories of genocide survival and inherited exile, how these stories still shape our identities and affect our negotiations of agency, as well as how some wounds still throb and remain difficult to heal even after three or four generations, were beginning to take an emotional toll on me. It was not easy writing about pain. I needed a break. I hoped that reverting to what I thought was going to be an innocent girl/childhood memory would help me temporarily break away from the traumatic memories that surfaced elsewhere in my and my participants autobiographical narratives. Thus, writing the story of the clotheslines was driven by an urge to bring lightness to a research study that otherwise engaged with difficult memories. I was determined to show that my memories of my mother and grandmothers were not marked only by painful stories of genocide and war. I wanted to fall back to a happy childhood memory, a moment of intergenerational bonding in which three generations of women met on common ground, reconnected through my memory in the temporal and spatial dimension created by the narrative. At the same time, the memory work itself permitted me to see myself as a child, surrounded by the bubbling water and smell of fresh laundry, a nostalgic image evoking much innocent playfulness. As a child and teenager, I had always disliked any form of household chores and rebelled against the idea of girl-appropriate duties that were commonly practised in Middle Eastern households. I was grateful
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that no one in our family had insisted on either teaching me these duties or asking me to regularly perform them in the household. Instead I was set free to engage in my favourite pastime of spending long hours reading. This was contrary to what I saw in friends houses, where from an early age girls helped their mothers in all sorts of chores, from washing the dishes to cooking and baking, to knitting and needlework, to folding and ironing, to house cleaning. My forays into laundryhanging, that quintessential girl-learning-to-be-a-good-housewife chore, were mostly of my own choice and retained a carefree element, very much bordering on playing a game rather than portraying a dutiful girls expected behaviour. And it was this memory, combined with gratitude towards my parents for letting me explore and define my own sense of girlhood on my own terms, that I wanted to tap into when I first decided to revisit and recreate it through my visual and textual narrative. The memory was also an interesting moment of bringing together the stories of my grandmothers, my mother and me in an episode that did not deal with war, trauma, genocide, pain and suffering. It was a happy moment that framed our relationships differently. I was determined to show that a dissertation that dealt with the difficult inherited stories of mothers, daughters and granddaughters could also include such innocent moments of bonding that echoed in other womens experiences as well. By using this story as my prologue I thought I would at least offer to the reader one light-hearted episode in a larger body of text that was inevitably going to be as difficult to read emotionally as it was proving difficult for me to write. This was my initial premise. Needless to say, as I began writing I did not know where the flow of the writing would eventually take me. I could not then foresee that my idea of the innocent memory was only the surface of the story. As the text dictated itself, the deeper, connotative meanings those laundry lines came to evoke for me became coloured not only by my life experiences but also by the research study I had undertaken. In my attempt to narrate and retell generational stories of difficult memories of unspeakable horrors, I had felt that there was almost an impossibility of storying, caused by fragmentation of memory and fused at the same time with a guilt-ridden compulsion of retelling. This reflected an inner fissure I felt as a researcher wanting to do justice to both the stories and their narrators. Identity and agency, survival and healing, were major themes that had emerged again and again in the generational narratives of womens experiences in the stories my participants and I recounted for one another. In weaving my mothers and grandmothers laundry stories, the clotheslines then became the metaphor for these episodes of survival and healing as acts of resistance and defiance in the face of pain and loss. It was long after I finished writing my narrative that I realised how the narrative and its metaphor of clotheslines had also become a leitmotiv for the lifelines I was so anxious to trace through my own and my participants
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autobiographical inquiries. What I had initially thought of as a harmless story attained new connotative meanings through the narrative, in which women used the most mundane tools of their world to find expressions of self-reliance and defiance towards both an unnameable and unspeakable violence out there, as in the atrocity of war, and one that may be quietly and daily ravaging their lives, as in the story of the neighbour suffering from domestic violence. Reflecting on my writing choices, I now see how the narrative evolved into an exploration of the relationship between dress and trauma. Narrating the clotheslines became a vehicle for me to look deeper into the folds of the traumatic stories that I was investigating, just as it gave me the chance to do so through an unconscious healing mechanism, manifested through the playful and innocent aspects the memory evoked. Stretching the parallels from this particular story, the questions to ask as we weave our dress stories could explore the deeper meanings of how we look at our choices of clothing, how they can act as ways of healing and how they help in redefining the self. Through the autobiographical act, the clotheslines become a research tool to make the connections between the personal, the collective and the political explicit. This narration suggests, for me, a whole host of questions not only about dress and memory (work) in relation to clothesline stories, wardrobe stories (Banim, Green & Guy 2001), and dress stories (Weber & Mitchell 2004) but most particularly in relation to using narrative and life history as methodological approaches for framing such stories. The valuable lessons learned, through my grandmothers and mothers clotheslines, about storying our lives, bring me full circle. In Armenian, autobiography, [inknakensapatoum], translates as telling the story of the life of the self. This is a concept I inhabit easily, with its resonance of life history/story. Telling the story of the life of myself is not only giving birth to my voice but is also essentially about writing myself as a woman. Through this perspective I see the metaphor of the clotheslines I utilise as a springboard that leads me into my autobiographical inquiryby opening up a deeper questioning of family secrets, resilience, survival and intergenerational narrativesthrough memory work with women. At the same time, I also view the clotheslines as a narrative framework and a method of inquiry that offers insights into womens lives and their embodied experiences. In line with Weber and Mitchells observation that it is the very ability that clothes have to evoke important social issues, including issues of economic disparity, commodification, gender, race, class, culture and difference that makes dresses, even in their absence, so important to study, (2004: 266), those fluttering clotheslines in the wind become a call to explore the fabric of our lives, to probe what is concealed out of view behind them, to seek out how womens lives and stories are represented.
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References
Banim M, Green E & Guy A (2001) Introduction. In A Guy, E Green & M Banim (Eds) Through the wardrobe: Womens relationships with their clothes. Oxford: Berg Belenky MF, Clinchy BM, Goldberger NR & Tarule JM (1986) Womens ways of knowing. New York: Basic Books Callaway H (1992) Ethnography and experience: Gender implications in fieldwork and texts. In J Okely & H Callaway (Eds) Anthropology and autobiography. London: Routledge Chandler MR (1990) A healing art: Regeneration through autobiography. New York & London: Garland Publishing Clandinin DJ & Connelly FM (2000) Narrative inquiry: Experience and story in qualitative research. San Francisco: Jossey-Bass Publishers Code L (1991) What can she know: Feminist theory and the construction of knowledge. Ithaca & London: Cornell University Press Cole AL & Knowles JG (2001) Lives in context: The art of life history research. Walnut Creek, California: Altamira Press Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za Geertz C (1983) Local knowledge: Further essays in interpretive anthropology. New York: Basic Books Graham RJ (1991) Reading and writing the self: Autobiography in education and the curriculum. New York: Teachers College Press Grumet MR (1991) The politics of personal knowledge. In N Noddings & C Witherell (Eds) Stories lives tell: Narrative and dialogue in education. New York: Teachers College Press Harding S (Ed.) (1987) Feminism and methodology: Social science issues. Bloomington & Indianapolis: Indiana University Press hooks b (1989) Talking back: Thinking feminist, thinking black. Toronto: Between the Lines Iyer P (2000) The global soul: Jet lag, shopping malls, and the search for home. New York: Alfred A Knopf Kamanos Gamelin A (2001) Home and away: The female artist in academia. Unpublished PhD dissertation, McGill University, Montreal Kamanos Gamelin A (2005) The sand diaries: Vision, vulnerability and self-study. In C Mitchell, S Weber & K OReilly-Scanlon (Eds) Just who do we think we are?: Methodologies for autobiography and self-study in teaching. London & New York: Routledge Falmer Kuhn A (2002) Family secrets: Acts of memory and imagination. London & New York: Verso Mills E (2002) Hazel the dental assistant and the research dilemma of (re) presenting a life story: The clash of narratives. In WC van den Hoonaard (Ed.) Walking the tightrope: Ethical issues for qualitative researchers. Toronto: University of Toronto Press Munro P (1995) Multiple Is: Dilemmas of life-history research. In J Jipson, P Munro, S Victor, KF Jones & G Freed-Rowland (Eds) Repositioning feminism and education: Perspectives on educating for social change. Wesport, Connecticut & London: Bergin & Garvey Neilsen L (1998) Knowing her place: Research literacies and feminist engagements. San Francisco: Caddo Gap Press Sizoo E (Ed.) (1997) Womens lifeworlds: Womens narratives on shaping their realities. London & New York: Routledge
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Smith DE (1987) Womens perspective as a radical critique of sociology. In S Harding (Ed) Feminism and methodology: Social science issues. Bloomington & Indianapolis: Indiana University Press Squire C, Andrews M & Tamboukou M (2008) Introduction: What is narrative research? In M Andrews, C Squire & M Tamboukou (Eds) Doing narrative research. Los Angeles & London: Sage Weber S & Mitchell C (2004) Theorizing dress stories. In S Weber & C Mitchell (Eds) Not just any dress: Narratives of memory, body, and identity. New York: Peter Lang
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4
Take a picture: Photographs, dress, gender and self-study
Ann Smith
when, as a child, I was accused of staring at someone, I was told Take a picture, itll last longer. Another response to being stared at was the question, Have you lost something? Either of these responses is a fitting entry point to exploring the ways in which creating and curating a photo album can serve as a tool for autoethnography, memory work, and self-study into how one identifies oneself. In this chapter I am interested in exploring the ways in which an analysis of dress in specific photographs points to how I identified myself at different stages of my life, rather than in considering what constitutes the notion of over-arching identity as a theoretical concept. My initial impetus was an investigation into the ways in which my assimilation into the dominant discourse of heteronormativity can be seen in particular photographs until the emergence of my self-identification as a lesbian, with its oppositional politics to such heteronormativity. Then, as I put together a photo album, the actual process served to shift my emphasis away from this aspect of self-identification towards that of feminist teacher. In other words, there was a conceptual shift from the personal to the professional. This was because, as a teacher with a particular interest in Literary Theory and Feminist Studies, I always try to link the theory to the lived experiences of my students. Having to create my own photo album was a valuable part of such practice as well as a valuable self-study exercise. Self-study, as various researchers working in the area of teaching have pointed out, is meant to contribute to rethinking and improving our own teaching practices (see, for example, LaBoskey 2005). To begin my process of self-study, I delved into my photo albums, looking in particular for representations through dress. I locate my work within the broader investigation of autoethnography which is, for Caroline Ellis and Art Bochner: an autobiographical genre of writing that displays multiple layers of consciousness, connecting the personal to the cultural. Back and forth ethnographers gaze, first through an ethnographic wide-angle lens, focusing
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on social and cultural aspects of their personal experience; then they look inward, exposing a vulnerable self that is moved by and may move through, refract and resist cultural interpretations[] (2003: 209) This definition invites the study of photographic representations in its use of the terms gaze; wide-angle lens; and focus. Indeed, as Ellis and Bochner note: Usually written in first-person voice, autoethnographic texts appear in a variety of formsshort stories, poetry, fiction, novels, photographic essays, scripts, personal essays, journals, fragmented and layered writing and social science prose (2003: 209). Picking up on the notion of the photographic essay, I consider the technique of curating a photo documentary through the creation of a specific photo album as a way of reflecting on how I have identified myself over the last six decades and the implications of such self-identification in this journey from the personal to the professional. Describing my project as an analysis and use of dress-photo stories is to adapt Weber and Mitchells useful idea of dress stories (2005: 251).
Curating a photo documentary: The album project

The idea of curating an album comes out of a growing body of work that looks at the reflexive potential of photography in self-study, ranging from Jo Spences starting point, as encapsulated in her title Putting Myself in the Picture (1986), to more recent work in the area of visual methodologies (see, for example, Mitchell & Allnutt 2008; Allnutt, Mitchell & Stuart 2007) which has been applied to the idea of self-study and autoethnography (Mitchell, Weber & Pithouse 2009). Here I work with seven photoswhat Kuhn (1995) calls the raw materialto produce a dressphoto narrative, as constructed through a look at the relationship between dress and self-identification. This is the protocol that I used: Find or take some photos that appear to be linked to some sort of theme, narrative, or question that is relevant to your self-study inquiry. Choose and organise seven or eight of these photos into a small photo album. Provide a title, and write a short curatorial statement of 150200 words to introduce and frame your collection. Write short captions to accompany each photo. Ensure each aspect of the textual material (curatorial statement, captions, images and so on) can be placed within a plastic album window. If possible, display your album where most appropriate. (Adapted from Mitchell, Weber & Pithouse 2009)
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The actual production of this album took only a day, although I had been thinking for weeks of the photos I would use. However, I hadnt given the emotional aspects of the process any thought at all and had no idea of how difficult this task would be. I knew where to find the photographs but it was necessary to take out the various albums to get them. In the process, I came face to face with all sorts of photographs and parts of my history that I most definitely did not want to deal with on that particular day. I had just wanted to access specific photographs but that was far from easy to do, as Judy Weiser (1999) and Jo Spence (1995) and many others who write about working with memory and family photographs point out. Then, before I could begin writing captions and figuring out my curatorial statement, I still had to work with the images so that they could be contained within the sleeves of the small album that I had chosen for this project. I also wanted a record of the process and so, in the tradition of assisted self-study (Cole & McIntyre 1998), I asked my partner to photograph the whole process of my searching, scanning and copying and recopying again and again, and cutting and trimming and so on. The narratives emerging from the exercise are presented below in the form of an extended curatorial statementan artists statementalong with a set of extended captions to accompany each of the seven photos. Following from the narrative work of Richardson (1994), I used an approach which acknowledges the intertwined nature of the writing and the analysis and which, far from seeking to provide some sort of grand narrative about what constitutes identity, is embedded in the personal and the social. For the purposes of this chapter I have obviously not adhered to the 200-word limit on the curatorial statement that should introduce and frame the collection of photographs. My prompt is the question that Allnutt, Mitchell and Stuart pose: What happens when you[]turn a social science look on [your] domestic photographs and[]problematise personal snapshots? (2007: 89). In this case the social science look is applied to dress-photo stories.
Curatorial statement
Applying the retorts: Take a pictureitll last longer!, Have you lost something? and Does this dress belong to you? to the act of looking back at family photographs in search of dress-moments, I wonder if photographs last longer or if they just last differently. And, if they do last differently, do we lose something in going through these photographs for academic purposes or do we gain something? Searching through dozens of well ordered photo albums, I looked for particular photos that I thought could say something about dress in relation to the personal and social:
take a picture
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pictures of me as the girl in the middle with my two sisters; a picture of me as a postulant on the way to becoming a nun, and as an egghead intellectual; a picture of me as a bride in a conventional heterosexual wedding and then a picture of me as a partner in a same-sex civil union. And then a picture of me that I dont actually ownnot like bell hookss (1994) lost photograph of herself as a little girl dressed up in a cowgirl suit but rather a missing portrait photograph of me dressed up as a photo subject for a book of photographs mainly of gay and lesbian activists in South Africa. These were the photographs that came to mind when I thought of dress and self-identification. It was only when I began digging these photos out of the albums and re-photographing the one that hangs on the wall of my house that I realised that, by taking them out of their chronological or spatial order, I was really in the act of repositioning history. I was now placing them alongside each other: my sisters and me in our 1940s little-girl matching dresses of pink, green and blue set alongside our 1960 s carefully chosen dresses of pink, black and white, and yellow, the pudding-bowl haircuts of the late forties contrasting with the beehives of the sixties. Then there was the inclusion of the portrait of me as the brainy girl who was one of the Quiz Kidsthe only girlin the radio show of the same name on Springbok Radio. But I had nothing to match it to. The mortar board of the radio-show photo pre-dates the awarding of a PhD to me by some 45 years yet it did not occur to me to include this PhD picture. Why not? Its a perfect dress photothe glorious scarlet gown, the cream and scarlet hood and the black bonnetso what were my reasons? I am not sure. It seemed so over the top. Perhaps it seemed to me that to include it was to show off? I decided to put the Quiz Kid picture alongside the picture of me as a postulantthe first stage of becoming a nunin the Assumption Order. Both these photographs feature me in uniform but the dazzling cross (as accessory) in the picture of me as postulant contrasts markedly with the austerity of both uniforms. In contrast with the muted studio lighting of the Quiz Kid portrait, the cross catches the sunlight to dramatic effect. My photo as a lesbian activist in South Africa is not in this album, although mention of dressing up for the photo is. An empty frame makes this deliberate omission quite clear. I do not own a copy of this book nor do I have a copy of the photograph, although I have, of course, seen it. Finally, there are the two official partner photos set alongside each other. In one my husband and I are dressed in traditional Western wedding attire, me in a white dress with a long train and a veil, and he in a formal suit. In the other I am dressed in black trousers and a billowing white shirt and my partner in a stylish jacket and black trousers. What is significant to both is what we might call the accessorythe document my partner(s) and I are signingand the signalling of what would never have occurred to me in 1965 (not that it would have been legal) and what, by 2009, had become desirable and possible.
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Deconstructing and reconstructing the family album: The photos and captions
According to the protocol mentioned above, it is required that the photos are removed from their everyday place and repositioned in the newly constructed album or, if necessary, re-photographed, and then provided with a short caption. For the purposes of this chapter I expand on these captions. Our parents dressed us alike when we were small: what differed was the colour of the clothing. There was never any question about the colour of our respective clothes. I remember asking my mother (when I was already an adult) who had decided that my older sister, Rosemarie, should have red as her colour, that I should have green and that my younger sister, Elaine, should have blue. My mother wasnt sure how it had happened and we both wondered if the red for Rosemarie hadnt perhaps been pink to begin withthat traditional choice of colour for a baby girl. We speculated that I was given green as my colour because I was the second girl and pink had already been taken. Perhaps, we conjectured, Elaine was given blue because she wasnt the son our parents hoped she might bethough without any prejudice at all to her. Looking back now, I remember being perfectly content with my colour; it didnt ever occur to me that my clothes and most of my toys should be anything other than green. From a very early age I was aware of being different from my sisters and I often indulged in that fantasy (common to children who do not quite fit in) of having been adopted. They were both blonde and I was dark-haired; they didnt do very well at school but I did; and I read voraciously while they didnt like books. In the 1940s, when I was born, green was an unlikely and uncommon colour to assign to a child and perhaps this is why it so appealed to me. Most of the children I knew were assigned either pink or blue; some had yellow but I dont remember a single other child being assigned the colour green to differentiate her, along with her clothes and playthings, from her sisters.
figure 4.1 Three little girls with matching dresses figure 4.2 Three young women with
matching hairstyles
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How has this recollection changed the original meaning of this picture? Have I imposed, however unintentionally, another layer of meaning on a simple studio portrait of three little girls? Was the allocation of a colour to each of us simply random? Was I indifferent to my colour being green and have I now come to believe that I liked it just so that I can revel now in having been different then? Was I really different or has it become necessary for me to see, from the perspective of hindsight, intimations of difference in me even then? Is this part of what Toni Morrison means in her claim that memory (the deliberate act of remembering) is a form of willed creation rather than an attempt to find out the way it really was (1984: 385)? The later portrait of me and my sisters was taken on 7 November 1964, on the morning of my older sisters wedding. I know the date only because I asked her in preparation for doing this work. We all had long hair, carefully styled into a kind of modified, sculpted beehive. What is interesting here is that I have this picture (for which I have a huge amount of affection) framed and hanging in my house yet I do not have a single picture of the wedding that was to take place just a few hours later and at which Elaine and I were going to be Rosemaries bridesmaids. At this stage of my life a wedding ring and a new surname were at the top of my list of goals. I remember thinking that I looked very sexy, appealing and, yes, marriageable, dressed as I was for this photo. (This black-and-white patterned dress had a wide self-stiffening, fabric belt and I wore it with a stiffened 30-yard whirl, as they were called, under it.) I most certainly did not feel the same about my bridesmaids dress: a blue satin dress with satin petal-heeled shoes dyed to match. These were not, I thought, in the same league at all and would not, I was sure, attract a man. Also, my sister was about to marry a divorced, sickly man 12 years older than herself: I had higher ambitions! Are these the reasons behind my keeping this photograph but no photographs of my sisters wedding, at all, which took place that same day? What does this say
Figure 4.3 Predictions (of what sort) for a clever girl?
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about my total assimilation then into the discourse of heteronormativity? What does it say about my related internalisation of the discourse of sibling rivalry, however politely unverbalised, in relation to being sure that mine would be a better choice of husband? I retrieved the photograph in Figure 4.4 from the tiny store of possessions my mother had at the time she died. She had kept this picture for about 40 years yet it was perfectly preserveduncreased and unfaded. Much to my mothers shame she and my father were divorced in the mid 1950s. After that she always presented herself as a widow, left with three daughters. She lived for her girls, and her pride in my being a Quiz Kid on Springbok Radio was boundless. I think that the care with which she kept this photograph illustrates this perfectly. This picture was taken for promotional material during a studio recording some time between 1958 and 1960. The first three letters of my family name, Petersen, can just be seen on the name plate in front of me. The photographer made much of the fact that I was the only girl on the radio show and I remember how the boys bristled at my being chosen to represent us all. I took little notice of these boys: I had decided to become a nun when I left school. Boys took up no space in my consciousness at all. Wearing my school uniform, as we were required to do because the recordings took place in front of a live audience, was very important to me. I loved that schoolthe Assumption Convent in the Johannesburg suburb of Malvernfor a number of reasons but at this time mostly because it was staffed by the nuns whose order I was planning to join. I believed that I was in love with Jesus; nuns were known as the brides of Christ and this seemed to me to be the highest possible calling for a woman. My having no time for boys was a function of my having all my time taken up by an even more intense heteronormativitya union with the Son of God himself. Looking back, I have often wondered if I wasnt at least to some extent in love with these nuns instead.
Figure 4.4 Wearing an accessory of a different sort
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According to all the rules of photography, Figure 4.4 is not a good snapshot; for example, the sun is right behind the person holding the camera. But what a joyous picture this is. It was January 1960 and I was 16 years old and on my way to becoming a nun. I had just been received into the Assumption Order as a postulant. The intensity of the sunlight, the glowing cross and the broad smile say it all. I had been made to repeat a year of school because at 15 I was thought too young to matriculate but here I was, at last, in the convent. I do not regret the 18 months I spent there but I do regret what it did to my mother. I had become a Catholic when I was a (very precocious) 12-year-old and my mother had no understanding at all of why I would choose to go far away and become virtually inaccessible to her. I discovered afterwards that she had mourned my going very intensely. In July 1962, when I left the convent, my mother used to keep touching me, to reassure herself, she said, that I was really home. I think she was making sure that I still existed. At the time of this ceremony what did this clothing say to my non-Catholic mother? She had never tired of telling all three of us how beautiful we were and here I was dressed in a way that was calculated to minimise any focus on looks. An all-enveloping black dress, black cape, black stockings and shoes and a white veil tied under my chin with a bow was hardly what she thought her young teenage daughter should be wearing. For me it was a kind of preliminary wedding dress, the prelude to the real thingthe habit that hid every part of me except my face and my hands (except when they were modestly hidden in its sleeves) that I acquired six months later when I was accepted as a novice into the order. To me the cross signified my belonging to Jesus. But what did it mean to my mother? I never spoke to her about this except in very general terms after Id left the convent but I know now what my being dressed like this must have cost her.
Figure 4.5 Signing 1965
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Barely seven months after Rosemaries wedding here am I with Denis, Figure 4.5, in our wedding attire. At 33 he is 12 years older than methe same age difference as there is between Rosemarie and Georgebut he is neither divorced nor sickly. He is well-read, clever, interested in a vast number of subjects and I love him totally and unreservedly. It was a Catholic wedding: significant vestiges of religion still clung to me and Denis had endured the then compulsory pre-marriage course in Catholic doctrine and had made the obligatory promises that any children born of the marriage would be reared as Catholics. Denis and I insisted that the vows should not include the womans customary promise to obey the man and this insistence was many years ahead of its time: we thought of ourselves as a liberated couple even though any knowledge of feminism was still far ahead in my future; it would be another 11 years before we both made it possible for me to go to university. I had what I wanteda husband I loved and a new surname to prove it. My wedding dress was beautiful: it, too, was exactly what I wanted, complete with a long train and a perfect veil held in place with a tiara. In this photo, my dress and Deniss suit, as well as our positions relative to each other, are fully representative of heteronormative discourse. He stands while I sit. My face and upper body, along with part of my bouquet, are reflected in the polished desk. The pose of my signing the register has been artfully constructed by the photographer; we both smile at the camera. Seventeen years later, with Deniss full support, for by then he, too, had come out as homosexual, I was a founder member of the Gay Association of South Africa (GASA)the first such organisation in this countrydetermined to make a difference, to fight the religiously, politically and socially upheld heterosexism [of] the National Party government of the day (Smith, quoted in Hoad, Martin & Reid 2005: 59).
Figure 4.6 Signing 2009
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My partner and I were adamant that the words marriage and wedding would not be used at all in our civil union ceremony; we wanted nothing to do with the heteronormative, assimilationist politics on which the notion of gay marriage is based. We were having a civil union, not a wedding. This took place on a beautiful summers day on the deck of my partners holiday cottage on Tracadie Bay, Prince Edward Island, Canada. We wanted our clothing to mirror our notions of what this event should be like. There is, of course, no sign of a wedding dress, a veil or a bouquet (see Figure 4.6). We both normally wear mostly black and white but we didnt want to look too similar so my partner settled for her new Indian cotton jacket, a black shirt and black trousers and I wore a soft white cotton shirt with black trousers. This photo was not posedone of us is genuinely signing the civil union document but we cant make out who this is. Also, we are not looking at the camera: we are intent on adding the final touch to a legal document which gives us the rights we were seeking in having this ceremony in the first place. We do not, for example, want our children making decisions for us when we are old and we want to have a legal say in the event of serious illness or injury befalling the other. Added to this, we wanted to make our already long and loving union a legally and publicly recognised one. We know that, as Judith Butler puts it, acting out of line with heterosexual norms brings with it ostracism, punishment, and violence but we also know that the second half of this assertion is equally valid for we were in the perfect position to enjoy the transgressive pleasures produced by those very prohibitions (1990: 130). Our happiness and delight are clearly apparent in this photograph. We are standing close together but without reference to how such a civil union picture should look. Is this, at least in part, because there are no such rules, unlike those long in place for heterosexual wedding pictures? In the original print the photographers finger obscures the bottom left corner but we have no plans to photoshop this away: its part of how the event was for us and how we see ourselves and our civil unionunposed and authentic.
Figure 4.7 The missing picture
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In keeping with this empty frame in my album there is little to say about Figure 4.7. I was asked by the photographer and compiler of a book of photographs and essays on selected gay and lesbian activists in South Africa if I would agree to be included in the work. I agreed and put a lot of thought into what a leading lesbian activist should look like. I had to agree to be professionally made-up and was happy with the results, particularly since there was no insistence that I wear lipstick!1 But when the book came out I was appalled at the errors in the commentary alongside my portrait. No attempt had been made to get the copy checked before the book was published. I didnt mind so much that he had made errors regarding dates and events in my life but embarrassingly unsound political statements were attributed to me. Also, I had told him that I was one of only five South Africans listed in the Whos Who in Contemporary Gay and Lesbian History (Aldrich et al., 2001) but the copy suggested that I had said I was the only South African in this list of prominent activists. Neitherthe photographer/compilernor the publishers replied to my letter pointing out these errors and requesting that an erratum slip be inserted into unsold copies. In protest I refused to buy the book and I didnt ever collect my free copy of the photograph either. This blank frame is my political statement about what I regarded as a misrepresentation of who I am as a lesbian activist and of what I believe in relation to queer politics.
Reflecting on the process

Take a picture; itll last longer. Pictures may last but they arent static in meaning. Have you lost something? Perhaps we do lose something in projects like this? Perhaps something is lost because in constructing a photo exhibit, the self is explored, re-constructed, and performed in ways that help uncover issues that need further attention (Mitchell, Weber & Pithouse 2009: 128). Perhaps this has to happen so that something can be gained. Or perhaps its the photographs that lose something. As Annette Kuhn (2004) points out, the photographs seizing of a moment always, even in that very moment, assumes loss given that it anticipates a need to remember what will soon be past (Weber & Mitchell 2004: 113) but perhaps they lose something else in this processa kind of innocence (for want of a better word), a kind of uninflected simple level of existence, as they are manipulated into serving a different kind of function in a self-study, album-curating exercise? Do they change categories and become artefacts of another sort? In what ways does the cultural significance of these particular photographs change when they are taken out of my carefully ordered albums and put to use in an equally, if differently ordered one?
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Perhaps the response to the next question in that childrens litany of responses to being stared at will go some way towards answering these questions. Is this your dress? is another (spiteful) comment one child would say to another at my school. Yes, it is still my dress but its meaning has changed. Juxtaposing a dress picture in relation to another dress picture in a deliberately ordered way, so that it fits into my pre-ordained self-study, album-curating framework, must necessarily impose a layer of meaning onto it and its companion photographs. If this were not the case there would be no point to the whole exercise. For me, what happened was my moving from a consideration of the significance of my personal identity in relation to queer politics to that of an awareness of the need for an improved professional identity as teacher: the theoretical became the practicalunexpected but very rewarding.
Conclusion: Theory into practice

Engaging in this type of autoethnographic exercise reveals at least two significant points of analysis, among many. The first relates to my familial, social and gendered identities as I saw them, and to this identity construction and performance at different stages in my life. The second relates to my professional identity as a teacher. The bigger picture of curating albums is what Allnutt, Mitchell and Stuart refer to as the possibly painful process [of] relooking and reframing an identity[...] in the curated enclosed space of a new album that now takes into account the wider cultural story (2007: 92). For me, this means translating what I gained by interrogating these dress photos while creating and curating this album into my teaching practice. I had no idea how frustrating, technologically challenging and emotionally charged it would be. Completing the album project showed me how a different kind of power relationship had made it possible for me to judge the practical work of my students without having carried out the work myself. Fairly recently, I was involved in running a course on gender and leadership for women, mainly for principals and deputy principals in Gauteng. One of the assessment tasks was the production of a photo album, very similar to the one I made, containing pictures illustrating any gender-based issue they chose to explore at their schools. While assessing these projects I became very frustrated because so many of these women just didnt adhere to the requirements; either their curatorial statement was on a piece of paper too big to fit into the album sleeve, the pictures were too small or too big, or the captions took up too little or too much space and so on. How hard can this be? I kept muttering as I completed the assessment grid boxes with a tick to indicate approval and a cross to show the opposite. Well, now I know how hard it can be. With all the technological resources at my disposala
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colour printer, a scanner, a computer, a digital cameraand all the paper and printer ink I needed for all the attempts I made to get the printed-out version to fit exactly into the sleeves, I took a whole day to produce one little set of photographs and the relatively few words needed to go with them. What must this process have been like for so many of the women on that course? What about the women who spent a fortune on the school pay-as-you-copy photostat machines or at print shops as they struggled to get these photos and captions and curatorial statements to a size that would fit these unaccommodating plastic sleeves? How did the women without access to a computer and/or a printer manage? Those who used a conventional camera either had to get an album whose sleeves would fit the developed and printed photos or they had to cut them to size. Some of the very few who used digital cameras had to pay to get their pictures printed out. The difficulties must have been even greaterenormous, surelyfor the women from rural schools. And here I was grumbling about their failure to follow the instructions perfectly. My dress book project, as I thought of it, had, as its first effect in terms of my self-study as a teacher, a growing awareness of how easy it is to judge the work of others from the position of technological and material privilege. Worse, even, than this was my assumption that I could assess a practical project like this without having completed it myself. I had the theory but these women had the lived experience of making the albums. Doing the work brought the theory and the practice together for me. Never again will I assess practical work without doing it first myself. In fact, doing it first will, in future, pre-date even setting the assignment. As Mitchell, Weber and Pithouse point out, far from being a route to a blinkered focus on me, self-study can actually encourage a wider view of the broader situation that shapes our individual practice (2009: 119). I moved from what might be considered a blinkered focus on me and my personal self-identification as a lesbian activist through an analysis of dress photos to a focus on what is required of me if I want to live up to the identification of myself as a democratic feminist teacher.
Acknowledgement
My sincere thanks are due to Claudia Mitchell and Relebohile Moletsane for their unfailing loyalty, their carefully considered and insightful input, and their strategic advocacy for the inclusion of this chapter in this book.
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Notes
1 In 1984, I was on the first TV programme ever made (by Carole Charlewood for SABC TV1, 1884) and shown in South Africa on what the producers agreed to call gay rights ... [although] the emphasis was very much on how wrong it [all] was (Smith, in Spurlin 2000: 253). I was garishly made-up for this TV appearance, complete with violently red lipstick, in what I later thought had been an attempt to make me look like a real woman.
References
Aldrich A & Wotherspoon G (2001) (Eds) Whos who in contemporary gay and lesbian history from World War II to the present day. London: Routledge Allnutt S, Mitchell C & Stuart J (2007) The visual family archive: Uses and interruptions. In N de Lange, C Mitchell & J Stuart (Eds) Putting people in the picture: Visual methodologies for social change. Amsterdam: Sense Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za Butler J (1990) Gender Trouble: Feminism and the subversion of identity. New York: Routledge Charlewood C (1984) Viewpoint. SABC TV1. Gay and Lesbian Archives Collection. University of the Witwatersrand Libraries. 4 September 1984 Cole A & McIntyre M (1998) Reflections on Dance me to an understanding of teaching. In A Cole & S Finley (Eds). Conversations in community: Proceedings of the second international conference of self-study of teacher education practices. Herstmonceux Castle, East Sussex, UK. 1620 August 1998 Ellis C & Bochner A (2003) Autoethnography, personal narrative, reflexivity: Researcher as subject. In NK Denzin & YS Lincoln (Eds) Collecting and interpreting qualitative materials. London: Sage hooks b (1994) In our glory: Photography and black life. In D Willis (Ed.) Picturing us: African American identity in photography. New York: The New Press Kuhn A (1995) Family secrets: Acts of memory and imagination. London: Verso Kuhn A (2004) A credit to her mother. In S Weber & C Mitchell (Eds) Not just any dress: narratives of memory, body and identity. New York: Peter Lang LaBoskey V (2005) Speak for yourselves: Capturing the complexity of critical reflection. In C Mitchell, S Weber & K OReilly-Scanlon (Eds) Just who do we think we are? Methodologies for autobiography and self-study in teaching. London & New York: Routledge Mitchell C & Allnutt S (2008) Working with photographs as objects and things: Social documentary as a new materialism. In G Knowles & A Cole (Eds) Handbook of the arts in qualitative research: Perspectives, methodologies, examples and issues London: Sage Mitchell C, Weber S & Pithouse K (2009) Facing the public: Using photography for self-study and social action. In D Tidwell, M Heston & L Fitzgerald (Eds), Research methods for the self-study of practice. New York: Springer Morrison T (1984) Memory, creation and writing. Thought 235: 385390 Richardson L (1994) Writing: A method of inquiry. In NK Denzin & YS Lincoln (Eds) Handbook on qualitative research. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage
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Smith A (2000) Queer pedagogy and social change: Teaching and lesbian identity in South Africa. In WJ Spurlin (Ed.) Lesbian and gay studies and the teaching of English: Positions, pedagogies, and cultural politics. Urbana, Illinois: National Council of Teachers of English Smith A (2005) Where was I in the eighties? In N Hoad, K Martin & G Reid (Eds) Sex and politics in South Africa. Cape Town: Double Storey Spence J (1986). Putting myself in the picture: A political, personal and photographic autobiography. London: Camden Spence J (1995) Cultural sniping: The art of transgression. London: Routledge Weber S & Mitchell C (2004) Theorizing dress stories. In S Weber & C Mitchell (Eds) Not just any dress: Narratives of memory, body, and identity. New York: Peter Lang Weber S & Mitchell C (Eds) (2005) Not just any dress: Narratives of memory, body and identity. New York: Peter Lang Weiser J (1999) Photo therapy techniques: Exploring the secrets of personal snapshots and family albums. Vancouver: Photo Therapy Center
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5 Aesthetics and identity in contemporary South African fashion

Desiree Lewis
Fashion, as Joanne Finkelstein argues, is swathed in anomalies (1997: 154). Its production, marketing and use often discipline bodies in relation to dominant discourses, especially of gender, and an economic status quo based on exploitative production, capital accumulation and commodity consumption. At the same time, it can provide opportunities for bodily representation and performance in ways that oppose prescribed social identities and conservative social forces. The dense and often ambiguous effects of fashion stem from the fact that fashionunlike dress linked simply to convention, style or customis so semiotically adventurous: fashion boldly uses signifiers of change, innovation and provocation. While social science research acknowledges how fashion originates in, and illustrates a great deal about social identification, differentiation and integration, there seems to be less attention paid to the semiotics of fashionas a particular form of dressin revealing exactly how embodied subjects are located in, and respond to social and cultural processes (see Davis 1992). This attention would yield insight into what Jean Allman describes as the power of dress, the power of fashion as an incisive political language capable of unifying, differentiating challenging, contesting and dominating (2004: 1). Work on South African fashion by Nthabiseng Motsemme (2003) and Jennifer Musangi (2009) reveals the complexities that Allman raises. Motsemme (2003) explores ways in which young black women use innovative dress styles to script their bodies in relation to dominant racial, gender and class discourses and relations. Musangi (2009) shows how the emergence of a popular t-shirt label conveys assertive self-identification among Johannesburg youth. Both writers focus on fashion as a signifying system which reveals intricate social and cultural processes. I develop this attention to fashion by considering its connection to ambiguous and shifting definitions of racial, national and gendered identities in contemporary South Africa. Through textual analysis of aspects of South African fashion and its representation, I explore concrete ways in which cultural meanings are inscribed on bodies, and how social subjects rewrite available scripts of identity. Central to this discussion are
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the lived and experiential aspects of social processes and identities: fashion directly reveals how embodied subjects respond to, or are caught up in, circulating global, national and local messages. The chapter starts off by considering how fashion can be seen to articulate new social identities at a specific moment in South Africa. I go on to deal with identity formations around femininity. Internationally, fashion continues to be a highly contested subject in theoretical explorations of the body, commodity capitalism and power. Interpretations have been extremely varied, yet some salient trends can be clearly mapped out. Determinist perspectives, often associated with social science analysis, argue that fashion has been central both to the perpetuation of oppressive social identities, especially gendered identities, and to capitalist social relations and economic systems. Germaine Greer (1970), reflecting sentiments at the height of the second-wave feminist critique of patriarchal cultures, argues that fashion coerces standards of beauty and social acceptability for women. Commercial industries, media messages and processes of self-identificationespecially from the middle of the 20th centuryworked together to create illusory images in the conservative cultural project of becoming a woman. Thorstein Veblen (1992/1899), confronting the massive growth spurt of commodity culture at the start of the 20th century, saw fashion as a prime instrument for regulating psychological conformity, entrenching capitalist accumulation and the exploitation of workers in manufacturing industries, and generating an insatiable desire for commodity consumption. Popular cultural theorists, including Elizabeth Wilson in her influential book, Adorned in Dreams: Fashion and Modernity (1985) challenges feminist and Marxist determinism by highlighting fashions role in empowering self-expression. Arguing that the body should be seen not simply as an instrument on which dominant social meanings are inscribed, she celebrates the extent to which fashion offers performative possibilities for agency and even subversion. This optimistic reading of fashion, which has steadily displaced the austere determinism of certain Marxist and feminist views, has been especially pronounced in revisionist studies of culturally marginalised groups; the aim has been to contest the view that historically subordinate groups in global, national and local power relations are inevitably victimised by dominant economic and social processes. Currently, South Africa demonstrates intricately layered cultural processes in relation to globalisation, the upsurge of commodity circulation and consumption, and the evolution of new forms of hybridised subjectivities with their attendant forms of dress and performative styles. As a dominant centre within regional and continental economic and cultural networks, a country with strong historical ties to Northern sources of finance and cultural influence, and one which, since the mid-1990s, has experienced enormous political and social transformation, South
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Africa reveals complex patterns of mass consumption, advertising and cultural experimentation linked to dress and fashion. Fashion critics seem emphatic about the uniqueness of South African fashion, about its distinctive embrace of urban and modern semiotics as opposed to aesthetic conventions governing fashion elsewhere in Africa. The evolution of fashion in West African fashion centres such as Senegal, or East African ones like Kenya, emphasises the symbolic logic of ethnicity, authenticity and tradition, and while transnational flows and exchanges inevitably shape both traditional authenticity and Western modernity, fashion tends to blend constructs of a distinct pre-modern authenticity with conventions associated with Western modernity. As Leslie Rabine shows in The Global Circulation of African Fashion (2002), the appeal and marketability of Senegalese and Kenyan fashionwhether within Africa or in the Westrests mainly on the intertextuality of modernity and tradition, with this generating a uniquely hybrid style. For example, handwoven strips of kente (silk and cotton fabric associated with the Akan of Ghana), mud cloth1 (hand-printed fabric from Mailstoles), modifications of traditional caftans, or swathes of brilliantly coloured cotton print enliven clothing ranging from swimwear to evening gowns, and signify authenticity and exoticism within the logic of a Western fashion semiotic. One aim of this study is to consider how and why many South African fashion trends have differed from the celebration of emphatically traditional styles, fabrics and designs, as defined above. Even though these dress trends are obviously hybrid, originating in pre-colonial, colonial and postcolonial commodity exchanges and cultural fusion, their mixture is often redefined by notions of an unalloyed African authenticity.2 In dealing with the contrasting case of South Africa, Motsemme (2003) indicates that the growing popularity of fashion influenced by African designs, accessories and fabric has been an important element in the renaissance of popular culture in post-apartheid South Africa, in other words, a fairly recent phenomenon. Motsemme links the celebration of i-tradition to the rise of Afro-femme designs[as] an important disruption to what were conventional forms of beauty and femininity (2003: 14). I am concerned with the distinctively national or home-grown character of i-tradition in aspects of South African fashion. The inflection of the idea of home-grown in the design, marketing and consumption of South African fashion reflects embodied responses to current national processes, with the aesthetic appeal of certain forms of dress, symbols, and styles being rooted in specific cultural referents and contexts. I am also concerned with the extent to which the production, marketing and consumption of fashion reveals a range of social actors and forces. Even the wearing of certain dress styles rarely demonstrates singular meanings (the choice of a particular garment to express world-view or identity). Rather than generalising about the effects of
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fashion trends and styles, I examine specific texts, contexts and practices to explore how patterns of representation, marketing and consumption come together in polysemous ways. I also draw on the range of contemporary theoretical approaches to fashion, rather than use a definitive theoretical lens or pursue the idea of fashion having a single cultural role.
Home-grown: Politics and style in South Africa

Responding to the vibrant celebrations of body image and self-presentation in recent South African fashion, performance and advertising, Sarah Nuttall, South African cultural theorist, argues that many recent fashion and style trends reflect individuals effective use of the symbolising potential of the body to affirm identities that defy the rigid categorisation and subject positions bequeathed by apartheid. In the sixth chapter of Entanglements, Nuttall (2009) draws on Foucaults notion of self-stylising to show how individuals reinvent their bodies meanings, and new urban identities. She deals with texts including Y Culture or Loxion Kulcha (a youth culture originating in Johannesburg), the fashion label Stoned Cherrie, and billboard advertising in Johannesburg to analyse innovative textual constructions of freedoms and hybridised identities. Nuttalls reading echoes the celebratory conclusions of many late 20th-century feminist and popular culture analyses. Focusing primarily on how aspects of style and fashion exuberantly play with symbols, this reading foregrounds ways in which entrenched myths are either directly confirmed or surreptitiously reconfigured in the broader contexts within which dress styles are created, promoted, purchased and worn. Nuttalls interpretation of how fashion and advertising create opportunities for new ways of being is echoed in the enthusiasm of many commentators in the fashion industry. For example, Paul Botha, designer of a streetwear label, claims that South Africa has an awesome new constitution which allows for major freedom of choice in every possible area, after all the years of oppression. This led to a creative frenzy in all art forms as we explore the vast possibilities that stretch ahead. This is the African Renaissance (quoted in Schlenzka 2004: 122). According to Botha (and to Nuttalls academic interpretation), the inventiveness of designers, the socio-cultural effects of marketers and producers, as well as the choices of various consumers express a similar sense of joy, freedom and possibility. I argue that it is vital to disaggregate actors and forces in the fashion process, and to reflect more deeply on the different interests and vantage points reflected through and within the industry of home-grown fashion. Motsemme confronts these different interests by showing how class distinctions among black
aesthetics and identity in contemporary south african fashion
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women have been connected to sartorial performance. The wearing of designs influenced by African prints, fabric and symbols is often connected to education, career aspiration and matters of taste which reinforce social class and status. In exploring diverse social forces, I am especially interested in the intertextualising of aesthetics, history and politics at a moment when particular messages about freedom, agency and independence resonate strongly in South African public discourse. The fashion design, sales and marketing industry has drawn on myths about nationhood, social cohesion and freedom in ways that echo the desires and fantasies of many consumers. This is interestingly revealed in the strategies of one of South Africas leading department stores, Woolworths. Currently, the store collaborates with local labels, most notably Stoned Cherrie, Maya Prass and Craig Native, in producing the Woolworths Young Designer collection. Since commencing this collaboration in 2003, Woolworths has, among all other South African department stores, proved very adept in marketing dress styles for different images. For example, its Country Road collection targets more sophisticated consumers of classical dress styles in muted colours and natural fabrics, while its Twist collection promotes flamboyant designs in bright primary colours and synthetic fabrics to target younger more trendconscious buyers. Woolworths effective marketing strategy has been reflected in its use of prominent personalities, varying in terms of age, race and image, to brand different collections and promote products through strong image identification. With the launch of the Young Designer collection, t-shirts from Stoned Cherrie featuring 1950s iconography were especially successful. The designs were based on the fashion houses collaboration with Jim Baileys historical archives, and indicated the companys determined archival incorporation of iconic historical imagery in fashion. The companys claim that it has represented urban culture truthfully and taken fashion out of the realm of frivolity, pretence and emulation3 is an indication of the importance it has attached to signifying history and politics through dress. Of particular significance in its iconography have been images from the magazine Drum, a publication which reflected the cultural vibrancy and experimentation of urban South Africans in the fifties. Lewis Nkosi has claimed that Drum was not so much a magazine as a symbol of urbanised Africa, a publication which represented infinite hope and possibilities, and which captured black South Africans drive in the mid-century to move fast, to live very intensely, to live harshly and vividly (1983/1965: 16; 12). Stoned Cherrie incorporated vintage photographs from Drum into tightfitting t-shirts in bold but unusual colours (turquoise, purple, mustard and deep red, as opposed to primary colours). Worn by young and old, black and white, they have been a clear design and marketing success in South Africa. Reflecting on this, the company has stated that Stoned Cherrie [has been] unclassifiable in terms of
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race or age but distinctive in terms of headspace. The idea of using images from Drum magazine has a special resonance in South Africa. By wearing Stoned Cherrie clothing, South Africans feel that they are taking back the censored past (see http:// www.stonedcherrie.co.za/home.html). How can we explore aesthetic and political meaning through the popularity of these t-shirts, and why have particular aesthetic meanings resonated in the South African cultural imaginary? It is important here to reflect on the charged meaning of the fifties in South Africa. Associated with the first major wave of mass migration and urban settlement for black South Africans, the fifties saw the origin of distinctive and vibrant urban cultural expression. Including music, dress, writing and theatre, the dynamic urban pulse of the fifties was often defined with reference to African-American jazz music and dress styles, and signalled an emphatically metropolitan identity for black South Africans. The t-shirts from Stoned Cherrie featuring vintage Drum scenes proudly recall a memory of South Africas birth into modernity, and celebrate a South African historical narrative of attaining urban sophistication and belonging. Two themes are important here: one is the way images of the fifties affirm black cultural agency and power; the other is the celebration of South Africas genesis within the world of the city, its participation in an ethos of progress and energising cultural innovation. This second theme recalls frequently made claims about the uniqueness of the South African fashion scene, whose exuberant moods combine urban styling with African iconography (Schlenzka 1994: 16). The appeal of the Stoned Cherrie fifties t-shirts rests mainly on their configuring a triumphant embrace of modernity, as opposed to the glimpse of traditional authenticity created in West and East African fashion trends through, for example, the use of kente, or embroidered fabric. The narrative of urban progress feeds into South Africas myth of the African Renaissance. At the heart of this myth is not so much the nostalgic idea of reclaiming a lost pre-modern Africa but the idea of celebrating self-realisation within a metropolitan ethos. Claims to South Africas exceptionalism vis-a-vis the rest of Africa have also been important to national articulations of the African Renaissance. In political terms, this has been reflected in South Africas prominence within the New Partnership for Africas Development (NEPAD) specifically, and in continental political and economic relations more generally. Culturally, it has been illustrated in the euphoria and pride associated with South Africas potential for transformation. These messages are pronounced in the Proudly South African campaigns promotion of home-grown products launched in 2001 by government, businesses, organised labour and community organisations. Driven by intersecting imperatives for economic growth, job creation and social development, the campaign has been anchored in public discourses
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on nation-building, developmentalism and the rainbow nationmyths that affirm a commonality of purpose and vision among all South Africans, the triumphal message of harmonious development and the miracle of transition. It is noteworthy that the Stoned Cherrie t-shirts featuring vintage fifties images proved more popular than those featuring the Black Consciousness leader, Steve Biko. Bikos image on tight-fitting t-shirts also connoted the edge that is central to fashion trends. The symbolism attached to a period in South Africa often referred to as the fabulous fifties comfortably configures a mood of cultural exuberance and joy, rather than invoking an identity overdetermined by a political orientation and purpose. The celebration of a fairly amorphous cultural freedom is significant to the popularising of a South African identity associated with novelty and change. It is an identity which is not yoked to specifically political notions of struggle and political processes. In other words, the popularity of Stoned Cherries fifties t-shirts rested mainly on their providing a source for messages about abstract change, innovation and renaissance. The use of political symbols (whether these are faces of individuals or scenes), on t-shirts in other contexts helps shed light on how and why fifties iconography in South Africa became a marketable aesthetic component in consumer culture at a particular moment. Faces of leaders, presidents and other political symbols are often worn in dress and performance in Africa. For example, members of womens organisations attached to ruling parties in countries such as Kenya and Zimbabwe have frequently worn dress and cloth depicting presidents and other leaders in displays of overt political loyalty and affiliation. Such dress is not worn as fashion, and has expressed a clear-cut partisan interest and loyalty. The image of Che Guevara on globally circulated mass-produced t-shirts suggests a very different dynamic. Fashion needs to provide a source of continuous provocation, novelty and innovation, and political icons are explicit signifiers of these meanings. The image of Guevara connotes disruption, provocation and revolution. But the meaning of Guevaras image in a context that affirms capitalist consumption and development, the very systems which Guevara opposed, is not so much the political message of supplanting capitalism with socialist revolution but a much vaguer general sense of symbolic edginess and revolution. The popularity of Guevara t-shirts stems largely from the fact that the content of his politics remains unacknowledged by many who market, buy and wear t-shirts sporting his image. The image is remote enough to connote conceptual revolutionariness while also being familiar enough to convey a compelling impression of innovation. Fifties iconography in Stoned Cherrie t-shirts sold by Woolworths has acquired popularised commercial meaning in related ways. While suggesting black pride and cultural innovation, the iconography is polysemous enough to signify an abstract and largely depoliticised sense of cultural vibrancy and revolutionariness.
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Cultural theorists have stressed the inventiveness, ingenuity and opportunism of advertising and marketing campaigns, especially their control over the signification of icons and symbols in commodity items, even when these may support socially marginalised groups struggles against the very systems of exploitation and injustice within which such icons and symbols are promoted. The marking of Che Guevara on t-shirts as revolutionary style indicates how political meaning can be absorbed into commodity culture in ways that evacuate much of their subversive meaning. Woolworths collaboration with Stoned Cherrie reveals the powerful recuperating effects and aestheticising strategies of politically charged symbols in fashion and advertising industries. Also worth remarking on is the popularity of political t-shirts in articulating South African political identities under apartheid. T-shirts emblazoned with political slogans and images, or the names and logos of trade unions, community organisations and political parties were important aspects of public performance and identification in anti-apartheid struggles. South Africa therefore demonstrates a distinctive legacy of t-shirt-wearing in the performance of political affiliation. South African fashion designers in recent years have drawn on this tradition of bodily self-identification. But the popularity and marketability of recent t-shirts has been heavily aestheticised and glamourised, rather than politicised. In similar ways to the image of Guevara on t-shirts, political images have connoted a revolutionariness that is central to the meaning of fashion items, while also being contained within the safe contours of social style. The popular appeal and marketability of Stoned Cherrie skirts, trousers and sun-dresses can be explored in similar ways to that of the companys vintage fifties t-shirts. In the last few years, the style of these garments has reflected international fashion trends. Low-waisted knee-length skirts or wide-legged trousers have been combined with boldly patterned and coloured fabrics to configure the distinctiveness of African design. Combined with jewellery incorporating beads and aspects of ethnic design, the resulting ensemble is a bricolage that clearly signals Afro-chic. Woolworths promotion of home-grown fashion has been taken up by other stores collections of Afro-chic design. Among others, Mr Price and Edgars sell clothing with African-inspired iconography in ways that, in the marketing discourse of a recent Edgars advertisement, announce that the wearer is proud of her South African heritage, but keeps her finger on the pulse of international trends (Edgars Club Magazine, August 2009: 34). These clothes incorporate far less of an allusion to history, politics and cultural identity than Stoned Cherries fifties t-shirts. Often consisting of little more than a glamorised face of a woman sporting an Afro hairstyle, or a map of Africa, the South African iconography reveals the fashion industrys fixation with political signifiers alongside a particularly hazy signification of these narratives
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Figure 5.1 Nkhensani Manganyi, South African TV personality and owner of the clothing range,
Stoned Cherrie, August 2003.
and icons. Capitalising on the desire among many South African fashion consumers to connect messages and images in current myth-making about South African exceptionalism, department stores are lucratively promoting socially conscious styles which become safe routes for buyers, which firmly position them in capitalist circuits of consumption and desire, and which work to control what it means to be South African. Musangis discussion of the popularity of the Ama Kip Kip t-shirt label provides an interesting insight into the context in which many South Africans wear Afro-chic t-shirts (2009). As she shows, the Ama Kip Kip t-shirt logo consists of a simple triangle and the words Ama Kip Kip, referring to a snack popular among taxi commuters and schoolchildren in Johannesburg townships. The label has become central to the celebration of black urban identity for South African youth, and has also attracted markets beyond South Africa to include Nigeria, Ghana and Kenya (2009: 53). Musangi raises the extent to which the logo conjures up an energetic urban identity, an identity which is both recognisably black (rooted in the townships), and also emphatically modern. As is the case with the wearing of Ama Kip Kip t-shirts, Afro-chic t-shirts encode a sense of African that is strongly connected to a distinctive ethos of mass consumption associated with highly urbanised South Africa.
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Fashions polysemous meanings and effects

Fashion styles, symbols and iconography are read, invented and circulated in different ways and from different vantage points. Individual designers may be extremely inventive and socially conscious4 in drawing on historical legacies, while different consumers of home-grown Afro-chic will negotiate a range of existential needs and fantasy meanings in buying and wearing certain clothing, and especially in wearing certain items in individually particular ways. But the growing prominence of South African fashion featuring Afro-chic, particularly through images connoting modernity and urban sophistication, indicates how the political narratives and symbols it uses echo contemporary mythologies of the new nation, and create safe or conservative meanings for consumers. As Finkelstein puts it, fashion is often a hungry Moloch which can eventually digest all attempts at oppositional dress (1997: 162). While the design and wearing of certain fashion items can indicate bold and oppositional gestures by certain actors in the fashion process, the broader commercial context in which it is consumed frequently suppresses explosive and disruptive meanings and effects. The evolution of South African fashion revealed in the sale and marketing of Afro-chic t-shirts reveals how dominant narratives can set limits on actors creative and inventive imaginings of the self. While ideas of liberation and transformation may be central to the design and wearing of Afro-chic clothing, the fairly conservative messages of South African exceptionalism, the triumphant attainment of the modern, and the discovery of a definitive moment of freedom frames and constrains these ideas. This conservative trend becomes clear when we consider how the mass marketing of Afro-chic t-shirts has steadily depoliticised symbols in dress items. The clothing now sold in many department stories marks a retreat from the political project, confidently articulated by Stoned Cherrie, of designing fashion items in ways that transcend frivolity, pretence and emulation (see www. stonedcherrie.co.za). Even though fashion is located in constraining discourses and economic and social relations, it reflects certain actors urgent and active quests for positive identities. Globally, fashion has provided groups, particularly in alienating urban contexts, with the promise of a coherent self-image to offset alienation and social dislocation. Finkelstein suggests that Fashion can function ideologically by formally resolving, at the imaginary level, the social contradictions produced by modern urban living (1997: 161). Psychoanalytically, the wearing of Afro-chic resolves the fragmentation associated with social upheaval in South Africa. In delivering the promise of both looking good and belonging, Afro-chic in South Africa responds to the yearnings of South Africans across the political spectrum
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with the assurance of a new, optimistic and proud self-image. This image is fundamentally different from past memories of racial conflict and the degradation of many South Africans, and also transcends lived experiences of oppression, instability and insecurity in the post-apartheid period. Literally, then, wearing Proudly South African and home-grown fashion creates imaginative possibilities for marking the body in Utopian ways. This indicates how serious attention to fashion can contribute to understanding some of the questions posed by social scientists about social cohesion and the creation of a national we. In a collection entitled What Holds Us Together: Social Cohesion in South Africa, the authors of several chapters examine government, labour, business and community in confronting what the editors define as the challenges and opportunities for South African social cohesion in a globalising world (Chidester et al. 2003: 1). Like other activities in popular culture, fashion is a site within everyday life for imagining collectivity, and for creating optimistic meanings which displace previous divisive cultural processes. While fashion may often be deemed frivolous, it can have an important symbolic function and significant existential effects. The unifying glue created by myths about the rainbow nation or heritage institutions has a direct nation-building function. These myths are strategically and consciously pursued by the State and its organs. But national identification also filters into the social imaginary in ways that are not always explicitly political. Another effect of recent South African fashion is identified in Nuttalls claim that, since 1994, young South Africans have been using apartheid-era classification in changing ways to elaborate shifting identities for themselves in the new post-racist dispensation (2009: 116). While icons and stories of black pride have been central to the recent fashion industry, South African fashion often transcends the essentialism and divisiveness of the past. Thus, its targeted consumers are often South Africans whose youth, post-apartheid identification and cosmopolitan urban situation are more important indices of identity than previous racial definitions. The new features of identity are also metaphoric, conveying a sense of youthful energy, of rupture with the past, of the freedom of hybridised cityscapes. Nuttall concludes: What is clear is that new youth cultures are superseding the resistance politics of an earlier generation, while still jamming, remixing and remaking cultural codes and signifiers from the apartheid past (2009: 117). The redefinition of cultural resources to create new subject positions has allowed fashion consumers to find innovative ways of inscribing their bodies and freeing them from apartheids legacy of being inscribed upon. In the sections that follow, I show that this inventive process of bodily self-inscription is also important in exploring femininity and fashion.
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Fashion and the regulation of gendered image

Jennifer Craiks (1993) perceptive discussion of fashion photography draws attention to its function as a technology for creating and confirming subordinate femininity. At the same time, she stresses the scope it has provided, especially from the 1980s onwards, for womens oppositional representations and performances of gender. These include androgynous or overtly powerful images, or representations of femininity that convey ambivalence or parody. Yet the regulating effects of fashion photography are acknowledged in Margaret Maynards (2008) argument that it may be more useful to see fashion photography as a rhetorical practice, rather than in terms of any essential generic features: irrespective of the subversive or disruptive content of images, fashion photographs are anchored, framed and contextualised in ways that make them speak about female bodies and sexuality in fairly consistent ways. Central to these are messages about womens need to consume particular commodities to attain prescribed standards of desirability and social value through display. Advertising and marketing, especially through the photographs in womens magazines, define social purposes for, and forms of womens bodily performance, and so reduce scope for individual self-styling and agency. In South Africa, as is the case elsewhere, the advertising of fashion, especially for women, is exhortative. Fashion advertising feeds off, and generates anxieties about body image and social belonging among consumers. Fashion items are advertised as the commodities that complete the buyers realisation of social identity. The persuasive role of fashion photography (and of marketing and advertising of fashion more generally) becomes particularly important in considering how individual agencies can be constrained in the levelling process of branding imageeven through the most iconoclastic and revolutionary aspects of fashion. Much street fashion, originating in the rebellious performance and dress styles of marginalised subcultures, exhibits these contradictions. While the clothing itself may mark social marginality or exclusion, and while the individuals who wear street clothing may self-consciously define their oppositionality, the promotion of street fashion in advertisements and marketing campaigns immediately transforms it into a disciplining prescription for bodily transformationachieved through resources sold by the culture industry. Street fashion labels also rely on consumers desire for social distinction and recognition based on restricted and economically valuable items of clothing. Advertising exploits this desire, promising the buyer social validation in return for consumption. Fashion advertising generally, and the fashion photograph specifically, has normalising power and regulating effects. As many feminist commentators have shown, modern advertising constructs highly artificial images of beauty, linking the attainment of this beauty to the
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endless consumption of products. Remote, dehumanised and blatantly synthetic, the body image linked to consumer culture, especially fashion, is never attainable. It is the culture industrys tool for generating an insatiable need among consumers. It circumscribes their agency, promotes psychological conformity and limits their potential to imagine different ways of being. The 2008 winner of the Young Standard Bank Artist of the Year Award, photographer Nontsikelelo Veleko, offers interesting commentary on this. Alert to the centrality of fashion in the definition of subjectivity, and to the way fashion can offer inventive public masquerades, Veleko represents subjects for whom innovative dress style is a central marker of individuality and visibility. Her most recent exhibition, Wonderland, portrays subjects who create and inhabit a vibrant fantasy world of their own creation. In her unique adaptation of fashion photographic conventions, Veleko extends our insight into the symbolic significance of refashioning subjectivity through bodily display and self-styling. Fashion photography routinely establishes a surveillance of the body, especially the female body. Presented as being subject to perfection through consumer items, female bodies in fashion photography are the blank canvases for consumer culture. They are situated in an explicitly disciplining process of attaining femininity in relation to dominant notions of taste, sophistication and beauty. Although street fashion, increasingly important in the South African fashion scene, seems to contravene many social conventions of taste, beauty and style, street fashion labels assumeto as great a degree as do all other fashion labelsvery strict conventions about which items, combinations, colours and styles are permissible. They prescribe a desirable body image, however alternative, promote uniformity and ensnare consumers in a social web of consumption and conformism. Velekos photographs revel in her subjects defiance of many of these conventions, especially those which allow items to be branded in relation to a culturally exalted body image. As revealed in one of her major projects, Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder, she interrogates socially consensual notions of beauty, especially for women, to affirm the iconoclastic and inventive self-beautifying of her subjects through idiosyncratic uses of dress, hair-styling and body adornment. Rather than adopting the fashion photographs strategy of prescribing body image, Veleko conveys the independence of her subjects unique performance in enlisting global and local cultural resources to re-imagine their body image. Velekos photographs are also important in unsettling the rhetorical devices through which fashion photography establishes the authority of the branded images that it represents, and so inculcates the consumer insecurities and desire off which capitalism feeds. The tortuously posed and arranged subjects in much fashion photography depersonalise bodies and convey only highly artificial and dehumanised synthetic surfaces. As the image in Figure 5.2 reveals, Veleko presents
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Figure 5.2 Trio I 2007
her subject as being larger than life, somehow in control of her self-presentation, rather than being captured and posed in the photographers representation. Her playful but confident pose, the assurance of her steady gaze at the viewer, the striking sense of our confronting an individualised body and personality, all work to refute the rhetoric of fashion photography. Commenting on this, Tumelo Mosaka argues that Velekos portraits disrupt any easy consumption because of their heightened awareness of the subject (2008: 65). The photographers strategy involves establishing communication with, rather than control over her subjects. Veleko collaborates with her subjects in decisions about how and where they wish to be represented. Thus, rather than presuming to capture them, she implicitly textualises her representational role in relation to their own self-presentation. This destabilising of the authority of the photographic gaze conveys agency, and demystifies ways in which advertising images and marketing limit individuals creative performance of identity. The photographers challenging of modes of representation are therefore central to her exploration of new agencies and identities. She draws attention to the way that social subjects are defined as much by the texts and technologies through which they are represented as they are by their own performance. As Figure 5.2 reveals, the subject looms large within the frame of the photograph. She unabashedly returns the spectators gaze, thus refusing conventional female positioning as being only looked at. Her elevated position
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in looking down at the viewer also unsettles the voyeurism, othering and objectification in photographs where subjects literally submit to being looked at by elevated viewers. Velekos unsettling of the formal conventions of fashion photography is also registered in her technique. In her scathing review of Velekos work, Anthea Buys argues that as fashion photography her work is conceptually nave and aesthetically clumsy, and her processing is either very lazy or genuinely amateurish ... The majority of photographs included in this exhibition is either pixelated or grainy (2007). Buyss review ignores how technical flaws may signal deliberate and strategic genre confusion and intertextuality, with the unsatisfactory fashion photograph signalling the photographers distance from its key assumptions, most notably its efforts to create flawlessness and perfection. Advertised body image constructs perfection not only in representing the body (especially female) as artificial ideal but also through inscribing faultlessness, achieved through the elaborate technological means for producing and presenting images in glossy magazines, in the entire advertising message. Mosaka draws attention to the parodic effects of Velekos techniques, and indicates that Veleko critiques the modes of representation which have defined how we consume image (2008: 65). By unsettling the medias dominant modes of representing fashion, Veleko encourages us to interrogate the impression of flawlessness that these modes construct. For young women especially, the image of perfection is extremely seductive and damaging. Generating feelings of selfloathing and consumerist obsession, the image reinforces patriarchal and capitalist systems, and restricts psychological opportunities for the independent imagining of body image and subjectivity. Velekos image of black women proudly claiming independence and self-expression through their posture and flamboyant dress demonstrates an image of black women which resolutely re-uses femininitys silencing scripts of identity. As Tracy Murinik writes, they are subjects who take risks in the way that they declare themselves in the world (2008:11).
Conclusion: Refashioning political agency in South Africa

For some, the agency, creative process and individuality configured in, and through the photography of Veleko may be purely textual, effective as a representational strategy yet having little connection to the real challenges of transformation in contemporary South Africa. But the reinvention of self, the performance of identity, and the self-styling of bodies need to be seen as important current forms of social opposition and struggle. In early 2008, protests against the territorial control of Johannesburg taxi drivers, who brutalised a young woman wearing a mini-skirt,
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signalled the political potential of dress style and performance in the public domain. Numerous women wearing mini-skirts marched to the taxi rank to express solidarity with the abused woman, and to celebrate their control over their own bodies and their right to public spaces. Marked by the spirited and noisy display of bodies and dress, the demonstrations were exuberant and joyful retorts to the repressive patriarchal violence exercised over the bodies of women at the taxi rank. Previously, politicised perfomance and embodied struggle in South Africa were defined through acts like the toyi-toyi, or organised marches or funeral processions. Then, symbols, movements and dress linked to bodily performance served a very focused purpose in challenging the apartheid government. In the present day, it becomes important to consider how rebellious performance and bodily self-presentation may deviate from those rooted in a specific moment of resistance. Performance and resistance in neo-liberal South Africa can be much more covert, at the margins of the public sphere, in-between spheres, or in domains we associate only with entertainment and leisurethe everyday cultural means through which subjectivity is negotiated. Velekos photographs suggest ways in which bodily performance can express mockery of authority, resisting in ways that are not conventionally or directly political. Subversion, defiance and the triumphant celebration of independence can be associated with eclectic dress, defiant posture and acts which undermine or satirise practices which, like fashion advertising, regulate conformity, discipline bodies and suppress human freedoms. Such performance becomes especially powerful when commodity capitalism so effectively mobilises icons, symbols and dress styles to speak in the name of individuality, pride and self-realisation. Strategies of bodily surveillance and psychological persuasionespecially those co-ordinated by media campaigns and the culture industrylimit possibilities for individual self-expression. The energy of the physical body is crucial to the performance of defiant identities. The Johannesburg womens protests against taxi drivers aggression highlights the power of the mobile body, and the way that conceptual and politicised action can be manifested in embodied acts such as dress. Consequently, attention to the politicised body enormously expands ideas evident in a social movement studysuch as Voices of Protest: Social Movements in Post-Apartheid South Africa (Ballard et al. 2006). As a pivotal study of present-day resistance, the collection identifies trajectories of post-apartheid struggle mainly by tracing how thought precedes and guides action, by showing how political actionconceived in terms of a Cartesian binaryemanates from the mind. Theorised politics is seen to direct the moving body in a unilinear way, thus illustrating the rather tired formulations, paradigms and constructs that characterise much South African Marxist, neo-Marxist and early feminist work on politics and struggle. Attention to the
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interaction between the thinking mind and moving body questions neo-Marxist reductionism and determinism; it is often through the dressed and adorned body, the acting body, that politics takes shape, that a sense of solidarity and of political identity acquires meaning, and that new social identities and ways of being in the world are envisaged. There is a variety of influential yet under-researched examples of embodied struggle in contemporary South Africa. Many young people have adopted eclectic and flamboyant dress which defies the conventions of globalised and national consumer capitalism and image branding. Often tacky and feisty, this trend celebrates the innovation and style which is central to fashion. But it also eludes complicity with the social stratification linked to buying power and associated with labels such as Calvin Klein, Tommy Hilfiger or Nike. The oppositional brand image constructed through the bricolage of individual young men and women is therefore unique vis--vis conspicuous consumption, the dictates of fashion houses and dominant advertising campaigns; it is the dress style of youth who adventurously use available material resources as well as an astute selection of symbols and icons linked to local, national and global forms of popular cultural resistance. In this way, they assertively talk back to the dominant world that they know intimately, and proudly define new possibilities for identification. These new possibilities gesture beyond a world determined by commodity capitalism, advertising monopolies and global mass-media images, as well as the current South African status quos prescriptions for ways of being gendered, sexed, classed or nationally defined.
Figure 5.3 Ayanda Makhuzeni 2007
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Apart from the subversive content of Velekos work (especially the refusal of prescribed routes towards realising gendered identity), the exuberance of her subjects performative self-representation as expressed in Figure 5.3 is striking. It is worth remarking on the relevance of humour and irreverence in her representation, a tone which deviates diametrically from the humourlessness of South African opposition in previous decades. The persistent echoes of humour and play in dress styles worn in the shopping centres of South Africas townships, or erupting in the sophisticated urban spaces of Cape Town or Johannesburg, or celebrated by a photographer condemned by elements in the South African art establishment as artistically ineptare reminders of the resilience of the human spirit in discovering freedoms in the most direct of ways: inflecting the bodily resources we all possess, making the connection between the biological body and social be-ing, and affirming the physical bodys capacity to mediate cultural territory beyond capitalist, disciplinary, gendered and authoritarian messages.
Notes
1 2 Mud cloth is the popular name for Bogolanfini, hand-woven and hand-dyed cloth from Mali. Among many diasporic black people seeking to affirm their African origins, the popularity of many of these dress styles, or clothes made of kente and mud cloth testifies to the general consensus about their signification as authetically African. 3 4 See http://www.stonedcherrie.co.za/ Stoned Cherrie, while clearly concerned with profitability, has indicated its social engagement not only though its emphasis on recalling the historical narratives of black South Africans but also through activities such as working with women from the African Feeding Scheme, the Sparrow School in Johannesburg, and rural craftswomen in Polokwane. See http://www.stonedcherrie.co.za/
References
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Finkelstein J (1997) Chic Outrage. In K Davis (Ed.) Embodied practices: Feminist perspectives on the body. London: Sage Greer G (1970) The female eunuch. New York: Harper Perennial Maynard M (2008) The fashion photograph: An ecology. In E Shinkle (Ed.) Fashion as photograph: Viewing and reviewing images of fashion. London: Taurus Mosaka T (2008) Urban Mythologies. In Nontsikelelo Veleko: Wonderland. (Catalogue) Cape Town: Goodman Gallery Motsemme N (2003) Distinguishing beauty, creating distinctions: The politics and poetics of dress among young Black women. Agenda 57 Murinik T (2008) Spilling through the lens; Slipping behind the looking glass. In Nontsikelelo Veleko: Wonderland. (Catalogue) Cape Town: Goodman Gallery Musangi J (2009) Ayoba, Ama Kip Kip, Ayoba: The t-shirt cult in the forging of black urban identity in Johannesburg. Scrutiny2: Issues in English Studies in Africa 14 (1) Nkosi L (1983/1965) The fabulous decade: The fifties. In L Nkosi (1965) Home and exile and other selections. London & New York: Longman Nuttall S (2009) Entanglement: Literary and cultural reflections on post-apartheid. Johannesburg: Wits University Press Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za Rabine L (2002) The global circulation of African fashion. Oxford & New York: Berg Schlenzka J (2004) Chic Afrique. In Dazed and Confused. 2(15) July Veblen T (1992/1899) The theory of the leisure class. London: Transaction Publishers Wilson E (1985) Adorned in dreams: Fashion and modernity. London: Virago
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cy g democra in Accessoris
section 2
6 Gender and the politics of the Basotho blanket

Mathabo Khau
When We embark on a research journey we bring a lot with us. Even if we think we can pack light and leave a substantial part of ourselves behind at home or at the office our biases, social location, hunches and so onwe cannot. What we can do, however, is know the contents of the baggage we carry and how it is likely to impact upon us during our research journey, from beginning to end (Cole & Knowles 2001: 49). The journey to my present interest in the construction of female sexual identities and sexuality education began in Quthing, Lesotho, where I was born. My father was a prison officer and my mother a housewife. As a young girl from a very poor family I was always aware of the importance of clothes in positioning people differently. I was in awe of the beautiful dresses that other girls would wear and how lovely they looked. When we were playing in the village square, I was ever conscious that the boys wanted to chase only the pretty girls in beautiful dresses. I wanted to be chased by boys, too, but I did not have beautiful dresses and hence did not feel that I looked pretty. I recognised acutely the importance of the blanket, not only as something of beauty but also as something essential for the cold winter days and long winter nights in Lesotho. The first blanket that I owned was called Lilala. This blanket was specifically designed to be small enough for a child to wear and be able to play with. I remember the pride I felt on the day that my mother brought the blanket home from the shop. My brothers and I were arguing about whose blanket smelled more of bosulu ba makhoa (a white mans fart). During those days, any new clothing item was said to have this particular smell. This was probably because, for us, as children, anything that came from white people was supposed to be good, including their farts. I wore my blanket with pride and never put it down. I now had something new and beautiful and the boys wanted to chase me! This blanket was also a sign of prestige because not many families could afford such blankets for their children. I remember that my mother was able to get these blankets for all four of her children because she had placed them on lay-bye1 at the local store for almost a year.
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When I got married I was given my second blanket and shawl. This was my first adult blanket and I was proud of it. I was also given all the rules of how to be a good wife to my husband. I was given some seshoeshoe2 dresses to wear, too. Unfortunately for me at that time I was already a hard-core jeans and t-shirt girl and had been labelled a tomboy. I felt really uncomfortable in a dress and blanket. My in-laws told me that I wore a blanket like a man and that I didnt walk gracefully with my blanket like a woman was supposed to do. Poor me! One of the grandmothers even volunteered to teach me how to wear the blanket properly and walk like a woman. I wanted to remove the blanket from my shoulders so that I could do all the chores that were expected of a newly-wed. I was told in no uncertain terms that doing so would be a sign that I was rebelling. My husband was told that he had married another man and was severely reprimanded by his grandparents. I remember that as I was bathing the following day, the grandmothers came into the room to observe. They positioned themselves around the room and I was observed from every angle. I think that they wanted to verify whether I was a real Mosotho3 woman. I knew that they wanted to see if I had the elongated inner labia. When they left the room, one young woman came in to ask me if I had the elongated inner labia because the grandmothers were not happy with me at all. My husband also told me that he had been asked whether I was being a good blanket for him. I think my marriage was over within a week of getting married because I was not a good blanket, and therefore not a proper wife for my husband. The doubts placed in his mind about my ability to pleasure him sexually without the long inner labia made him start doubting too. The fact that I was already a qualified teacher with a degree made matters worse because, with my own salary, I was not dependent on him financially. He was constantly told that he still had time to marry a good Mosotho girl and let me go. To make matters worse, I gave birth to a baby girl when the family was expecting a boy and they had already given me the name Mathabo: mother of Thabo (a boy). I was then grudgingly given my third blanket with which to carry the child on my back. My husband and my in-laws were very disappointed in me as a woman. We stayed together for a year before we separated for good. Looking back on my life, I have come to realise the power that the blanket has had on my positioning as a woman and in shaping the woman I am today. I still wear my Basotho blanket, as a traditional symbol, with pride. I have, however, decided that I will keep challenging the power afforded the blanket in the normalisation of particular ways of being and becoming a Mosotho woman. According to Bridgewood, dress can act as a vehicle for exploring new ideas; it can be used to express and explore more daring aspirations(1995: 48). Thus other
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Basotho women and I have embarked on a journey of using the Basotho blanket to explore more daring aspirations of being and becoming women, and performing our womanhood differently. Come along. You are invited into the private, and now public, world of the Basotho blanket. *** The blanket is an important part of traditional dress for Basotho people. It is such a common sight in Lesotho that one might assume that it had been invented locally. Its beginnings, however, can be traced to the contact between the Basotho and Europeans during the 19th century. Even though Basotho people adopted and appropriated the Seana-Marena4 blanket as their traditional emblem, the significance of the blanket has always been, for Basotho people, an important part of who they are as a nation. Rouse states that the way we decorate our bodies, what we wear and how we wear it is part of our culture, our socially learned way of life (1989: 18). This is also true for the Basotho people in relation to the way they use and wear the blanket. Thus the blanket becomes an important text and also a lens through which to gain insight into the lives of Basotho people. This chapter aims to underscore the importance and symbolism of the blanket for Basotho people in relation to issues of gender and female sexuality. It discusses the blanket as a cultural phenomenon and its use in different discursive spaces, especially the ways in which the Basotho use blankets to communicate their joys or grievances. I also highlight the symbolic use of the blanket in everyday discourse among Basotho women to celebrate their sexuality and how the construction and regulation of female sexuality changed with the impact of colonialism and Christianity. Through these discussions, this chapter brings forth and emphasises the entanglement of traditional discourses of sex and sexuality with Christian notions of proper behaviour for women and girls. In order to achieve this aim, I first discuss the arrival of the Seana-Marena blanket into Basotho culture. To highlight the embeddedness of the blanket within the sexuality discourses of the Basotho people I then discuss the symbolism of the blanket as regards marriage and the practice of elongating the inner labia. I also examine the image of a blanket drawn by a female teacher as a metaphor for how she sees herself as a woman and the significance of the blanket in her life as a Mosotho woman. I end the chapter with a discussion of the meanings that can be read into the Basotho peoples use of the blanket and what contributions such meanings can have for social action in southern Africa.
gender and the politics of the Basotho Blanket
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The story of the blanket

Before the arrival of the missionaries Basotho people used animal skins to make dresses and blankets. The most commonly used animal skins were those from cows, sheep and goats. These were dried before being scraped and softened so that they would be comfortable to wear and to be used as coverings or blankets while sleeping. The animal skins that were used to make clothes and blankets for royalty, however, were the skins of wild animals such as deer and carnivores such as lions, leopards, and tigers.5 The British colonisation of Lesotho around 1867it is recorded that the first missionaries arrived in 1833 but Lesotho only became a British Protectorate in 1867and the inclusion of Basotho migrant workers in the South African mining industry, beginning with migration to the diamond mines in Kimberley, contributed significantly to the popularisation of Western dress among the Basotho (Karstel 1995). Colonial rule brought with it the English blankets and clothes which Basotho people adopted as their own. Of these English blankets6 the one that became a Basotho emblem is the Seana-Marena which is seen in Figure 6.1. Because the Basotho of these times could not pronounce the word Victoria they called the blanket Lefitori (-fitori is close to Victoria in pronunciation). ONeal (1998) argues that traditional dress should instil pride in the wearer, and certainly Basotho people took pride in the blanket as their traditional dress. It became an important piece of clothing considered necessary for different ceremonial activities. Allen (1969) maintains that clothes are an essential part of all ceremonial activities, whether connected to religion, funerals or weddings. For example, Sekese (2002) claims that Basotho children were given blankets when they went to the traditional initiation school as a rite of passage. He also points
Figure 6.1 Basotho blanket seal of quality 7
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out that when a newly wed woman gave birth to her first child the husband would give her a blanket called Serope-sa-Motsoetse (the thigh of a new mother), as an acknowledgement of her womanhood. The blanket thus served as an affirmation of an individuals position in society and as a signifier of achievement. When Basotho men started working in the mines they were able to afford these English blankets and they became treasured possessions. These blankets were very expensive for the common Mosotho and thus they became symbols of social standing and wealth. The types of blanket that men and women chose and wore expressed their individuality and personality. They also enhanced the impression one had of other people (Klopper 1991; Ryan 1966). This is because dress plays an important role in shaping and defining social and sexual identities. According to Latzke and Hostetter (1968), clothing helps towards understanding a person because it is through dress that people express the values that are important to them. Hurlock (1974) reiterates this idea when he discusses the way in which clothing expresses a persons individuality and personality. Barnes and Eicher (1993) add to this when they discuss how dress can serve not only as an indication of a persons belonging to a particular group but can also, simultaneously, differentiate individuals. Thus dress can include or exclude. The wearing of the blanket also served to either include or exclude. Basotho men treasured their blankets and held on to them as jealously as they did their wives. Only the preferred wife was allowed to wear a certain blanket, and only a treasured visitor could be given such a blanket on a cold winters night. The wives who were given such blankets held on to them protectively and wore them as a symbol of status and privilege, especially within polygamous relationships.
Symbolism of the blanket among the Basotho

As Seana-Marena blankets became popular among the common people, almost every adult Mosotho had one blanket that was worn during the day and at night, to ward off cold winter chills. Basotho people wear the blanket as part of their cultural attire partly because of the unusually cold Lesotho winters (Karstel 1995). However, the Basotho loved their blankets so much that they often wore them even when it was hot, thus the saying, Rona re Basotho re apara likobo leha letsatsi le chesa (We are the Basotho and we wear our blankets even when it is very hot). Blanketwearing is as much part of being a Mosotho as is speaking the Sesotho language. It has become part of who we are as Basotho people. It is a traditional identifier and cultural symbol. This, in turn, has resulted in another saying, Bochaba ba Mosotho ke kobo, which means that the blanket is the binding force behind the Basotho. It literally translates as The national identity of a Mosotho is the blanket.
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Kaiser argues that culture provides guidelines on the interpretation and meaning given to clothes. She suggests that culture is a relatively abstract concept that describes the mental and physical artefacts that people value (Kaiser 1990: 349). Cerny (1993) suggests that it is through culture that the social status, attitudes, desires, beliefs and ideals of individuals are communicated to others. Additionally, Barnes and Eicher (1993) suggest that dress as a cultural phenomenon can help define a persons identity. Therefore proper dress for every social event is dictated by culture while still allowing for personal choice (Perani & Wolff 1999). Variations and conformity of dress are therefore culturally dictated and communicate the social role and status of individuals. In all cultures, dress plays a unique and critical role because of its proximity to the body. Thus dress has a strong influence on the socialisation of individuals and on the continuance of a cultural system (Michelman 1995). The body and dress are each a symbol or text for culture. Applied to Basotho people, this means that the bodies that wear the blanket, how the blanket is worn and the blanket itself become texts through which to interpret Basotho culture.
The blanket and marriage

While I have discussed some literature that pertains to dress as it is worn, my aim in this section is to examine the role of dress as a symbolic unit of meaning making and expression. I discuss the blanket as a cultural phenomenon and its use in different discursive spaces. I look at how in different settings the Basotho use blankets as symbols to communicate their joy or grievances. Basotho communities expect their youth to abstain from sexual intercourse until marriage and therefore Basotho men expect to have virgin brides, although this expectation is no longer as prevalent as it used to be. However, a virgin bride continues to be a big investment for the family because they can demand more cows for the bohali/lobola (bride-price). The girls father enjoys the pride of demanding a large bride-price for his daughters hand in marriage and the girls mother has the pride of being labelled as a good mother who raised her daughter well. Thus it is very important for the young mans family to ensure that they get their moneys worth by confirming that the bride is still a virgin. In the past, if a newly wed young man discovered that his new wife was not a virgin, he would take his fathers cattle out to pasture very early in the morning without allowing the cows to feed the calves (mohobo). When he got to the pastures he would spread mud on the most treasured cow or bull amongst his fathers herd and then make a hole in his blanket just above his shoulders. At midday he would drive the herd back home and return them to their kraal, before leaving the village
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to sit alone in the hills. Those observing his actions would know that the new wife was not a virgin. The new bride was then taken back to her parents house in shame and the bride-price had to be returned (Sekese 2002). The mud on the cow or bull showed that the wife was not clean and the hole in the blanket was symbolic of the fact that the wife was not intactnot a virgin. The choice of a favourite cow or bull on which to smear the mud was an indication of the fact that the new wife had been a valued possession but had not been perfect. Additionally, considering Lesothos cold weather and the need for a blanket to keep warm, the mans making a hole in his blanket was a sign of his desperation and disappointment. By contrast, if the new wife was found to be a virgin she would be warmly welcomed by the in-laws and the village people. She would be given a new blanket to wear over her shoulders (see Figure 6.2), and a shawl to wrap around her waist to keep warm. The shawl was supposed to ensure that the woman was hot enough to be sexually pleasing to her husband and that she would therefore conceive. The way in which a newly wed woman wore her blanket differed from the way in which women who had long been married and had children wore theirs. She was expected to wear her blanket with the folded flap inside, and not outside, as is shown in Figure 6.2.
Figure 6.2 Mathabo and her blanket (picture provided by the author)
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Once she had borne a child the woman was then allowed to wear the blanket with the folded flap on the outside and to discard the shawl. The way Basotho women wear their blankets differs from men. For women, there is particular emphasis on the folds of the blanket meeting at the right point on the bosom so that the decorative lines meet (see Figure 6.2 for the way the lighter-coloured lines meet). A woman who wears the blanket differently can easily be identified either as a stranger to Basotho womanhood or as being deviant. Roach-Higgins and Eicher (1992) believe that a womans identity can be established when others define her as a social object and assign her the same worth or identity that she appropriates for herself. Thusmore so in the past than todaythe wearing of blankets in this manner communicated the fact that the wearer was still in the early stages of being and becoming a woman. Informed by the way in which the blanket was worn, the woman was given the respect worthy of her appropriated status. According to Davis (1992), clothing symbolically locates people in a structured universal lifestyle and can become a means of communication. Magwaza (2001) argues that Zulu women use dress as a means of communication to present their thoughts and experiences in a way that is non-verbal, visually descriptive and decorative. In a similar vein, the blanket worn by a Mosotho woman also communicates her marital status, experiences and identity. To ensure that the wife was performing her marital duties, in the evenings the elder Basotho women would constantly remind the new wife Ngoana ka, tsamaea alla monna.8 (My daughter, go and prepare the bed for your husband.) Sometimes they would ask the newly wed wife Ngoana ka, na u ntse u alla monna hantle?9 (My daughter, are you still preparing your husbands bed properly?) Typically, when a wife is preparing the bed for sleeping, the expectation is that she should check that there are enough blankets and that they are in good condition so as to keep her and her husband comfortable through the night. The implication in these reminders and questions is that the young bride is also considered to be a blanket for the husband. She should ensure that she keeps her husbands bed warm and that she is there to warm him sexually whenever he wants her to. I have never heard of such questions being asked of a newly wed young man. Thus one can see that greater importance is attached to a mans sexual enjoyment within a marriage while a womans sexual enjoyment is not even mentioned. This practice is perpetuated by notions of male sexual entitlement within Basotho society (Jewkes et al. 2006; Tamale 2005). In the past, it was common among married people that if the wife refused her husband sex, he would go to his parents and in-laws and complain that mosali o hana ka likobo (the wife does not give me blankets). This would then alert the parents to the fact that the wife was refusing to have sex with her husband. Such a woman would be severely reprimanded and told that it was her duty to have sex with
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her husband. In some instances the quarrel between the wife and husband would be so intense that the mediating bodies (parents, relatives, and the chief) would ask that the couple have sex in their presence, either as a form of punishment or as a way of ensuring that the couple understood the terms of the mediators. This practice of reporting and disciplining wives who do not perform their conjugal duties still occurs in some parts of rural Lesotho. It was unheard of for a woman to complain to her parents that her husband was denying her sex. This might have been because women were brought up to believe in sexual restraint (Ericsson 2005; Kimmel 2004). Many women are still taught that a good woman does not either desire or initiate sex but waits for her man to initiate it. Women are not regarded as sexual beings. The bodies of Basotho women are believed to exist for the pleasure of men: the Basotho saying states that women are blankets for men. Literally, a blanket is a possession which is paid for and which can be used in any way without it ever talking back, initiating activity, responding to any stimulus or insisting on any enjoyment. Is it any different for women in Basotho society?
The blanket and pulling the inner labia

From a very young age Basotho girls are taught to pull their inner labia before they start menstruating. It is believed that the inner labia will harden and not elongate, even if they are pulled, once the woman begins menstruating. The belief is that elongated inner labia keep a woman hot because they block the vaginal entrance and keep the heat inside (Gay 1986). Young girls are told that if they do not pull their inner labia they will lose favour with their husbands because they will not be able to please them sexually (see Arnfred 2007; Parikh 2005; Tamale 2005). Pulling the labia forms a central part of the preparation of the female body, both for sexual activity with a husband and for childbirth. Elders commonly invoke the idea of a vagina needing a cover and the inner labia are conceptualised as a curtain or blanket. In addition to covering the opening of the vagina, the elongated labia are supposed to lengthen the passage through which the penis passes and in this way to increase the mans satisfaction. Pulling the inner labia is thus considered to be one of the most effective ways of winning the favours of a husband (Parikh 2005: 134). For the Basotho people, the inner labia are conceptualised as a blanket for the mans penisto keep it covered during sexual intercourse. Arnfred (2007) and Tamale (2005) claim that in some parts of Mozambique and Uganda the elongating of the inner labia was (and still is) perceived as enhancing the erotic experience of both men and women, while in Lesotho this practice has been described specifically as enhancing a mans sexual pleasure and reducing a womans sexual excitability (Gay 1986).
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If a Mosotho man found that his woman did not have the elongated inner labia, he would complain Kobo li nyane kea hatsela.10 (I am getting cold because the blankets (labia) are small.) With this utterance the man would be telling the woman that she is not hot enough to pleasure him because her inner labia are not long enough to cover the vaginal opening and keep the heat inside. This statement also suggests that the inner labia are not long enough to keep his penis covered during sex. Therefore, the inner labia are regarded as blankets that cover the vaginal opening and as blankets that enhance a mans sexual pleasure. It was (and still is) very shameful for a woman to be told that she is not hot enough to sexually pleasure a man. Thus many Basotho women elongated their inner labia and still do so, so that they have the right size blanket, and such accusations cannot be levelled against them. Additionally, if a man suspected his wife of infidelity he would say Kobo tsaka li aparoa matsekela. (My blankets are being used by strangers.) This statement would alert those listening that his wife was having sex with men other than her husband. Infidelity was sufficient grounds for the wife to be taken back to her parents and the bride-price returned (thus effecting divorce). If the infidelity had led to pregnancy, the womans father was supposed to pay one cow to the husband as compensation for his daughters infidelity. This was very shameful for the womans parents as they were blamed for faulty upbringing practices (Sekese 2002). Just like the blanket which was a prized possession for a Mosotho man, the wife was also a prized possession. A mans social standing was elevated by the kind of blanket he wore as well as the kind of woman he married and thus a chaste woman, like the new intact blanket, was the ideal candidate. However, I have never heard of a Mosotho mans virginity or fidelity being questioned. Even though Sekese (2002) writes at length about womens virginity and fidelity, he is silent on mens virginity and fidelity and on how infidelity was dealt with when a man was the guilty party.
The blanket and visitors

It was common practice among the Basotho that if a stranger arrived in a village at night, he would either be accommodated by the chief or be taken to the house of those who shared the same totem or belonged to the same clan. In the past, Basotho people were polygamous so when such a visiting stranger arrived he was taken to one of the wives for her to accommodate him. The instruction from the husband would be ...alla moeti eo oaka (...prepare the bed for my visitor). The bed preparation was the same for the visitor as it was for the husband. It was understood that while the husband would be busy with one wife the visitor would help keep the other wife busy so that she did not become too lonely. Most often the visitor would be very
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thankful in the morning and report to the husband that he slept well in properly prepared blankets. The husband would then be proud that his wife had been found pleasing by the visitor. However, if the visitor complained then this would cause fights and misunderstandings between the husband and the wife, with the blame being placed on the wife whose blankets were not pleasing for the visitor. Sometimes the husband would be angry at the visitor for not finding pleasure in blankets that were pleasing for the husband himself. If the wife complained about the unwanted advances of the visitor, then it was said that the visitor should be pardoned because he had not made such advances on purpose: Moeti e ile eare a khalehile bosiu a thetehela likobong tsa mosali, ha ka etsa ka boomo, o thetehile. (The visitor was asleep at night and unintentionally tumbled into the womans blankets. It was not planned.) This common saying suggested that the visitor had been sleepwalking and therefore was not responsible for his actions (Sekese 2002: 37).
Basotho women and the blanket

In this section I look into womens self-portrayal within Basotho society and the significance of the blanket in their lives. I present a drawing of the Basotho blanket produced by one woman teacher for a study which explored women teachers experiences of teaching sex education in rural schools in Lesotho in this era of HIV prevalence. The explanation for the blanket drawing was provided by the participant who drew the blanket.
Figure 6.3 Drawing of Basotho blanket
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Journal extract explaining drawing of blanket1

As a woman I see myself as a blanket. A blanket is a possession that someone can do whatever they please with. You can have as many blankets as you wish and they can never complain. If you do not take care of the blanket, it cant say anything. If you choose to wear another one, it still remains your blanket. It cannot walk out of the house. Because you pay for it, you can do anything you want with it. You can sleep on it, walk on it, sleep under it, wipe your feet on it, or even use it as a bed for your dogs. The duty of the blanket is to keep the owner warm and happy, protecting him from the coldness of the world outside. I am a blanket for my husband. He beats me when he wants, he cares for me when he wants and sometimes he wants to be seen with me in public when he is happy. Otherwise, just like a blanket, I am kept in the house and trampled on. Just like with the blanket, my husband has several women in this village that I know of but I cannot complain to anyone. Who would listen to a jealous wife? When he is not with one of his other women then he comes to me for sex. We do it if and when he wants and he never uses any protection because he has bought me by paying lobola (bride-price), just like a blanket is bought. I cannot refuse my husband sex even though I know that it is not safe for me. He would take me to his parents who would humiliate me in front of my relatives. A woman is not expected to say anything that relates to sex. Just like the blanket which cannot say anything to its owner, my husband does not expect me to say anything to him regarding our sexual relationship. Even if I feel that I need him sexually, I cannot say it. Even if I feel I am not happy with our sexual life, I cannot complain. I tried once and he beat me so much that I was hospitalised. He said that I must be having other men who are teaching me all these bad manners of asking for sex. He told me that a good Mosotho womans job is to please the husband and to produce heirs. I am lucky that I have two sons; otherwise I am not sure what would have happened to me. Because of my sons, my in-laws value me as their mother but not as another human being. Sometimes when my husband comes home I wonder what he is going to do to me. Is he going to be friendly and jolly, is he going to insult me in front of my children, is he going to beat me or is he just collecting his clothes and going to another woman? Just like the blanket I cannot do anything about my situation. My mother told me that Mosali o ngalla motseo (A woman does not run away from her marital problems). Just like the blanket I think I will be in this marriage until I am worn out and of no use to anybody, then they will throw me out. That is what you do to an old blanket. You throw it away or give it to someone less fortunate than you who could need it. I do not think they would want to see me with anyone. They would just throw me out as a useless blanket. (Research Journal Entry 2008)
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This explanation reveals how one Mosotho woman teacher sees herself as a woman within a rural society. It paints a very bleak picture of the experience of being a woman within the Basotho community. Although this story/explanation is from one particular woman, it resonates with the feelings of most Basotho women in rural as well as urban settings. The challenges that are thrust upon Basotho women by the social constructions of womanhood, manhood and female sexuality are clearly evident in this womans diary entry. From the explanation of the blanket drawing, it becomes clear that within customary law and traditional Basotho practices a woman has no worth as an individual human being unless she is somebodys wife or a mother of sons. Just like a blanket, a Mosotho woman is passed on from her father, brothers and uncles to her husband and male in-laws, and on to her sons. She remains a perpetual minor and has value only if there is a man taking care of her. The depiction of womanhood as a blanket shows the dehumanisation of Basotho women within marriages, and the patriarchal dividends that men stand to gain in conforming to and being complicit with this practice (Connell 1995). However, as has been argued by gender theorists, womens subordination is not only caused or perpetuated by men (Connell 1987; Jackson 2001). Women themselves can be active agents in their own subordination. Basotho women, as mothers and sisters-in-law, actively impose markers and boundaries on what Mac an Ghaill describes as the patriarchal gender regime (1994: 12) by setting up and regulating the gender and sexual identities of newly wed women who join their clans. They privilege and normalise certain discourses of womanhood and female sexuality which other women are expected to perform as the norm. Research into social interactions and relations within institutions has led to the recognition that the routines of institutional life are significant in the production of identities (Butler 1990; Kabeer & Subrahmanian 1996). This is also true for the marriage institution that shapes Basotho womens gendered and sexual identities. Thus the gender regime in any institutionincluding marriagesymbolically constructs and regulates everyday life and normalises unequal gender power relations.
What does it all mean?

Basotho people make meaning of their everyday lives through the blanket. The blanket is an integral part of being a Mosotho to such an extent that, as has already been mentioned, Basotho people state that Bochaba ba Mosotho ke kobo. With the blanket playing such a fundamental role in the lives of the Basotho, the sexual symbolism of the blanket in everyday discourse means that the Basotho regard their sexuality as the cornerstone of their beingsomething to be proud
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of, shared and augmented. If the blanket is used to symbolise the inner labia, does it mean Basotho women consciously wear their labia? Is the emphasis on the folds of the blanket meeting at the right point symbolic of the labia covering the vaginal opening? What meanings can be read into womens wearing of the blanket in terms of Basotho female sexuality? Basing my discussion on the fact that the significance of the blanket predates colonial rule in Lesotho, I argue that even when Basotho were using animal skins they still attached symbolic meanings to the blanket. Thus it can be argued that the symbolic wearing of their labia by women is testament to the fact that Basotho women were proud of their sexuality and that female sexuality was celebrated, not hidden. Basotho women were active agents in the promotion and celebration of female sexuality and passed this on from generation to generation. So when did Basotho women start feeling ashamed of their sexuality? It can be argued that the colonisation of Lesotho and the prohibition of Basotho ways of beingseen to be pagan practicescontributed to the current state of shame about female sexuality. Colonial rule brought with it Victorian practices in which female sexuality was controlled while male sexuality was considered more favourably. Thus, only the women became susceptible to feelings of shame concerning their sexuality. For example, Karstel (1995) states that when the Prince of Wales visited Lesotho in 1925 those with blankets were instructed not to go near the prince. The order was KOBO MORAO!(Blankets at the back!). People wearing blankets were regarded as heathen. Thus the Basotho people, fearful of being labelled as heathen, discarded their blankets and adopted Victorian ways of being that included the passivity of female sexuality, because active female sexuality was also seen as pagan.12 Despite the challenges Victorian rule might have imposed on the use of blankets, the Basotho never completely forsook their blankets. They continue to wear their blankets with pride and still attach great significance to the blanket. While some of the practices discussed in this chapter can be challenged through the lens of gender equity, the blanket itself will always be an important part of being a Mosotho and its symbolism will live on. Bochaba ba Mosotho ke kobo!
What have we learnt?

The story of the blanket and its symbolic use among the Basotho suggests ways in which other southern African communities can examine the meanings attached to their own traditional dress. Interpreting the lives of the Basotho people through the blanket makes salient the covert meanings symbolised by dress. Such an analysis offers a different perspective through which an understanding of Basotho womanhood is deepened and viewed from an angle which would have otherwise
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remained hidden. Using dress as material culture to understand social interaction has the potential to expose the deep-seated beliefs and value systems of societies. It is my hope that telling the story of the Basotho blanket and its symbolic use in everyday sexuality discourse among the Basotho will prove inspirational to people in other southern African communities and will ecourage them to explore the covert meanings attached to their traditional dress. Van Manen (1990) believes that each person is touched or moved by story and actively searches for the storytellers meaning by reflecting on their own stories. In line with this argument, this work could be helpful in initiating the self-reflection of others as they search for the meanings underlying these blanket stories. They may reflect upon and assess their own experiences of dress, create their own dress stories and assign their own meanings and understandings to them in order to bring about social change.
Notes
Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za 1 Lay-bye is a system of buying; each month the buyer pays a certain percentage of the cost of the commodity to be bought, so that the item can be kept in storage until it has been completely paid for. The duration of the lay-bye can be up to six months. 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 A seshoeshoe dress is a Basotho design of dress made from a German textile that Basotho people appropriated as their traditional dress for women. Mosotho is the singular form and Basotho the plural form for the southern African people of Lesotho. Seana-Marena literally means fit for royalty in Sesotho, thus signifying the importance and prestige afforded the wearers of such a blanket. Tigers are not around any more but Lesothos history shows, I believe, the presence of these animals in the distant past. There are many blankets that the Basotho wear. However, the Sean-Marena is the most important of these blankets and is the one that is regarded as the Basotho blanket. http://www.lesothophotographs.com Accessed 23 May 2009 This saying had a hidden implication that the wife should go and prepare the bed and stay there to warm it for the husband, and get ready to have sex with him. The hidden question in this saying is whether the new wife is performing her duty of satisfying the husband sexually. 10 The meaning behind this statement is that the man is not enjoying sex with the woman because she does not have elongated inner labia. 11 The explanation of the drawing has been presented as it was made, without any editing for grammar and so on. 12 This is, admittedly, very condensed but that I have only discussed this in general terms as the scope of the chapter does not permit an in-depth analysis of this.
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References
Allen A (1969) The story of clothes. London: Faber and Faber Arnfred S (2007) Sex, food and female power: Discussion of data material from Northern Mozambique. Sexualities 10(2): 141158 Barnes R & Eicher JB (1993) (Eds) Dress and gender: Making and meaning in cultural contexts. Oxford: Berg Bridgewood A (1995) Dancing the jar: Girls dress at Turkish Cypriot weddings. In JB Eicher (Ed.) Dress and ethnicity. Oxford: Berg Butler J (1990) Gender trouble, feminism and the subversion of identity. London: Routledge Cerny A (1993) Semiotic perspectives in ethnography: Implications for the study of dress and identity. Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University: ITAA Special Publication No. 5: 6981 Cole AL & Knowles JG (2001) Lives in context: The art of life history research. Walnut Creek: Altamira Press Connell RW (1987) Gender and power: Society, the person and sexual politics. California: Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za University of California Press Connell RW (1995) Masculinities. Cambridge: Polity Davis F (1992) Fashion, culture, and identity. Chicago: University of Chicago Press Ericsson K (2005) Child welfare as social defence against sexuality. In E Bernstein & L Schaffner (Eds) Regulating sex: The politics of intimacy and identity. New York: Routledge Gay J (1986) Mummies and babies and friends and lovers in Lesotho. In E Blackwood (Ed.) Anthropology and homosexual behaviour. London: Haworth Press, Inc Hurlock EB (1974) Personality development. New York: McGraw-Hill Jackson AY (2001) Multiple Annies: Feminist post-structural theory and the making of a teacher. Journal of Teacher Education 52(5): 386397 Jewkes RK, Dunkle K, Koss MP, Levin JB, Ndunae M, Jamaa N & Sikweyiya Y (2006) Rape perpetration by young, rural South African men: Prevalence, patterns and risk factors. Social Science and Medicine 63: 29492961 Kabeer N & Subrahmanian R (1996) Institutions, relationships and outcomes: Framework and tools for Gender-Aware planning, IDS Discussion Paper 357, Brighton: IDS Kaiser SB (1990) The social psychology of clothing (2nd edition). New York: Macmillan Karstel M (1995). The Basotho blanket, borrowed and traditional. Navorsinge van die Nasionale Museum. Bloemfontein: 11: 195223 Kimmel MS (2004) The gendered society (2nd edition) New York: Oxford University Press Klopper S (1991) You need only one bull to cover fifty cows: Zulu women and traditional dress. African Studies 6: 147170 Latzke A & Hostetter HP (1968) The wide world of clothing. New York: Ronald Mac an Ghaill M (1994) The making of men: Masculinities, sexualities and schooling. Buckingham: Open University Press Magwaza T (2001) Private transgressions: The visual voice of Zulu women. Agenda 49: 2532
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Michelman SO (1995) Social change and the symbolism of dress in Kalahari womens societies. Family and Consumer Science Research Journal 23(4): 365392 ONeal GS (1998) African-American womens professional dress as expression of ethnicity. Journal of Family and Consumer Science 90(1): 2837 Parikh SA (2005) From auntie to disco: The bifurcation of risk and pleasure in sex education in Uganda. In V Adams & SL Pigg (Eds) Sex in development: Science, sexuality and morality in global perspective. Durham: Duke University Press Perani JM & Wolff NH (1999) Cloth, dress and art patronage in Africa. Oxford: Berg Ryan MS (1966) Clothing: A study in human behavior. New York: Holt Rinehart and Winston Roach-Higgins ME & Eicher JB (1992) Dress and identity. Clothing and Textiles Research Journal 10(4): 17 Rouse E (1989) Understanding fashion. Oxford: BSP Professional Books Sekese A (2002) Mekhoa le meetlo ea Basotho. Morija: Morija Sesotho Book Depot Tamale S (2005) Eroticism, sensuality and womens secrets among the Baganda: A critical analysis. Feminist Africa 5: 936 Van Manen M (1990) Researching lived experience: Human science for action sensitive pedagogy. Ontario: The Althouse Press Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za
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7 Ayashisa 'mateki: Converse All Stars and the making of African masculinities
Kopano Ratele
the South african Singer Mercy Pakela released the number which made her famous, Ayashisa 'mateki (isiZulu for The sneakers are hot), in 1988.1 The musician was also fond of appearing at her music shows with what might well have been genuine Converse All Stars on her feet. Like many a kid growing up in that period I knew the song by heart, having heard it innumerable times over the radio. But Ayashisa 'mateki had little to door at most an oblique connectionwith my pain of not having Converse All Stars. I wanted black All Starsnot a mokokotelo (fake)so excruciatingly badly that I still wonder how I was able to overcome that pain. To be sure, at the time the pain was unnamed and inarticulate. From time to time, though, it would be aroused when one of the boys I knew got a new pair. It mattered not that there were more pressing needs to which money, if it were to come my way, could have been put to better use: things like food, books, soap, toothpaste, or indeed school uniform and shoes. These needs are not always as urgent for many young men from poor families as one might believe. But, by paying attention to the non-basic material needs of young men, which are, for them, real needs, and, moreover, needs in one of the most unequal societies in the world, research into forms and contestations of masculinities can attain a fullness, depth and texture which is often missing in such work. Amidst numbing deprivation, meeting basic needs, as political discourse in South Africa often parses misery, was not always what wasis not always what isuppermost in a young males mind. Where All Stars are the thing to have, not having All Stars is the supreme grief that troubles ones existence. In trying to make sense of this aching need to thesa (Sesotho for to burn or be hot), which at times trumps all other needs, I argue that there is the opportunity to identify how an African masculinity or manhood is made or asserted. Also, as researchers, we might just be enabled to grasp something specific and deep about African mens lives. The psychic ache generated in a man by not having a designer label dress item whilst others around him and with whom he compares himself have the
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itemand the things such mental and emotional distress drives a man to do in order to have what others havehas a fascinating, rich, long and not necessarily painful history in urban South Africa. (Possibly overlap exists between how African men and African women consume and are shaped by designer items, and doubtless differences too. More importantly though, because of the approach taken here which attends to the connotative personal meanings (Weber & Mitchell 2004: 254) of fashion items for me and my interest in the production ofand the possibility of changingmasculinities, I will confine this discussion to men). In his famous work, Blame Me on History, Bloke Modisane (1963) wittily and agreeably wrote: The well-dressed man about Sophiatown was exclusively styled with American and English labels unobtainable around shops of Johannesburg; the boys were expensively dressed in a stunning ensemble of colour: Jewished in their phraseology; in dress items described as cant gets; clothes sent for from New York or London. Shoes from America Florsheims, Winthrops, Bostonians, Saxone and Mansfield from London; BVDs, Van Heusen, Arrow shirts; suits from Simpsons, Hector Powe, Robert Hall; Dobbs, Woodrow, Borsolino hats. The label was the thing. (Modisane 1963: 52) The in labels might have changed between Modisanes time in Sophiatown and the 1980s, my growing-up years in Katlehong, and between then and there and todays metropolitan areas, but I venture that the label is still the in-thing in South African black urban spaces. Being well-dressed is an axis of meaning for masculinity for African men. Given the influential argument that masculinity is a set of things that men do, and not just a set of role expectations or an identity (Connell & Messerschmidt 2005: 832), it is important, on the one hand, to underscore the connections between the affect and cognitions of a man who does not have something which he desperately seeks and, on the other hand, how males have historically constituted themselves and emphasised their manhood. What makes it important to underline these connections? It is because ruling ideologies of masculinity provoke males to engage in certain practices, to put energy into getting that which they feel they need and thus must get in order to be regarded and to regard themselves as men (Ratele 2008). It is true that I wanted other stuff too. Some of the stuff I wanted went with what All Stars symbolised. Other things did not, according to prevailing fashion trends at the time, go with All Stars, but I still would have liked to acquire them. Something needs to be said about the idea that some things go together while others do not. This distinction helps us in considering how masculinities are constituted or asserted, rather than simply being a distinction important in the world of clothes.
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In the world of fashion, some items of dress, it is said, go together, which implies that others items cannot be worn together because they clash or come from incompatible categories. At the same time, though, what goes together in one locality might not be viewed as going together in another; and what goes together at one time in history might change during another period. In similar fashion, as I will shortly illustrate with reference to a fathers2 comments about his sons dress style (Donham 1998), in the world of men some practices are viewed as not going together (like drinking champagne in the stands as opposed to the suites at a rugby game), which also implies that other practices are seen as going naturally together (like drinking beer in the stands at the rugby game). But what is seen as going together in the stands may be seen as going together perfectly by those in the corporate boxes or those watching the game on television in an upper-class home. During my growing-up years, in the groups I hung out with, All Stars went with Dickies3 as opposed to, for instance, jeans. (In 2011 styles have changed, but I am also located elsewhere; and now it seems that if there is an item of clothing that is seen as that which goes naturally with All Stars it is a pair of jeans.) What also didnt readily go with All Stars, but that I wanted all the same, were things like a made in Italy designer golf shirt which could be acquired at the Gerani stores. At that time Gerani had a branch in the Johannesburg city centre. As with All Stars, I was convinced that a mercerised cotton Gerani golf shirt would make my life better if only I could get one. I also wanted a pair of mashwabana (linen) pants (trousers) in white. An image is stamped in my mind of how I thought I would wear them:
Figure 7.1 Woman wearing All Stars with turn-up jeans (Photo: Kopano Ratele)
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without a turn-up; with a pair white Gucci takkies (sneakers) or Carvella slips-ons (available from AD Spitz stores). I spent hours fantasising about myself in my untucked golf shirt and turn-up-less white linen trousers with the hem falling just so over the Guccis; but even more so the cachet, the boys envy and girls love, that my get-up would bring me. I must say that for some reason I never really fancied boqwebebe or diketane (gold chains and rings and watches) as much as many people around me who liked jewellery did. There were a number of boys with whom I became acquainted and was even friendly with in other neighbourhoods, or who were school mates, whom I thought had it all: the Guccis, the golf shirts in different colours, the Dickies, and boqwebebe. They also had their perms or S-curls and cuts (styles of hair treatment or grooming), their girlfriends, and their bumps (a style of walking) just right. A grey man now, I doubt that I am able to communicate the intensity of the insecurities of a young person. I recollect an almost palpable feeling of a souldestroying lack. Retrospectively, I would say that the feeling was tied to the belief of a young person from a poor home that clothes would make him a different person. Surely this belief is common amongst many a young person from a poor family? Surely many young men and women harbour this feeling or belief that having something can make a person someone else? Actually, many people, old and young, black or white, believe that hot clothes can make one a better person, can make someone visible, lovable and secure.
Figure 7.2 Man wearing black All Stars takkies with black suit (Photo: Kopano Ratele)
ayashisa 'mateki: Converse all stars
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But amongst all these clothes which occupied my fantasy and emotional life and into which such a great deal of energy went, there are some clothing items that occupy a unique place. Although the desire for both of them might have arisen from the same want, All Star takkies did not have the same status as a Gucci takkie. Whereas the Guccis were clearly about acquiring a relatively expensive fashion item, having All Stars would assuage a different identity-related demand. I am uncertain about this, but I would say I wanted black All Stars more than I wanted the Guccis. I wanted those All Stars because without them I felt like a skapi, 4 which is not an effect that Guccis produced in me. Well, I could not afford a pair, and, as the saying goes, I live to tell the tale of living without. Part of this tale is about my wonderment as to how I came through my teenage years in the township without All Stars yet ended up thinking about dress the way I do now. Why am I not taken up with clothes as much as an observer might have predicted if I had been her study subject back then? What happened that I ended up, for example, finding saris sexy? In other words, how did I come to identify with the things I now do and how did I turn out to be the black man I am? And is this changeability of identification and desire something that a social science researcher should have? Or would it be preferable for a researcher to be more unyielding in his or her views about him/herself and the world? At this point I must draw into this story some arguments from other areas about identity before I return to these questions. I want to discuss the forces
Figure 7.3 The author in a kurta (image provided by the author)
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that flow into, and emerge out of, fashion items like All Stars as these items relate to the making, assertion and dynamics of African masculinities. There is something to gain in looking at how masculinities are made by considering both the inner realities of individual males as well as the material conditions of their existences (Ratele 2008); and this is what my story about the desire for All Stars aims to highlight. Part of that inner reality I am interested in evoking is what will be found in asking about the clothes different males grew up either liking or disliking, and examining the stories they tell about how they came to want certain fashion items and not others. Asking about male (or female) desires, choices and dislikes without situating them in the social and economic contexts in which males (or females) live is bad social science, however. That is, although it is important to give due regard to the psychological aspects of manhood and womanhood, it is also necessary to be aware of the structural forces that shape masculinities and femininities. It is in order to elucidate the closely felt, lived experiences, as well as the political forces that go into making, maintaining, destabilising and reworking masculinities as concrete that I draw attention to the common, contested and changing fashions of African males (and African females) in modern-day South Africa. Here the fashion revolves around men and women using Converse All Star takkies (see Figures 7.1 and 7.2), but clearly the in item, look, label or colour could be anything else: a hairstyle, the colour pink, skinny jeans, the make of shoes, or a designer. Confronted with such figurations of identity through fashion, a question that anyone interested in the history that descends onto and shapes African masculinities (and femininities) has to ask is this: What could have influenced a man (or woman) to dress in such clothes, look like this, or walk like this? To be sure, a question such as this is only possible by taking an analytical stance outside of culture, especially a culture one calls ones own. Of course, an African man or woman in designer jeans and tekis is a ubiquitous figure in South African urban areas today, particularly when compared to the prevalence of men or women wearing seshoeshoe shirts or other non-Western types of shirts. Despite their ubiquity, though, there is something both odd and familiar about Africans wearing foreign designer clothes; that is, if for historical economic and cultural reasons it is easy to make sense as to why Western types of dress are preferred over other clothes, these choices remain psycho-politically deeply intriguing. Because the oddity of wearing such foreign, relatively expensive clothes (when compared to other inexpensive clothes) is often unexamined, I need to show some of the processes that are indexed in the fashion choices African men follow. At the same time, I am called to answer the fact that African mens choices regarding fashion (especially relatively poorer Africans fashion choices) are often judged as a sign of their general irresponsibility, warped decision-making and,
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therefore, confused African identity. This negative judgement is, I will argue, the result of acontextual and psychologically obtuse interpretations of African mens lives. I will thus describe and discuss the layered contexts within which African men make choices about clothes and offer possible psychological explanations about the identities such clothes are meant to represent in such a context. The main set of contexts in which African men and womens fashion decisions are situated are those of the contemporary global and local economy and culture in which designer labels are manufactured and sold. These contexts reflect unfavourable economic and cultural relations between African countries and North American and Western European societies. The fashion choice of many black men in South Africa to look good is, then, highly curious inasmuch as it has to be understood that the choice is made in the face of (and in spite of) the fact that, on average, they have less material wealth than a North American or Western European man would have.
Clothes are not innocent pieces of material

The basic function of clothes is to cover a person from the elements, but it is a long time (if there ever was such a time) in most societies in the world since clothes had only this simple meaning. The recognition enjoyed by an American brand such as Converse All Stars, and its global reach, epitomise the many meanings branded clothes, and clothes in general, have accreted across many cultures for individuals since the onset of the mass manufacturing of clothes. In addition, the meaning of branded (and of unbranded) clothes is highly mobile and contestable. By their nature, dress fashions in a globalised world imply that the meaning of clothes is not always stable from place to place and that it changes over time. In their study, Feinberg, Mataro and Borroughs (1992) found that that even though labels can become especially meaningful, the relationship between clothing, its meaning, and peoples sense of identity is not straightforward. The nature of fashion is one of constant change in its inevitable focus on newness and difference (WoodruffeBurton 1998). Clothing, especially fashionable clothing, is imbued with meaning, tied to identities and subjectivities, and thought of by subjects as liberatory and able to differentiate the self and group from others, even though it can also be oppressive. Precisely because of this, it freights the potential for conflict and contestation, usable by individuals and groups to oppress as well as to challenge ideologies and norms. In his ethnographic study about what it means to be gay and black in contemporary Soweto, Donham tells the story of the AIDS-related death of thirtysomething-year-old Linda, who was something of an activist and something of a drag queen, with a particular penchant for Indian saris (Donham 1998: 3).
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Because Linda had been a founding member of the multiracial Gay and Lesbian Organisation of the Witwatersrand (GLOW) and had friends in the organisation, GLOW organised a memorial service at another members home in Soweto a few days before the funeral. Donham tells us that Lindas father, who belonged to an independent Zionist church, attended and spoke. He recalled Lindas life and what a good person he had been, how hard he had worked in the household. But then he went on, in the way that elders sometimes do, to advise the young men present: There was just one thing about my sons life that bothered me, he said. So let me tell you, if youre a man, wear mens clothes. If youre coloured, act coloured (sic). Above all, if youre black, dont wear Indian clothes. If you do this, how will our ancestors recognize [and protect] you? (Donham 1998: 3) Donham says that to the mostly black GLOW members present at the memorial service, Lindas fathers comments were insulting and homophobic (Donham 1998: 4). There can be no disputing the thoughtlessness of Lindas fathers comments about what bothered him about his son. But it should be clear that what is troublesome about the fathers comments is not just the apparent homophobia. The comments are also annoying because of what they claim about culture, about race, and about gender, not just about sexuality. With all the respect due to him as pained or perplexed father of a son who loved to wear saris, Lindas father sounds like a typical traditionalist. His comments are instructive precisely because of this. They offer a point of entry into how an individuals different identities and senses of belonging are interwoven. At the same time, they reveal how prevalent ideas about racial, gender, sexual, cultural, traditional and age-related group identities can and are often used to suppress expressively unruly members of a group and to occlude non-dominant forms of subjectivity and identification from emerging. For Lindas father, and possibly for many other men and women, there are definite parameters within which a person is expected to live in the world. These parameters define what must be worn if you are a man and how to behave if you are a member of a certain culture or a race. How does a man who holds such views cope when he is faced with, for instance, Soweto Pride, gay beauty contests, the Mother City Queer Project party, or even men who wear cloth instead of trousers, as in other parts of Africa? Revelatory in their self-contradiction, Lindas fathers comments express the idea that clothing signals group membershipif youre a man, wear mens clothes; if youre black, dont wear Indian clothes. The problem for the father was then not Indian apparel per se but the fact that it is the wrong group that the sons dress choices signified: Indian when he was unalterably black; female when he was naturally male. I venture that such attitudes about clothes and their racial, cultural, gender and sexual natures are quite common in parts of our society and likely
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in other societies as well. Like All Stars which at one point in South African black urban history were thought to be shoes for skelms5 and which respectable men, and certainly not good women, would not come close to, saris in this instance are not only Indian womens clothes but dress that black men should have nothing to do with. Perhaps Lindas father will find support for his sentiments amongst some Asian men and women, and amongst other African men and women who might find it odd were they to see a black man wearing a sari. But does that mean they can bar the Lindas of this world from finding pleasure in wearing a sari? The crucial point here is not restricted to saris or All Stars but rather that parochial arguments about what men or women can and cannot wear can be deployed for any other kind of dressno trousers or mini-skirts for women; no skinny jeans for men; women in church must always wear headscarves and so onby forcefully connecting dress to dominant identification discourses. It is easy to see too how arguments like those about All Stars and masculinity, or saris and Asianness can be deployed for other kinds of bodily practices; how, besides the employment of clothing to discipline subjects, equally importantly, subjects can appropriate dress styles to challenge the social order. In spite of their shifting and multiple meanings, clothes are a largely stable marker which observers use when distinguishing between females and males. However, clothes do more than simply distinguish between the sexes. They get employed to order the world, such as to shape males first into being boys then men, and females into girls and women. More critically, dress becomes part of the social processes of producing masculinities and femininities, which in turn means processes that support the subordination of one group to another. This use of clothes as part of gendering the world is obvious in the discussion about dress by the Yemen College of Middle Eastern Studies (2007) which I will quote at some length as it captures very effectively the issues of concern here. The entry constructs dress as part and parcel of culture and tradition. It also cautions against behaviours and body appearances that the Yemeni find inappropriate for women and men: Dress requirements for men and women are extremely important in Yemen, so it is indispensable that foreigners take as much care as possible when selecting clothes to bring to Yemen, especially women. Awareness of general sensitivities on the subject of dress is essential for relating to people without inadvertently causing offense, or inviting unwanted attention. If you choose to wear Yemeni-style clothing, be aware that the way you move, sit, and carry yourself will certainly be different from any Yemeni person and may cause offense to Yemeni men or women. Wearing loud colors or fancy items should be avoided, as this will without a doubt make you stick out in public. Also, you should be especially aware of the manner in which you are sitting, for example in a mafraj. The best advice is to look to a Yemeni as a model for
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appropriate decorum. Remember that your outward appearance is seen as a reflection of your private self, and that inappropriate clothing will discourage many Yemenis from attempting to communicate with you or will be taken as an open invitation for comments. Men are expected to wear either pants or jeans, without holes, and shorts should be avoided. T-shirts are acceptable, although the sleeveless variety is inappropriate. Long hair (particularly on men who do not wear a beard or mustache) will elicit occasional puzzled looks or questions, and may invite some teasing or mildly provocative comments. Exposed piercings or tattoos will also draw unwanted attention in public. For women, pants or jeans should be covered by a skirt or tied scarf, especially when traveling in rural areas of the country. Generally speaking any article of clothing which might remotely be considered revealing is questionable in Yemen. Light, translucent materials or tight clothing that reveals a womans form are also problematic. Women are recommended therefore to bring long full skirts (no slits) and blouses as a practical complement to the T-shirts and jeans they might be accustomed to wearing at home. Foreign women are not expected to cover their hair, except when entering mosques or other religious places. Shorts, or short skirts, and sleeveless and/or form-fitting tops are altogether unacceptable and will most likely cause a woman trouble in public places. Heavy make-up is highly discouraged as most women, in Sanaa especially, go without any make-up. Some foreign women do choose to wear the Yemeni baltu, but if you choose to wear it, you should be aware that there is a certain way to carry yourself in public when wearing such clothing. Underneath a baltu, a woman is still expected to dress conservatively if removing the outer cloak during class (shorts, sleeveless shirts, low necklines, etc. are considered inappropriate dress for class). When in the house, students may choose to wear whatever they wish, but in public (including classrooms), fashion should be conservative. If the restrictions put on Yemeni and foreigners in Yemen are thought to be tolerable because that is their culture, it needs to be borne in mind that diktat about clothes and culture can at times turn overtly malicious. Consider in this respect the report by the South African Press Association-Agence France-Presse (SAPA-AFP) which showed that there had been growing harassment of women on the streets of Egypt which was largely ignored because, it was said, men believe a womans job is to look after the home and that those out on the street are therefore fair game. When [a woman] walks out into the street in tight trousers and tight belts, she deserves what she gets, an assistant at an upmarket hairdresser in
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Cairo, Mohamed al-Sayyed (32) was quoted as saying.6 Television news reports have carried similar stories about women being harassed in South Africa. E-tv news flighted a story about a woman who, because of her dress, was not only verbally harassed but also physically beaten and she and her family suffered material losses as a result. Another E-tv report related how Bongiwe Ngcobo was harassed, beaten and her home burned for wearing trousers.7 Newspapers also reported that several women in a section of Umlazi, near the city of Durban, Kwazulu-Natal, had been humiliated because some men in that section had banned women from wearing trousers and the women were found wearing them.8 At least one woman was stripped to [her] underwear, having the offending clothing set alight and being barred from living in the area because, it was said, only men were allowed to wear trousers.9 The resolution to ban women from wearing trousers in the neighbourhood was taken at a meeting after a woman named Zandile Mpanza was made to walk the streets naked and forced to leave the area after an angry mob burnt down her shack after being apprehended by a mob of men for wearing trousers while walking in the area. According to sources of this story, historical political party contests and intra-cultural conflicts were possibly implicated in the violence against Zandile Mpanza, seeing that the ban against women in trousers dated back to the time of strife in the area between the two main political parties, the African National Congress (ANC) and the Inkatha Freedom Party (IFP). However, other reports suggest that the harassment may have been a matter of male gender power inasmuch as it is claimed that an instruction not to wear pants was first made at the hostel (in T-Section) in the early 1990s after an incident in which two men fought over a woman wearing tight pants[]. This instruction was then extended and enforced throughout T-Section.10 It should be said that these incidents sparked heated debates, with some of the men of T-Section in Umlazi supporting the ban,11 while human rights organisations, gender activists and some political parties condemned the acts.12 The Commission on Gender Equality (CGE), for instance, contended that women wearing pants was not a violation of customary practice and dismissed the mob action as a reflection of conservative opinion.13 An explanation that is sometimes advanced as to why some men may feel offended by women wearing trousers is that they feel emasculated. The symbolism of women in trousers supposedly generates a sense of psychological castration and male powerlessness in some men who therefore might agitate for a ban against women in trousers. Without minimising the mental and emotional effects some men might experience on seeing women in trousers, women in South Africa and other parts of the world have been, and still are, at risk of violence because men feel that their cultures permit only men to literally and symbolically wear the trousers. It is also clear that arguments about violence being the result of mens feelings of
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emasculation are inadequate in light of the fact that women sometimes also risk injury if they wear items of clothing like mini-skirts.14 Strictures about, and violence against, women wearing trousers or other types of clothing have more to do with the culturally sanctioned sexual and gender power of men over women than with anything else. From the painful desire generated in a young man by not having a pair of brand shoes whilst others around have a pair, the attack on Zandile Mpanza, the beating and burning suffered by Bongiwe Ncgobo, the growing harassment of women on the streets of Egypt, the warnings posted by the Yemen College of Middle Eastern Studies on their website, and Lindas fathers speech at his sons funeral, one conclusion to be made is that clothes are not innocent pieces of material. Clothes that people wear have extra-individual stories; that is psychological, social, and economic, cultural, religious, and political narratives. What is worn by individuals is a critical marker of how cultures are defined by their members as well as how group identity is manufactured and the self is constituted; of exclusions and inclusions, domination and subordination, right and wrong, centre and margin. A culture, or a group or institution within a culture, can impose on us what we can and cannot wear, sometimes aggressively so. When such an obligation applies, members of the group are overtly or subtly compelled to define themselves as members of those groups by the clothes they wear, otherwise they risk being hurt or ostracised. As a consequence of this compulsion, a society, culture, group or institution can push or persuade us into becoming a particular kind of masculine or feminine subject, amongst the many that are available in the world.
Matching clothes and practices

This brings us squarely back to the meaning of All Stars. The idea that, for example, two items of dress (like All Stars and Dickies trousers) are a match, as suggested earlier, assists in attempts to think how forms of masculinities are either created or emphasised, marginalised or inhibited. In the world in which I grew up, All Stars went together not only with Dickies but also with floppy hats (commonly referred to as spotis/spoties/spottys), shirt-sleeves folded up to the elbows, leather jackets, gold chains, a mean look and, sometimes, a knife in the back pocket of ones trousers; but they were not thought to go that well with jeans or suit jackets. They were also not thought to go well with skirts, womens dress, blouses, long hair or any of the things usually associated with traditional femininity. And so, besides Mercy Pakela then, you were unlikely to find many women wearing All Stars on their feet. Interestingly, All Stars are now seen as mostly wearable with jeans, and many women in urban South Africa can be seen wearing these shoes, and Dickies products too.
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There is a point that is obvious from this: clothes that at one time are viewed as not belonging together may at another time be seen as very much appropriate to wear together; and clothes that are viewed as appropriate for one sex or gender at one time may become part of the wardrobe of either both sexes or the other sex at another time. Besides undergoing a change in meaning over time, items of clothing may also have different meanings in different places. Formal hats for males, for example, have a very specific meaning among Xhosa people, indicative of the attainment of manhood of a newly initiated Xhosa male. Contrastingly, formal hats tend to be ordinary dress items, though with variable meaning, for males of other cultures around South Africa and beyond. There is another perhaps less obvious point about matching items of dress, though one which merits further accentuation. Clothes are part of the repertoire of practices that constitute masculinities and femininities (but also, as we saw, age, race, culture, and tradition). Yet dress practices that may be considered to be incompatible with a persons sex or gender (or race, culture and tradition) at one time may be seen to be very much compatible at another time. In addition, dress practices that are viewed to be inappropriate in a place like Yemen, or in a family in Soweto, or a section of Umlazi, may quite happily be regarded with pride in a different setting. As the Commission for Gender Equality (2007) said in commenting about the violent trouser-related event in Umlazi, some menit could as easily be some womencould be seeking to oppress, intimidate and marginalise women when they talk about what is traditionally appropriate and acceptable behaviour.15 Is it possible, then, that clothes can be used to challenge oppression and liberate, as well as indicate cultural and sexual inclusion? Indeed, the meanings of clothes can be co-opted, or changed, to do both. This is what certain clothes meant for me: they became, on reflection, part of a subjective sense of freedom. An example of such clothes is a kikoia piece of patterned fabric mainly worn in Kenya but now popular in other parts of Africa and around the worldwhich I only learned of, and immediately took a liking to, and started wearing (often with sneakers) at university. Alongside these there are certain clothes (some of which, though not all, I grew up being aware of) I am compelled to wear in which I feel I am certain to be misrecognised. A tie falls into this category of clothes. It needs to be reiterated then: whatever freedom and comeliness a person might feel as a result of their dress choices, they will be asked by others at one time or another to account for the choices of clothing in terms of cultural, gender, or sexual or other identity, if the item is considered too different from what other cultural, gender, sexual or other in-group members are wearing. Conversely,
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no matter how expensive, expressive of a groups identity, or impressive some clothing items are thought to be to one person, others might experience the items as boring, stifling, oppressive and not-really-me. Dress is never incontestable, always characterised by shifting meanings, and always available to power as well as to resistance. Further questions arise from this contestability and the mobility of the relationship between fashion and gender. When and for what reasons do cultures oppress or allow new ways of dressing? Along the same lines, at what historical points do cultures either reject or accept alternative expressions of manhood, such as when a society prohibits or allows men to wear long hair, Afros, perms or crew-cuts? Or when African garments are rejected or permitted into formal (Western) functions? Who decides the appropriate time for disallowing, tolerating or embracing new modes of clothing and dress-related gender practices?
You can be an African man even if you wear Indian clothes

One wonders if Lindas fathers comment concerning the racial and cultural aspects (as opposed to the gender and sexual aspects) of Lindas preference for Indian clothes (Above all, if youre black, dont wear Indian clothes [Donham 1998: 3]) applied to European clothes and North American clothes? I doubt it. When Africans ask another African whats wrong with a normal (meaning a traditionally European-looking) shirt the irony at times may not be readily and always apparent. It is widely agreed in critical studies of gender that psychic defences, silences, anxieties, ambivalence and internalised contradictions are inherent to how we portray ourselves as men and women. Contradictions are always part of social, cultural and personal identitiespart of how all human beings are constituted as social and psychological beings. However, some contradictions are more likely than others to generate injustice, a sense of ill-being, unhappiness and violence; such is the contradiction evidenced in individuals who become obsessed with items of designer clothing, Lindas fathers speech, the attack on Zandile Mpanza, the violence against Bongiwe Ncgobo, and others. Whereas Linda liked saris it so happens that I am fond of kurtas.16 I have taken to them because they are easy to wear, light to travel with, and can be worn casually or as formal attire. Plain cotton kurtas can be quite affordable; but at the upper end of the spectrum, in patterned silk, they can be exquisitely beautiful. My appreciation for kurtas, like the taste for red wine, came late in my life. This liking for what I did not grow up desiring extends to seshoeshoe print shirts and other African textiles, as well as a few shirts one can purchase in Lagos or Dakar.
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My personal turn towards kurtas and seshoeshoe, on occasion worn with All Stars, has something to do with certain ideas about cultures, tradition, race, gender and sexuality having an ever-loosening grip on me. Perhaps it is a comment about how an individuals ideas about identification are always shifting, depending on what a person is exposed to. They certainly have something to do with how I observe myself negotiating my practice, accommodating or rejecting tastes, theories, desires, fashions, items of clothing, movies, stories, laws, people, habits, countries, politics and other things. The point is that I do not think kurtas make me Asian, just as I dont think All Stars make me American. Needless to say, Versace doesnt make anyone French, including the French, just as attire made from seshoeshoe doesnt make anyone Mosotho. Conversely, arguments that because one does not like seshoeshoe dresses or a modianyewe (a traditional Sesotho hat) one is less of a Mosotho are overly simplistic. And so whereas Mabokang Baatshwana Pheto-Moeti notes with approval that, from her study, seshoeshoe dress as worn by Basotho women fulfils the purpose of being a national identity dress, instilling pride in Basotho women, and making them look unique and differentiating them from others, she seems oblivious to the tightness that often characterises nationalist ideals about dress (2005: 104). Even though her work is on women, Pheto-Moeti fails to show an appreciation of the gender power aspects of culturally sanctioned dress. It is not incorrect that clothing items can be associated with cultural and national pride, but when culture and nationalism descend on peoples bodies, instructing them regarding what can or cannot be worn, they can be so oppressive as to disfigure any idea of self. I must say I associate my penchant for seshoeshoe-like shirts not with pride in cultural nationalism but rather with personal fashion choice. How does one loosen the grip of repressive ideas of culture, sexuality, gender, race and tradition from oneself? The question returns me to where we started.
Undoing repressive ideas of culture and gender in everyday life and work
Thinking back to my younger days, I am amazed how much psychic energy I once invested in items of clothing. There are times when not having is the spark for revolting. However, want can clearly be psychically depleting. If one invests excessive psychic energy in something desirable but unattainable because of lack of money or because of societal restrictions, soon a part of oneself must recede into the background or expire (or be changed) in order that the rest of that person can go on living. To be sure, that we have to shed some of our desires and identities to be
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able to go on is not always a bad thing. Living with oneself, and with others, often demands it. More generally, I have been struck by my and other researchers gloss on the material want and insecurities that many young menand of course many young women and quite a number of adult personslive with from day to day, and how such want and insecurities might play out in terms of what sort of human beings they become. Unrelenting deprivation, though, can make a person simply not want to go on living. Deprivation from early on in our lives, and the desires and insecurities that deprivation generate, situate usmen, in particularin relation to constructs of masculinity and to women. Being born into a particular familypoor or richcentrally shapes the possibilities every man will have in relation to the prevalent forms of masculinity in his society. Amongst other things, then, suffering poverty or enjoying affluence, especially in early life, informs how we learn to move in space, what we hide, what we end up regarding as important: in short, how we style ourselves. This is not a deterministic relationship, but it is an association worth considering very seriously in any investigation on the development and configuration of masculine identities. Deprivation and its costs, similar to privilege and the rights it bestows, therefore inform our lives and work as researchers. Deprivation does in at least two ways. First, a deprived child is often a central, even if mute, observer sitting alongside the men and women we have become and who are, in turn, behind the research we conduct. Social research is both interested in and troubled by that very fact: that it is always persons, with their social and psychological histories, their cultures, their memories and their trauma, studying/being studied by other persons. As numerous critical scholars from various disciplines have observed: where you come from matters. Where you come fromyour biographydirectly affects research because it allows a researcher to grasp some phenomena more easily and better than others; and because the everyday lives of the researched are doubly mediated by our presence and their response to our presence (England 1994: 85). Second, a personal history of poverty or wealth directly or indirectly shapes the topics we elect to investigate, the questions we ask of our subjects, and objects of study, and the explanations we draw from our findings as well as the neglected areas hidden in our conclusion. All social research, as many researchers have noted, is underpinned by and operates through a set of prior justifications or pre-understandings. Without these justifications and pre-understandings no researcher would even know what to research. Yet, these pre-understandings are not simply mine, a product of my psychological make-up (Usher 1996: 33). Understanding itself has to be understood as something people develop within economic, political, social and cultural systems.
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It seems to me, then, that even if a person has overcome the economic and social impediments that might have obstructed their life development to live a more aware and fulfilling life, it is essential to return to examine these formative experiences and relations. Even when a man has managed to come through his growing-up years in a village or township without the things he would have died for, there is something to be gained for that man in returning to and re-examining those past desires and pains. I do not see how this search for self-awareness and self-knowledge cannot enrich our work as researchers, too. Actually, it is especially when one has overcome the hurdles placed in ones way that one must return and confront the patterns of behaviour, emotions and thought once generated by the material want of an earlier lifeif a person wants to see the world more clearly, that is. Returning to reflect on the sources that went into making one into the kind of man one becamein this case the want of a dress item like All Starscan only make a person better understand his gender practice and research work. It seems to me that even though, as a researcher, one might have extensively read the methodologies and theories about gender, or as a man might have learned to treasure gender equality, there is insight and fruitfulness in ones work that arrives when a person returns to face the patterns of behaviour, emotions, and thought generated by the lack and ache in their own childhood. That is, males are enabled to loosen the noose of repressive ideas of culture, gender and sexuality from their thoughts by getting a personal, politically conscious education about masculinities; and even better, by using that progressive education to better understand their own and others ideas and practices of manhood (and womanhood). Because of the fact that having certain branded items is, for some people, something to die for, understanding the meaning of clothes for men in their local contexts (and pushing forward a critical approach to understanding the meaning of clothes) might not just change one mans or more mens ideas about masculinities, but may in fact even save a life or two.
Conclusion
There are a number of points I would like to underline in concluding this chapter. First, it seems to me that fashion items can engender powerful if contradictory meanings exactly because those who havent the means to purchase them imbue them with magical properties. Clothes can make you more ... (man, woman, sexy, desirable, secure, lovableany quality that you need). You would think that young men growing up in poor neighbourhoods in an oppressive society like apartheid South Africa would be politically conscientised to abjure consumption and rage against material inequality. You would be wrong. The reality is that sometimes
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people are driven precisely to want the things that they cannot afford, to invest their emotional and mental energies into overcoming want rather than to changing the world. In the world of a young man from a depressed community the things invested with meaning, and which he may think would magically change his identity if he could acquire them, may be as simple as a pair of brand-named canvas shoes. Second, more than 10 years would pass between the time I became aware of the importance of canvas shoes in my lifeof my imaginary willingness to kill for them or die without themand finally acquiring a pair for myself. It was too late already. I had not killed anybody. And clearly I am not dead myself. But the critical moment when the pain of not having was most intense had long since passed when I got myself my black Converse All Stars takkies, leaving in its place a psychological scar. The injury of being without something I considered important to my young life had been buried under and mixed with many other injuries of poverty; and in that admixture and sedimentation the pain of being without All Stars had been almost forgotten. By the time I purchased a pair of real All Stars I had long since left the township, had acquired a masters degree, and had been, on reflection, and possibly crucially, very lucky in relationships. It may be trite but that does not make it untrue: relationships, and more importantly, the lack of nurturing relationships with others, is vital in shaping the kind of men boys become, just as it is in terms of the women girls get to be. The caring relationships I have been privileged to have with both men and women, adults and peers, younger and olderrelationships that found me, and perhaps more so, the relationships that had always been there but to which I had never paid much attentionhelped me achieve my critical, political consciousness about gender and sexualities as well as, of course, race and culture and tradition. Third, I want to underscore the fact that critical approaches to gender and masculinities allow us to appreciate the fact that clothes and clothes-related gender practices have always been and are a matter of contest either between different groups within a culture or between members of the same group within a culture. As such, the fact that they ought to be a subject of open debate is a point that always has to be raised. If we raise the disputability of the meaning of clothes (as I have done), the hegemonic meaning of what is appropriate for men or women to wear must then be challenged.
Notes
1 In this chapter I will use masculinity and manhood interchangeably, with both taken to mean practices by males or institutions which are aimed at constituting or confirming males as men.
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The story of the father and his comments on his sons clothing is contained in Donald L Donhams (1998) article Freeing South Africa: The modernization of male-male sexuality in Soweto. Cultural Anthropology 13(1):321. The story is referred to more fully below.
Dickies is a brand (of trousers, in this case) manufactured by the American company Williamson-Dickie Manufacturing Company and favoured by South African males who referred to themselves as amapantsula, and who defined themselves principally as being street-wise or clever. In the United States the brand is a favourite of gangsters and trendy young people who affiliate themselves with hip hop and rap music, amongst others. The brand was originally meant for manual work environments rather than fashion.
Derived from the Afrikaans word for sheep, iskapi is a pejorative term in iSchamtho meaning dim-witted. Scamtho is an urban street language spoken mostly by young black male South Africans.
5 6 7 8 Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za
Skelm (plural skelms) is an Afrikaans word meaning rascal or criminal. SAPA-AFP (2007) Sexual harassment on the rise. City Press, 4 November: 10. Govender V. E-tv newsreport. E-tv, 25 July 2007. Makhaye C & Mcetywa N. Men defiant about pants tyranny. The Mercury, 29 July 2007. Accessed 31 July 2009, http://www.themercury.co.za/?fSectionId=&fArticleId=vn2007 0729101551908C694499; Mboto S & Mfusi N. Pants ban: outrage mounts. The Mercury, 26 July 2007: 3. Accessed 31 July 2009, http://www.themercury.co.za/index.php?fSecti onId=&fArticleId=vn20070726023503740C432244; Mfusi N. Woman held hostage for wearing pants. The Mercury, 12 November 2007: 3. Accessed 31 July 2009, http://www. iol.co.za/index.php?set_id=1&click_id=13&art_id=vn20071112031127435C174842; Mfusi N & Mboto S. Women: Dont dare wear trousers in Umlazi. The Mercury, 25 July 2007: 3. Accessed 31 July 2009, http://www.iol.co.za/index.php?set_id=1&click_id=13&art_ id=vn20070725033016922C706277
Mfusi N & Mboto S. Women: Dont dare wear trousers in Umlazi. The Mercury, 25 July 2007: 3. Accessed 31 July 2009, http://www.iol.co.za/index.php?set_id=1&click_ id=13&art_id=vn20070725033016922C706277
10 Makhaye C & Mcetywa N. Men defiant about pants tyranny. The Mercury, 29 July 2007. Accessed 31 July 2009, http://www.themercury.co.za/?fSectionId=&fArticleId=vn200707 29101551908C694499 11 Makhaye C & Mcetywa N. Men defiant about pants tyranny. The Mercury, 29 July 2007. Accessed 31 July 2009, http://www.themercury.co.za/?fSectionId=&fArticleId=vn200707 29101551908C694499 12 Mboto S & Mfusi N. Pants ban: outrage mounts. The Mercury, 26 July 2007: 3. Accessed 31 July 2009, http://www.themercury.co.za/index.php?fSectionId=&fArticleId=vn20070726 023503740C432244 13 Commission for Gender Equality (CGE). Umlazi Hostel incident. South African Government Information, 26 July 2007. Accessed 30 July 2009, http://www.info.gov. za/speeches/2007/07081609451006.htm; Mfusi N & Mboto S. Women: Dont dare wear trousers in Umlazi. The Mercury, 25 July 2007: 3. Accessed July 31 2009, http://www.iol. co.za/index.php?set_id=1&click_id=13&art_id=vn20070725033016922C706277 14 IRIN/UN Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs, Swaziland: Women challenging their traditional status as minors. 8 March 2005. Accessed 8 July 2008, http://
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www.irinnews.org/report.aspx?reportid=53331; SAPA. 2008. Outrage over attack on miniskirt-wearing woman. Mail & Guardian online, 19 February 2008. Accessed 8 July 2008, http://www.mg.co.za/article/2008-02-19-outrage-over-attack-on-miniskirtwearingwoman 15 Commission for Gender Equality (CGE). Umlazi Hostel incident. South African Government Information, 26 July 2007. Accessed 30 July 2009, http://www.info.gov.za/ speeches/2007/07081609451006.htm 16 A kurta is a flowing, collarless or mandarin collar shirt with side seams worn mostly in Afghanistan, Bangladesh, India, Pakistan, and Sri Lanka or by people from these countries. Usually, the kurta is knee length but it can be made shorter.
References
Connell RW & Messerschmidt WJ (2005) Hegemonic masculinity: Rethinking the concept. Gender Society 19: 829895 Donham DL (1998) Freeing South Africa: The modernization of male-male sexuality in Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za Soweto. Cultural Anthropology13 (1): 321 England KVL (1994) Getting personal: reflexivity, positionality, and feminist research. The Professional Geographer 46(1): 8089 Feinberg RA, Mataro L & Burroughs WJ (1992) Clothing and social identity. Clothing and Textiles Research Journal 11 (1): 1823 Modisane B (1963) Blame me on history. New York: E. P. Dutton & Co., Inc Pheto-Moeti MB (2005) An assessment of seshoeshoe dress as a cultural identity for Basotho women of Lesotho. MSc dissertation University of the Free State, Bloemfontein Ratele K (2008) Analysing males in Africa: Certain useful elements in considering ruling masculinities. African and Asian Studies 7: 515536 Usher R (1996) Textuality and reflexivity in educational research. In D Scott & R Usher (Eds). Understanding educational research. London: Routledge Weber S & Mitchell C (2004) Theorizing dress stories. In S Weber & C Mitchell (Eds) Not just any dress: Narratives of memory, body, and identity. New York: Peter Lang Woodruffe-Burton H (1998) Private desires, public display: consumption, postmodernism and fashions new man. International Journal of Retail & Distribution Management 26 (8): 301310 Yemen College of Middle Eastern Studies (2007) Yemeni culture. Sanaa, Republic of Yemen, Accessed 31 July 2009, http://64.233.183.104/search?q=cache:Ug04KLpOBkcJ:www.ycmes. org/culture.htm+women+pants+harassment&hl=en&ct=clnk&cd=47&gl=za&lr=lang_en
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8 Do clothes make a (wo)man? Exploring the role of dress in shaping South African domestic workers identities
Sithabile Ntombela
Domestic workers are employeD to work in other peoples households, performing duties like housekeeping, gardening, and looking after children and the elderly. It is estimated that over one million people work as domestic workers in South Africa, constituting 8 per cent of the countrys workforce (Magwaza 2008). Although they make up such a large sector of the labour force they are the most exploited of all workers, labouring long hours for meagre pay and often on the receiving end of abuse from their employers. It is only in recent years that considerable steps have been taken to improve their working conditions by regulating the industry through the Domestic Workers Act of 2002. In spite of this, Magwaza, citing Hertz (2004), Fish (2006a), and Ally (2008), argues that the benefits of this Act are yet to be seen. Although both men and women can and do work as domestic workers it is an extremely feminised and low-status job sector in South Africa, a country characterised by womens subordination, intertwined with class and race differences (Maconachie 1993). In explaining why domestic work lacks prestige, Friguglietti (1989) argues that the women entering this service are aware that they lack skills and educational training and, therefore, they consent to individual and communal inferiority, and often abuse. Given the history of this country and the history of exploitation in this industry it is not surprising that domestic work is mainly a black female institution (Cock 1980). What this confirms is that for many years in southern Africa, women have had subordinate legal status with limited access to productive resources like education and training, credit, and formal employment (Lopi 2004). This is evidenced by, for example, the adverts promoting maids uniforms which often use photos of black African women dressed as domestic workers. In addition, although I have stayed in multicultural, multiracial communities since 1995, I have yet to see a family that employs a domestic worker from any other race group. Cock argues that the low social status of domestic workers results from their powerlessness, extreme vulnerability and exploitability (Cock 1980). For
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example, the degrading and/or inhuman treatment many domestic workers in South Africa suffer at the hands of their employers continues even though they are now protected by law against such abuse. This is because in the rural and township communities from which they come, there are limited opportunities for educationmany schools are dysfunctional, which compromises the quality of education provided, poverty forces many children to drop out early, and there are families that see no value in educating girls. As a result, out of fear that they cannot get other jobs if they are fired, many domestic workers stay in their place of employment even when their working conditions are untenable. The trepidation and consequent timidity of countless domestic workers enables many employers to devalue them and to continue exploiting them, despite the existence of the Domestic Workers Act. This is not to say that there are no employers, from all racial groups, who treat their domestic workers with care and even go out of their way to see to their well-being. For example, many have sent the children of their domestic workers to school, paying for school fees, uniforms and books, and have seen to other material needs of the families of the people they employ. However, these are in the minority. In this chapter I use dress, particularly the domestic workers uniform, as an entry point to deepening our understanding of some of the key issues that domestic workers must deal with. I argue that it is not the uniform itself that degrades domestic workers ,but it publicises their position, which has been constructed as low in the social order (Cock 1980). The chapter is divided into several sections. In the next section I offer my own personal account of domestic workers and their dress. I then go on to explore the purpose(s) of dress generally and how that can or cannot be applied to domestic workers. This is followed by a description of the research process, the findings and the value of studying dress in post-apartheid South Africa. Lastly, I attempt to theorise dress and to flag implications for further research.
Autobiography of the question

Many years ago when I was a young girl, both my parents worked fulltime. My father owned a couple of taxis which afforded us a reasonably comfortable lifestyle. As a result, we had domestic help, which meant that we always came home from school (and work) to a clean house. However, it was not until I was married and had a family of my own that I began to really appreciate the role of a domestic worker within a family. To date we have three children aged 17, 14, and 8, and we have had domestic help for the past 17 years. From 19942011 five women have, at different times, helped look after our children and take care of our home. As is the norm,
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employers of domestic workers often supply their employees with work wear. With this in mind, I always offer to buy work overalls for our domestic workers. They have always accepted the offer although one graciously refused and used her own clothes. For some strange reason that I cannot explain, I gave Thembi, 1 our current domestic worker, the option of choosing between overalls and trousers and t-shirts as work wear, and she chose the latter. Thembi is a quiet but stylish 24-year-old young woman. In the 18 months that we have known her, I can count the number of times she has come to work dressed in a dress or a skirt. Therefore, I was not at all surprised by her preference. However, as both our immediate neighbours have domestic workers and both use uniforms, I wondered how she would explain her deviation from the norm should they ask her why she does not wear one. As I started writing this chapter, I speculated about the source of my offer, but even more about her choice: could it be that she just dislikes the style of uniforms she has seen, or that she feels too young to wear such clothing? Or perhaps these overalls prescribe a particular identity on the wearer, an identity that she refuses to adopt or attract to herself? Or could there be some other reason that I had not thought of?
Figure 8.1 A woman wearing a domestic workers uniform
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Specifically, therefore, this chapter seeks to address the following questions: In what ways do these uniforms, in the domestic workers opinions, have an impact on how they are viewed by others? How does the public view of domestic workers influence how they see themselves? To what extent and in what ways can a study of domestic workers and their dress be used to understand their social situation(s) in the context of the post-apartheid socio-political dispensation?
(Un)dressing the maid: What is the purpose of dress?

Dress is neither neutral nor value-free. If it were, we would not bother as much about our appearance. As Barnes and Eicher (1993) so aptly observe, dress has the potential to please or displease the wearer, and has an impact on both the viewers and the viewed. Anttila (1996) concurs, adding that clothes evoke psychological and physiological feelings. Therefore, the way we dress (what we wear and how we wear it, including accessories) makes statements about ourselves, who we are, our personalities and our ambitions. Similarly, Musial (2004) argues that the clothes we put on are a reflection of our identity. This is corroborated by Barnes and Eicher (1993) who maintain that how we dress is a visual communication of our cultural, geographical and historical identity. These authors add that dress identifies one as belonging to a group and, at the same time, distinguishes one from the groupa feature that can be used to determine ones social and economic position. It is generally agreed that clothes, textiles and related materials, as part of material culture, facilitate the creation and maintenance of classification methods to categorise and identify one another (Kaiser 1996). Similarly, others view dress, and particularly dressing up, as a social act used to communicate messages, to create impressions, or to align ourselves with a particular cultural, political, and social group (Curdt-Christiansen 2004: 189). Although there seems to be consensus that clothing defines and communicates ones social identity, Mataro and Burroughs (1991) caution that the relationship between clothing, identity and meaning is not a straightforward one. This complexity arises from the fact that dress involves non-verbal communication which can be misconstrued. There is, of course, a greater chance that your dress could be misconstrued if you are a woman, irrespective of where you live. For example, in South Africa and other parts of the world, young women wearing miniskirts are often subjected to unwelcome attention and sometimes even sexually violated as a result of mens misinterpretation of their dress. Reporting similar experiences in a teacher education college in Nigeria, Bakari and Leach state that many respondents believed that any female student who dressed provocatively or indecently was inviting attention of a sexual nature (2008: 79). Similarly, in
Do clothes make a (Wo)man?
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2008, a Catholic priest in Mexico blamed rapes on the length of womens skirts.2 Kaiser also cautions that it is not always predictable what clothing symbols will come to mean and how meaning will be negotiated and constructed in everyday life (1996: 7). This means that we cannot take anything for granted because such meanings are not cast in stone. For example, we can no longer assume that a person dressed in black is in mourning. A South African example that illustrates the unpredictable way in which dress is interpreted, both by the wearer and the onlooker, is the Kitchen Boy (KB) suit, which in many households and workplaces was a male domestic workers uniform right up to the 1970s. Among black Africans, the KB suit was seen as a symbol of humiliation to the men who were forced by circumstances to work as domestic workersan employment sector viewed as the domain of women. It is not clear how the shift in the meaning of the KB suit happened or what the trigger was, but I remember that by the mid-1980s this outfit had changed status and had become a fashion statement among African youth, especially those who were politically minded. I also remember that each time someone went past our house wearing the KB suit, my father would comment about how humiliating it had been for men to wear those KB suits in earlier times because they volunteered information about a mans lowly position at work without his consent. Seemingly overnight, however, the KB suits significance changed and those who owned such suits were revered. What had been a symbol of oppression and humiliation had assumed a different and higher status because those wearing it were not forced to but were making defiant statements about their individual and collective identities. I suppose that the adoption of the KB suit by political activists might have created confusion among some of the white folk who, all of a sudden, were witnessing a defiant attitude among men that they assumed were domestic workers, not realising that the majority of those parading in KB suits were not actually domestic workers at all. The above examples suggest that while we, as onlookers, might ascribe particular meanings and identities to those wearing specific pieces of clothing, like the uniform, the wearers themselves might have different reasons for wearing them. However, in some cases, the meanings communicated are mediated by the status assigned to the job. For example, in cases where a uniform is used in a position that is held in high esteem, the wearer is likely to accept and even internalise the identity that goes with it. Others might also hold such wearers in high esteem. Nurses, for example, are, through representation, consulted in terms of the colour and style of uniform they prefer. An indication of their participation in the creation of their image and identity is the fact that their uniforms have, over the years, changed from dresses to skirt and trouser suits, in line with fashion trends. Other uniform wearers who are held in high esteem include pilots and soldiers.
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In the case of domestic workers, there is often no representation and no consultation. Someone else (usually an employer) often chooses the garments. As a result, the uniforms have remained the same except for minor changes in the choice of fabric and colours (for example, there are now ethnic prints available). Although they come in a variety of fabric colours, the employers often decide what to buy for their employees. Thus, in such cases, the uniform assigns and communicates a particular identity about those wearing it. This is not surprising considering that Motsei (1990) views domestic work as an institution. Like all institutions, she argues, it involves a process of depersonalisation. She maintains that the standard issue of uniforms to domestic workers is a form of depersonalisation because someone decides what another person will wear without seeking their input. If we take seriously Raunios (1996) argument that clothing is chosen to fulfil social, cultural and personal expectations, then the fact that most domestic workers have no voice in whether or not they should wear a uniform, nor any say concerning the design and selection of their uniform, then such clothing is indeed a depersonalisation. This is exacerbated by the fact that these uniforms usually come in generic sizes (S-M-L-XL-XXL-XXXL). This means that very few end-users of this product get a perfect fit because each size spans several dress sizes. While some women might not mind this, this is not the case for many of the younger generation of domestic workers who tend to be fashion conscious and concerned about their appearance. In addition to depersonalising the wearers, uniforms also tend to infantilise the domestic workers. To illustrate: in family settings, parents buy clothing for their young children but by the time the children reach their teenage years they have more say in the decisions about what to buy. In other work environments employees are given uniform allowances to buy their preferred uniform (trousers/skirt, long/ short sleeves, and so on). However, in the case of domestic workers, the fact that employers can and do unilaterally buy work wear for their adult employees is a clear indication of the unequal power relations between them, often intensified by race, gender and/or social class. Through an exploratory study, detailed here, I sought to examine the constructions of domestic workers and meaning-making regarding uniforms and uniform-wearing in South Africas post-apartheid dispensation.
Doing fieldwork
In exploring the extent to which, and the ways in which a study of domestic workers and their dress (uniforms) can be used to understand their social situation(s) in the context of the post-apartheid socio-political dispensation, I borrowed from Bettis and
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Adamss (2005) idea of geographies of girlhood. I looked at the domestic workers places of work as one of the geographies (of womanhood) where these women spend their lives. While the workplace is an important site where these women construct their self-concepts and/or identities, the impact of each site (in this case work and home) cannot be considered in isolation because each influences the other. The study used the theory of symbolic interactionism3 to inform its data collection and analysis. Symbolic interaction, the term coined by Herbert Blumer in 19374 suggests that interaction between human beings depends on symbols and how they are used and/or interpreted by others. Similarly, Lee and Anderson highlight the observation that identities shape and are shaped by social constructions across multiple timescales and spaces (Lee & Anderson 2009: 191). Symbolic interactionism was, therefore, useful in my attempt to understand if their dress has an impact on the self-perceived identities of domestic workers, particularly regarding how they interpret other peoples reactions and how that influences the way in which they see themselves. Another theoretical framework, the view of dress as part of material culture, was used in an attempt to understand the meaning/s attached to the domestic workers uniform. Material culture is described as physical substances that have been produced by humans (Waugn n.d.). In an attempt to understand the social significance of the object, material culture explores questions like: What is the function of the object and who uses it? (Waugn n.d.). Similar questions were used in an attempt to understand the social significance of the domestic workers uniform. In addition, I used ideas related to the concept of identity. Lee and Anderson define identity as how a person understands his or her relationship to the world, how that relationship is constructed across time and space, and how the person understands possibilities for the future (2009: 183). Implied here is the idea that as we interact with others, our self-concepts emerge from others perceptions of us and how we respond to those perceptions. The assumption is that people have multigroup memberships and that, as a result of these multi-memberships, they have multiple identities. As such, I used identity as an outcome of these relationships and interactions to try to understand how the participants position themselves. To address the research questions in this study, I conducted a qualitative exploratory study involving a convenience sample (Robson 2002) of five domestic workers working in households in my neighbourhood. Since the introduction of labour laws that protect the rights of domestic workers, employers, perhaps fearful of being found to be in contravention of the law, are understandably wary of who might be interviewing their employees. To avoid suspicion, I approached five women I know who work as domestic workers and explained the purpose of my research. I explained the issue of confidentiality and freedom to withdraw without fear of victimisation. When they agreed to take part, we arranged dates and
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times when we would meet for the interview. The study was not focused on their work conditions, and the interviews were conducted outside of their work hours. Therefore, I saw no need to inform or seek permission from their employers (and indeed, I wanted to make a point of not seeking such permission). In addition, I interviewed four acquaintances of mine who employ domestic workers. There was no connection between the employers and employees. Again I explained the purpose of the study, assured them of confidentiality and the right to withdraw without fear of victimisation. Tables 8.1 and 8.2 display the profiles of the five domestic workers and the four employers whom I interviewed.
Table 8.1 Profile of the five domestic workers

Name 5 Makhosi Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za Brinj Dudu Bobo Mimmie Sex F F F F F Service with employer 19 years 9 years 2.5 years 17 years 1.5 years
The domestic workers were interviewed on different days, using a semi-structured interview schedule. The aim was to ascertain their perceptions on whether their uniforms have any role in shaping how others view them and how they view themselves. The interviews were conducted in isiZulu, transcribed verbatim and then translated into English. As these languages differ significantly, it is possible that some meanings might have been lost in translation.
Table 8.2 Employers profile

Name 6 Mark Mary Faso Daisy Sex M F F F
The employers were interviewed telephonically. Each was a very brief interview as the purpose was to establish if their domestic workers use uniforms and why.
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Domestic workers uniforms as material culture: Findings

The findings from this small-scale (N=9) exploratory study suggest that there is very little variety in domestic workers uniforms. Following on Motseis (1990) suggestions that domestic work is an institution that depersonalises the recruits, findings from the study seem to suggest, too, that the domestic workers felt they were infantilised. Three of the five women indicated that they were not consulted about the style or colour of uniform they wore. In addition, illustrating the imbalances in power between employers and employees and the infantilising of the latter, of the five workers I interviewed, only one was offered street clothes as work wear, although she was not consulted on her style or colour preference. Generally, the women were not consulted about what they should wear at work. Even when they had choices, it seems that these were limited. To illustrate: although the domestic workers overall as protective wear seems to be appreciated, some participants felt that supplying them with any other clothing (like dresses, skirts, trousers and t-shirts) would serve this purpose equally well, if not better, by not revealing their position as domestic workers to onlookers. The findings also highlight that some domestic workers are assertive enough not to accept overalls. Daisy, the only Asian employer in the sample of employers, has two women working for her on different days. She confessed that she had never given the uniform issue any thought: I just buy them because it is standard practice. One of my helpers likes to wear overalls and the other one doesnt. So I get for one and not for the other. It does not bother me either way although I know that legally I am supposed to provide her with protective wear. Similarly, Faso, who also has two domestic workers in different settings, has experienced this. What emerges is that she has learnt to ask before buying, although she has not given any thought to the choices her employees have made: When Bongi arrived I bought her a set of overalls but she does not wear [them]. When I asked her about this she said she prefers a coverall pinafore, so that is what I got her. When Titi started working at the other house I asked her if she wanted overalls but she said no. She also uses a coverall pinafore. I promised to buy her some but never got round to doing it so she uses her own. I did not ask why they prefer these pinafores. What was quite clear from the discussions was that the overall is not a clothing item of choice among participants. What some of them said about the overall brings some clarity to their preferences:
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Remove uniforms, let domestics use ordinary clothing; they can serve the same purpose. (Mimmie) I do not like the overalls I use but they do protect my clothes. Without them I would be dirty by the time I go home. (Brinj) What I read from these was that these women would accept street clothes as work wear if given the choice. All people have colour, material and/or style preferences that influence their choice of what clothes to buy and wear. However, as most employers do not ask about individual preferences, these important details are often overlooked when purchasing for domestics. Only one participant reported being consulted about these details: I wear overalls but not [just] any. My employer always asks me to choose the style, colour and even material that I like. (Dudu)
The domestic workers subservient position makes it difficult for them to question why their preferences are not taken into consideration when uniforms are bought. It is only in rare cases that an employee feels free to make suggestions, as in the case of Makhosi.
Figure 8.2 A woman in a coverall pinafore (image provided by the author)
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My madam used to buy me any overall but I did not use them much because I do not like them. When I saw a two-piece (skirt and top) overall, I asked her to buy me that because I feel much better in that kind of clothing. Even in cases where the employer has taken the trouble to offer the option of civilian clothing or the conventional uniform, they may still fail to consider the domestic workers preferences. This point was driven home by Mimmie who, though shy, did not mince her words when she pointed out her employers omission: I was asked to choose between overalls and general clothes but I was not asked about my colour preferences. I would have asked for black or brown trousers. This made me think deeply about the choice that I had given Thembi as I was also guilty of the same omission. The realisation that all along I had been priding myself on breaking with tradition and ensuring that she could wear what she liked when in fact I had inadvertently perpetuated the infantilisation of domestic workers was a bitter pill to swallow! In a way, such things highlight the power dynamics between the employers and their employees and the low status these workers have in the households in which they work, as well as in society in general.
The publics view of domestic workers

What the findings reveal is that the domestic workers dress engenders deeper perceptions about the wearer. For example, Friguglietti (1989), in explaining why domestic work lacks prestige, argues that the women entering this service are aware that they lack skills and educational training which leaves them with no choice but to look for employment in this sector. This was corroborated by the five domestic workers in this study who felt that their vulnerability stems from their not being adequately educated, as one of them indicated: They look down upon you if you wear the maids uniform. Even employers look down on you. I think the reason is that it is a job for uneducated people (Mimmie) Dudu had advice for parents who want their children to avoid going through the same hardships and who want to teach them not to stigmatise domestic work and those employed in the sector: Parents should teach their children that this (domestic work) is what other people can afford to do with their level of education. Teach them not to look down upon others, especially when you do not know their circumstances.
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It was clear that they understand the role of education in securing better employment. Unfortunately, the inequalities promoted by apartheid between different communities still prevail and the over-representation of black African women in low-paid and unskilled positions, nearly 20 years after democracy, highlights how pervasive these inequalities were. The study also sought to determine why employers purchase these uniforms for their employees, particularly if the wearing of these uniforms leads to adverse perceptions from others. Most participants were acutely aware of the negative impact on these women of wearing the maids uniform. The five domestic workers and three of the four employers interviewed in this study agreed that the uniforms do alter peoples perceptions of domestic workers. As the different domestic workers explained: The uniform does change how you are seen. Some people [who know you] will go past and ignore you, when you greet them by name, they look apologetic and claim they did not recognise you in (or out of) uniform. (Bobo)
When people realise that you are a maid (see you in a maids uniform), they tend to look down upon you because they know you work in someones house. (Brinj) Peoples attitude towards you changes when you have the domestics uniform on ... Even employers attitudes towards their domestic helpers are negative. Many treat them badly because they see them as inferior. (Makhosi) They [people] look down upon you. Even when they talk to you, many treat you as simple-minded, as a childIn life, people do not get sick just because there is a doctor. However, in many households, they mess up deliberately when there is a maid. (Bobo) The general view among the group was that people tend to look down on women whom they see to be domestic workers. For example, the male employer remarked: If in your household your helper wears a uniform, each time you get a visitor they can immediately tell who is not a member of this family. Once people know this, their attitude towards her often changes. Another employer who claimed to have worked as a domestic before had this to say about wearing the domestic workers uniform: I know what it feels like to wear the maids uniform, what it means to be looked down upon. The overall gives away your position without people asking. (Mary)
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Two pertinent issues are raised here: belonging and being an outsider, and how being identified as the latter can lead to marginalisation. First, there is a paradox in that while it is true that domestic workers work in peoples homes and take care of their property and even their children, and often know almost everything there is to know about their employers and their families, they do not belong with those families; they remain outsiders. Second, people are not marginalised until someone knows (or thinks they do) something about them, such as their position, status, level of education and so on. For the home owner, it is not the uniform but the status or position of the domestic worker that leads to marginalisation or maltreatment, whereas for the outsider, it is the uniform that defines who the domestic worker is in relation to the rest of the family and on the basis of this she can be marginalised. These women seemed very aware of the ways in which the uniforms tended to change the way people saw them, although Brinj questioned the sincerity of those who claim that it changes the way a person looks: When they see you in your own clothes some people comment that you look different. Will there be a difference if I take this skirt off and put on another or trousers or is it that people have trained their eyes to discriminate against others? It was also clear that these perceptions were not limited to households, as Dudus observations show: When you commute, some of the conversations about domestic workers tell you what people think about this jobSometimes I overhear people talking about me, that I do not look like a maid. As none of the domestic workers dresses in uniform on her way to or from work, the conversations that Dudu refers to are not prompted by the sight of her in a domestic workers uniform. Therefore, I assume that it reflects the general publics perceptions of those who occupy domestic-worker positions and confirms that the domestic worker institution is poorly regarded across all South African communities.
Domestic workers views of themselves

Both domestic workers and the employers interviewed in this study suggested that the publics negative view of domestic workers, particularly those in uniform, has no
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impact on how they view themselves. For example, the participants asserted that the negative ways in which people view them generally does not change the way they see themselves, as these comments illustrate: It does not bother me [what they think of me]. To me this is just a job like others, it does not pay well but that does not make me feel small. It does not change how I feel about myself. (Makhosi) I know who I am and where I am going in life; I do not worry about what other people think about me. I am not ashamed of earning an honest living. (Dudu) I am not ashamed of the work I do and it [this job] does not change how I see myself. It helps that I earn more money [and can do more] than my sister who thinks this is a low job. (Mimmie) I can provide for my children, I feel it is better than being unemployed. (Brinj)
The women sounded optimistic about themselves as individuals. It was clear that the identity imposed by their work clothes and work status does not dominate their other identities. They all seemed to have very positive self-concepts, unshaken by the public view of their positions in the job market.
What does this study tell us about dress and domestic workers in the context of post-apartheid South Africa?
Findings from this exploratory study suggest that dress, in this case the domestic workers uniform, is part of material culture. It is a piece of clothing or a set of clothes that identifies the wearer as a member of a particular group and has meaning ascribed to it through social interaction. The findings also suggest that the public has a negative perception of domestic work as an institution. As a result, the domestic workers uniform is, by association, unpopular. It is, therefore, not surprising that many women are reluctant to wear it. The findings also show that some domestic workers are infantilised at work in that they are not consulted regarding their uniform preference. Even when they are, the consultation is often not extensive enough. This highlights the unequal power dynamics between employers and their employees. The social situation of domestic workers is changing, albeit slowly. Although the Act passed in 2002 seeks to protect these workers from abuse and exploitation,
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several researchers argue that its benefits are yet to be seen. The findings show that even seven years later, many domestic workers still seem powerless and voiceless, as is evident in the practice of employers buying work clothes for them without (adequate) consultation.
Conclusion
It is apparent that although the domestic workers uniform is not a popular item of clothing, public perceptions of domestic workers have little impact on how they view themselves. It is also evident that it is not the dress (the uniform) that shapes the publics view of domestic workers as inferior: it is their status and position in society (real and perceived) that promotes such views. However, this inevitably results in the association between their dress and their status. If what we wear and how we wear it reflects our identity and what our ambitions and even our personalities are, it makes sense to consult employees in matters involving their work wear. Dressing the body is a personal matter. It cannot be delegated to other people to decide what another adult should wear, except perhaps in hospitals and prisons. This means that employers need to consider different ways of providing protective clothing to domestic workers. Therefore, in the context of South Africa today, we cannot judge people by the clothes they wear because many do not have the power to choose.
Notes
1 2 3 4 5 6 Not her real name. http://www.mexico.vg/mexico/mexican-priest-blames-rapes-on-women-wearing-miniskirts/225 Accessed 9 February 2009. http://family.jrank.org/pages/1675/Symbolic-Interactionism-Self-Concept-Formation.html Accessed 19 May 2009. http://uregina.ca/`~gingrich/f100.htm Accessed 19 May 2009. Not their real names. Not their real names.
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Anttila P (1996) How to investigate textiles and clothing: Some methodological viewpoints. Speech given at the Clothing and its social, psychological, cultural and environmental aspects Symposium of Textiles, Clothing and Craft Design, Helinski (1820 May 1995)
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Bakari S & Leach F (2008) I invited her to my office: Normalising sexual violence in a Nigerian College of Education. In S Dunne (Ed.) Gender, sexuality and development: Education and society in sub-Saharan Africa. Sense Publishers: Rotterdam Barnes R & Eicher JB (1993) Introduction. In R Barnes & JB Eicher (Eds) Dress and gender: Making and meaning. Accessed 5 April 2009, http://books.google.co.za/books?id Bettis PJ & Adams NG (2005) (Eds) Geographies of girlhood: Identities in-between. Lawrence Erlbaum Associates: New Jersey Cock J (1980) Black and White Women: A socio-historical study of domestic workers and their employers in the Eastern Cape. PhD thesis, Rhodes University, Grahamstown Curdt-Christiansen XL (2004) Made in China. In S Weber & C Mitchell (Eds) Not just any dress: Narratives of memory, body, and identity. New York: Peter Lang Friguglietti RS (1989) Domestic workers: Dependency versus self-assertiveness in the workplace. MA dissertation, University of Pretoria Kaiser SB (1996) The social meanings of textiles and clothes: A contextual approach. Speech given at the Clothing and its social, psychological, cultural and environmental aspects Symposium of Textiles, Clothing and Craft Design, Helinski (1820 May 1995) Lee JS & Anderson KT (2009) Negotiating linguistic and cultural identities: theorizing and Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za constructing opportunities and risks in education. Review of Research in Education 33: 181211 Lopi B (2004) Gender & poverty in the context of human development, health, education and the MDGs. Zimbabwe: Women in Development Southern African (WIDSAA) and Southern African Research and Documentation Centre (SARDC) Maconachie M (1993) Patterns of womens employment in the 1991 census. Agenda 18: 4147 Magwaza T (2008) Effects of Domestic Workers Act in South Africa: A steep road to recognition. Agenda 78: 7992 Mataro L & Burroughs WJ (1991) Clothing and social identity. Clothing and Textile Research Journal 10(1): 5362 Motsei M (1990) The best kept secret: Violence against domestic workers. Accessed 23 April 2009, http://www.csvr.org.za/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=595 Musial J (2004) Fashioning pregnancy: The maternity dress in clothing catalogues. In S Weber & C Mitchell (Eds) Not just any dress: Narratives of memory, body, and indentity. New York: Peter Lang Raunio A-M (1996) Favorite clothes: A look at individuals experience of clothing. Paper presented at the Clothing and its social, psychological, cultural and environmental aspects Symposium of Textiles, Clothing and Craft Design, Helinski (1820May 1995) Robson C (2002) Real world research (2nd edition). Oxford: Blackwell Waugn D (n. d.) Material Culture/Objects. Accessed 2 September 2009, http://chnm.gmu.edu/ worldhistorysources/unpacking/objectsmain/html
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9 A loud silence: The history of funeral dress among the Ndau of Zimbabwe
Marshall Maposa
I dId not have many noteworthy experiences of funerals when I was growing up because I was in boarding school from primary to high school. I came back to settle in my home area in Chipinge, Zimbabwe, only after university, returning as a teacher at a local school. Because of my history specialisation and also perhaps to make up for lost experience, I developed a fascination for the history of my home area and its people. Although we lived within a Christian mission farm, local traditions had survived and had been reinforced by missionary influence. It was in this context that I began to grasp the realities of the traditions of my society. As a local teacher I was obliged to attend all funerals and in almost every case we were accompanied by a select group of learners from my school. My late fathers funeral in February 2005 was a typical local funeral. As this was a significant day in my life, I still have a vivid recollection of many of the days events. School learners came to help with the choresboys erected a temporary shelter and carried furniture for the multitude of mourners while girls helped with the cooking tasks. Although the learners were dressed in school uniforms, the adults donned typical funeral dress. My mother was dressed in her church uniform, as was my young wife. I put on a formal shirt and a pair of denims and my brothers-in-law wore similarly ordinary dress. Generally, however, a lot of the men wore simple clothing that could have been worn on any day. My sisters were more formal. For most women, their attire either consisted of church uniform or basically simple clothing covered by mazambia (wrap-overs) and all sorts of headdresses. Evidently an unwritten dress code was in full force, especially for the female mourners. Funerals and memorial services are arguably one of the strongest and longest-standing bastions of political correctness in many communities. Indeed, my experience of funeral attendance is that the attendees take sufficient care to find out what kind of attire is acceptable. If they lack the necessary information, they try to be as conservative as possible so as not to seem insulting or disrespectful at a
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ceremony sometimes referred to as paying ones last respects. In fact, the idea that these last respects are not directed towards the survivors but towards the deceased, makes the occasion very sombre. And certainly sombre occasions are characterised by sombre dressing, amongst other things. This was especially the case with my fathers funeral, as he was a former school head and local church minister. Statistical evidence indicates that the majority of people in Zimbabwe believe in an afterlife, founded upon both indigenous and foreign religions and belief systems. Mutangi, quoting The World Fact Book, reports that 25 per cent of the Zimbabwean population are pure Christians; 24 per cent follow traditional African religion; 50 per cent follow a mixture of Christianity and traditional religion and only 1 per cent belong to other religions such as Islam (Mutangi 2008: 530). As a result, the majority of the funeral services in the country are typified by a certain set of religious rites. The mystique and power that death holds over the survivors, coupled with religious apprehension, sobers peoples minds, so much so that funeral events are opportune moments for individuals to reflect not only on the life of the deceased but also on their own experiences and deeds. It is against this background that people refrain from being conspicuous. at funerals. Rather, even in the most progressive societies, without coercion, people tend to follow a specific funeral dress code. Over time this dress code has been constructed and perpetuated by societies and is redefined and reshaped by individuals and groups depending on variables such as age, religion, gender and social class. A comparison between my own experience and that of my wifes, as we graduated from young adulthood into marriage, reveals a major difference between my wifes attire and mine at funeralsshe has to don church uniform, cover her head and carry with her a wrap-around while my attire remains largely unchanged. Therefore, this chapter is motivated by the central but often almost overlooked role of fashion during mourning and particularly at funeral services. It analyses the development of funeral fashion, over space and time, amongst the Ndau people of Zimbabwe.
Identifying the Ndau

Complexities of ethnic and tribal identity are common throughout Africa and Zimbabwe is no exception. This paper focuses on a community which is located in the south-eastern region of Zimbabwe and is identified as the Ndau. The Ndau originate from and mainly occupy the district of Chipinge although some are found in Chimanimani district and some in Mozambique. This group of people is identified as a sub-ethnic group of the greater Shona ethnic assemblage whose culture was influenced by Nguni domination under Ngungunyana up to 1889. 1 Just
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Figure 9.1 Map locating Chipinge and Chimanimani districts in Manicaland province, Zimbabwe
Source: Redrawn from http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/5/55/Manicaland_districts Accessed on 10 September 2009
as they have certainly had their identity simultaneously shaped by intrinsic and extrinsic forces, the Ndau similarly both identify with, and distinguish themselves from, the greater Shona grouping. Crucially, MacGonagle states that studies of the social construction of identities are also inextricably linked to gendered histories over the longue duree2 (2008: 33). Indeed, as the Ndau identity was being created so were gendered roles. One manifestation of the construction of gendered histories can be witnessed through a study of dress at funerals.
Dress research in Africa

The history of fashion at funerals in Zimbabwe, and indeed throughout the world, has been dishearteningly poorly researched. In spite of admissions of the power of what Zook terms the semiotics of fashion, evidence of research on the area
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under focus in this study is rather modest (2003: 450). Allman notes with concern that dress is an enormously valuable yet largely untapped archive and also that dress has the potential to reveal and create an understanding of bodily praxis as political praxis (2004: 4). What abounds, however, is literature on the history of various paraphernalia of clothing items or costumes, without any specific focus on mourning attire. One such example is Harriss (2002) outline of the history of the necktie in relation to other items of clothing, but the focus is on Europe and America. However, Mattingly (2002) does more than just trace the history of clothing. She discusses the impact of dress on the visual representation of womens bodies and their place within the power structure of 19th-century America. Her research concludes that Quaker dressing in America at that time was very instrumental in helping women to redirect peoples interest away from their bodies, in the process acting as a reminder of their purity (2002: 530). In addition, Allman conducted a study of fashion in Africa and came to two critical conclusions. First, she argued that the dialectic between research of fashion in cultural studies and dress in anthropology should not be emphasised and that it can, in fact, be bridged. Second, she dismissed the way some scholars up-end the tradition vs. modernity binary (2004: 2), implying that research has tended to focus on narrow areas of study rather than on broader areas and issues. Llewellyn-Jones and Harlow concur by stating that any study of ancient clothing requires a holistic approach, taking into account evidence from all available sourcesart history, archaeology and literature. It is the failure to integrate the diverse range of available sources that has impeded any coherent study of ancient clothing (2002: 60). These claims serve to remind us of the complex issues related to the study of the history of fashion. The importance of studying the history of fashion cannot be underestimated. This is affirmed by Hendrickson who states that dress speaks in ways and of things that people, for reasons of cultural and political constraint, often cannot. She thus recognises dress as a fundamental idiom for the indirect expression of powerful, socially held ideas (2005: 338). The history of fashion demonstrates the extent to which the powerful controlled (and continue to control) peoples way of life. For instance, Kuchta (2002) explained how an apparently innocuous dress act by Charles II, the King of England, in 1666 introduced the three-piece suit, thus having an influence on dressing even today. This example shows the efficacy of the actions of those who hold power in society and how they can determine the future even without intention. Similarly, dress codes for occasions such as funerals are also determined in this way. Therefore all clothing items say something to society about individuals and society, past and present. It is up to present-day society to try to learn and understand the language of dress because fashion carries with it some vocabulary, dialects, and constructions (Zook 2003: 450).
a loud silence
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Social constructionism as a theoretical framework

This study was conducted within the deconstructionist framework, explained by Munslow (2006) and Gergen (2005), with its root influences identified in the writings of scholars such a Michel Foucault, Jacques Derrida and Hayden White. Deconstructionists such as Louis Mink, FR Ankersmith and Paul Ricoeur work within a postmodern framework and are characterised by their poststructuralist denial of empiricism and fixed meanings and realities. This means that historical narratives should acknowledge multiple meanings and should not pretend to provide factual and disinterested analyses. Therefore, as a person of Ndau origin, my history and the discourse with which I grew up play a part in determining my depiction of the issues under focus. Thus, here, the most important implication of deconstructionist theory is that this study does not purport to be an all-truthful historical analysis of fashion at funerals. Just as fashion itself can be regarded as a social construction, so can this historical narrative. The use of social constructionism as a theoretical framework for this study is appropriate in that the Ndau community has had their identity constructed not only by their own society but also by the societies with which they interact and have interacted in the past. At the same time, the construction of Ndau identity implies the construction of dress codes for specific purposes. These dress codes demonstrate the power dynamics within the society and, in this investigation, how gender roles at funerals have been constructed and perpetuated through dress.
Research design and methodology

The data for this study was generated from various forms of literature, visual texts and anecdotal information. The textual data was mainly in the form of articles and books written on issues related to fashion, fashion history, funerals and gender. An archive of hard copies of the articles was constructed and this collection was used principally as reference information. Another archive was constructed for images of funerals from Zimbabwe. Most of these pictures were located on the worldwide web although some came from personal archives. The limitation is that the pictures on the internet are predominantly those of funerals of significantly affluent people and of political individuals and therefore are not representative of what could be described as the funerals of ordinary people in a regular setting. In addition, use of the pictures from the internet was also limited because of ethical and copyright issues.
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Added to this, until recently, taking pictures at funerals amongst the Ndau was frowned upon so this aspect of what is a conservative culture also contributed to a limited access to images for this research. Anecdotal evidence was used mainly because of the constraints already listed. Conducting full-scale interviews and observations at funerals would therefore have entailed confronting a substantial number of ethical hurdles. Consequently, the information was gathered from unobtrusive observations and discussions with friends and family. The data analysis for this research was inspired by Foucaults methods of genealogy and historical discourse analysis. These methods reinforced visual analysis. According to Perkyl (2008), Foucault revolutionised the analysis of text through his notion of the history of the present which tries to make sense of the present through studying the past (Gutting 2005: 50). In using genealogy as a method, I intended to trace the evolution of meanings of subjects and objects over space and time through the application of Foucaults main argument that history depends on the dominant linguistic protocol (or trope) of the epistemic archive. In this case, I identified a particular trope (fashion description) for a particular epistemic archive (space and time). This means that what can be described as funeral attire may not necessarily look the same in different epistemes. This becomes evidence of the argument that mourning dress is a social construction. Through visual analysis, I analysed each individual picture and identified the items of clothing that were worn by males and females. According to Noble and Bestley, when one is analysing images there are two techniques: denotation and connotation (2005: 138). The two are also referred to as first level of articulation and second level of articulation respectively (Chandler 2007: 249). Denotation implies the basic identification of features, in this case items of dress. Connotation builds on denotation and entails attempting to link the features with meanings. In the case of this research, the meanings were then related to the categories of analysis. My main categories of analysis were the epistemic frameworks and the location, age and gender of the funeral attendees. I coded the data by first identifying the epistemic frameworks for the research. Within these epistemic archives, I pinned down themes according to what Perkyl refers to as the informal approach (2008: 352). This approach entails reading and re-reading data until themes emerge from the data.
Research findings
The data that was analysed revealed competing similarities and differences of funeral dress over a period of time. The delineation of epistemes presented me
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with some predicaments. The epistemes did not fall neatly into clearly defined timeframes; more so if one considers contact with Western culture as one of the major factors influencing the changing fashion trends in Zimbabwe. While the first Western contacts, as early as the 15th century, were the Portuguese, it was the American Board missionaries who had a really telling impact in terms of the modification of culture, including dress, of the Ndau people in Chipinge. With these considerations in mind, I eventually delineated the epistemes thus: pre-colonial period to the end of the 19th century first half of 20th century (19011950) second half of 20th century to the present (19512009). My main focus here will be on the developments that occurred particularly in the second half of the 20th century. It should be borne in mind that these stipulated timeframes should not be viewed as cut-off periods whereby fashion instantly changes as another episteme begins. Instead, the fashion overlaps from one episteme to another and dress today is still hugely influenced by the dress of the past century. However, a working framework had to be adopted for the study, and the one described above seemed to be the most plausible and usable. These epistemes were therefore adopted as the major themes of analysis, under which sub-themes were inserted. The analysis of data will therefore be presented in accordance with the major categories of analysis.
Pre-colonial period to the end of the 19th century

There is very little visual evidence for this period. The images I found were not of funerals and were mainly in the form of drawings rather than photographs. I thus had to rely heavily on oral evidence. Where oral evidence confirmed what was in the images, I then analysed those images in greater detail. One finding from the oral evidence is that although death and funerals were highly consecrated events for the ordinary people there was basically no special dress set aside for funerals and such dress was set aside only for religious practitioners and spirit mediums. As such, even at funerals, individuals would not necessarily don special attire. The traditional attire of the Ndau was a mixture of Shona and Nguni dress. Until the end of the 19th century, most Shona men wrapped clothreferred to as machiraaround themselves. By the 16th century this cloth had entered the hinterland through contact with traders from the eastern coast of Africa (Mudenge 1988). However, there is even earlier evidence of cotton production in Zimbabwe (MacGonagle 2007). The picture in Figure 9.2 is familiar in the history of Zimbabwe and though it does not come from a funeral it depicts the way the Shona groups in pre-colonial Zimbabwe used machira as dress.
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Figure 9.2 A man in an example of machira dress
The Ndau mans regular attire was the tanned skin dress referred to as njobo and was made from jangwa, an animal in the mongoose family (MacGonagle 2007: 73). While attire for the males was rather simple, the women had more elaborate dress and adornment which covered more of their bodies. They wore a short skirt called a chikisa. Two straps of cloth over each shoulder, tucked into the chikisa, covered the upper body (MacGonagle 2007). The chikisa is a much cherished historical dress in Chipinge district; it has survived modernity and is still sporadically donned today. An elder in the Chikore area confirmed that the traditional dress described above was used even at funerals and there was no specific attire set aside for such occasions.
First half of 20th century (19011950)

During this period, changes in dress codes at funerals are evident. Most people in the Ndau community had begun adopting European dress codes. This was not only a result of British colonisation but also a result of the influence of the American Board missionaries who had established mission stations at Mt. Selinda and Chikore. From these bases the missionaries established churches throughout the district and spread not only the Christian gospel but their culture as well.
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The men thus attended funerals in what was, according to one elder, respectable attire. This would imply an endeavour to wear a three-piece suit, black hat, shoes and collar and tie. However, Chipinge is a largely rural and farming area and so these endeavours were not easily realised. Christian converts who got jobs at the mission stations could afford some formal attire as could those who returned from working on the gold mines of South Africa. The majority of the men wore what they could afford. However, by the 1950s, the njobo had been abandoned and wearing one in public could make one a laughing stock, especially if it was of poor quality (MacGonagle 2007). Thus a simplistic generalisation would be that men wore shirts and a pair of trousers. Shoes were regarded as a luxury and most men would therefore either wear sandals or walk barefoot. However, anecdotal evidence points to the fact that some African women continued to wear their traditional costume at funerals, especially those that had not converted to Christianity. Reverend Foroma explained how women of the deceaseds immediate family would also shave their heads and wear laces around their necks as a sign of mourning. The laces would only be taken off at later post-funeral rituals and thrown into the fire. The black cloth called mberikunashe (literally translated as the Lord waits ahead) had established its hallowed position by the end of this episteme. Although it was not mandatory it had become a symbol of funeral dress in Zimbabwe. Amongst the Ndau, as in other Shona areas, mourners pinned a piece of black cloth (mutiisa) on the sleeves of their clothes. The mutiisa was donned by women more than men. Thus women began to assume more prominently the custodianship of mourning.
Second half of 20th century to present (19512009)

The post-World War II period witnessed the greatest degree of change. Admittedly, this episteme is rather protracted but it is characterised by obvious changes in the dress of women at funerals. While male dressing did not undergo a major change, two major changes were witnessed in the case of female attire: the church uniform and the chitenje cloth. Christianity had taken root amongst the Ndau society and the missionaries had discouraged the perpetuation of African customs and traditions such as polygamy, beer brewing and drinking, as well as customary rituals and dress. These discouragements were particularly heeded in Chikore and Mt. Selinda where the American Board missionaries leased land on their mission farms to the locals. Ignoring the Christian virtues would expose a person to the risk of losing a plot of land or the chance of getting a job in the mission stations. The regulation on attire was strict for those who attended church services.
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One common image at funerals in Chipinge is that of women wearing church uniform. This trend was not necessarily limited to the early missionary churches such as the American Board, and the independent African Apostolic and Zionist churches also adopted church attire. While uniforms were established for both males and females, it is mainly the women rather than the men who tended to wear uniform at funerals. My fathers funeral showed that very few attendees made a conscious effort to wear black. The chairperson of a local Ruwadzano (womens fellowship council) revealed that failure to wear uniform at a members funeral might result in a penalty for the culprit. Although the American Board later changed when its administration was transferred into the hands of the Africans and became the United Church of Christ in Zimbabwe (UCCZ) the wearing of uniforms did not change. In fact, the youth in the church also adopted a uniform. It is almost common knowledge amongst the Ndau that many women join the Ruwadzano with the aim of being laid to rest by the women in uniform. My mother, a former national president of the Ruwadzano, admits having become involved in clashes with some colleagues over the wearing of uniform at funerals of deceased people who were not members of the church. The wearing of uniform can be related to the dressing of Quaker women in 19th-century America (Mattingly 2002). Pictures from my late fathers funeral revealed that, when in church uniform, the women did not adorn themselves with jewellery. According to Mbuya Maposa, a former president of the UCCZ womens council, church laws did not permit women to wear earrings and necklaces while wearing church uniform. They are also not allowed to put on high-heeled shoes or sandals. This is an appropriate illustration of what Finch (2005) dubbed the notion of visibilitythe expectation that ones outer body served as a transparent window onto ones soul (2005: 494). Its main focus is to simplify women and thus it serves to reinforce their role as custodians of mourning. The women also generally kept their heads covered. Even now, those who do not come to funerals in uniform for various reasons always try to cover their heads with a doek (scarf) or hat. Some women could not explain whether covering their heads was for religious reasons or because it was merely customary to do so. Trousers for women at funerals are still taboo, although a few young girls coming from the cities are beginning to wear them. It should be made clear that not all Ndau people are members of the UCCZ (formerly the American Board). Indeed some still follow traditional religion while others belong to other Christian denominations such as the Catholic, Anglican and Methodist churches. Of late, Pentecostal churches such as the Apostolic Faith Mission and Assemblies of God have recruited many members, especially amongst the youth. The mainstream missionary churches have a strict uniform code for women and although the Pentecostal churches are generally more liberal, their members attire at funerals in Chipinge is still very modest.
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Figure 9.3 Members of the UCCZ Ruwadzano Council
Figure 9.4 Versatile chitenje fabric
The chitenje cloth is one item any woman who wishes to earn respect should not leave behind when attending a funeral. In most Zimbabwean communities, the majority of funeral images depict women with draped cloth over their lower bodies from the waist down. These cloths, commonly referred to as mazambia, are draped on top of the skirt or dress. Their name suggests that they are of Zambian origin. However, wrap-around cloths are common throughout sub-Saharan Africa and the name chitenje is a word in ChiChewa which is the national language of Malawi. With Zambias independence in 1964, the Zambian cotton textile industry was revived and before long, Zimbabweans had adopted the cloth as well (Brown 1989). While in pre-colonial times locals had their machira wrap-arounds, the chitenje came in as a new fashion and thus earned the name mazambia. These cloths have multiple purposes; they are commonly for carrying babies on the back and are increasingly used to depict an awareness of social issues or to convey political messages. At funerals they assume a different role. They can be used to cover short skirts but most importantly they are used for the protection of the dress or skirt underneath them. This is because the women will customarily sit on the floor if there are too few seats for mourners. In addition, it is still the case that, by virtue of their presence, all the women at a funeral are caterers. The mazambia cloth thus comes in handy as an apron if a woman has to perform her catering duties. This serves as a perfect example of how society and societal responsibilities and expectations determine funeral fashion. In addition to all this, the chitenje cloth is a sign of modesty. The local perceptions are that women should be modest at funerals, and the chitenje also reinforces the argument raised earlier
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Figure 9.5 Examples of Zambian chitenje worn at a funeral (all images provided by the author)
that women now play a role in the symbolism of mourning. Thus, it is easy to tell if women are going to a funeral but much less easy to determine if a group of men is going to the same occasion.
Conclusion
From the data analysed above, the evolution of fashion at funerals can be traced and it is clear that fashion can tell very loud stories quietly. It has been shown that at the end of the 19th century the Ndau people mainly wore their traditional attire and the attire was not specific to occasions such as funerals. Therefore attire at that time did not make either sex take specific ownership of the funeral and mourning processes. By the second half of the 20th century, however, women were taking custodianship of funerals as their dress became increasingly constructed to suit the occasions while the dress of men remained relatively constant because men were not obliged to convey, in their dress, the sombre nature of funerals. This shift was not necessarily a result of abrupt change but was rather a gradual entrenchment of differentiating customary values. The shift can also be explained by both local and external factors. Externally, new attire was introduced as the Ndau culture assimilated (voluntarily and involuntarily) new ideas such as church uniform and the chitenje cloth. Locally, the Ndau society developed an entrenched patriarchal system which gave women a lesser role in society.3 This chapter has analysed the development of fashion in the Chipinge district of Zimbabwe over a period spanning more than a century. The contention in this paper is that funeral attire for men amongst the Ndau people has been constant but for women funeral attire has changed over time, in the process increasingly
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making women the custodians of mourning. This is not to imply that pre-colonial Ndau women did not carry the burden of gender-based inferiority. Still, the fusion of local traditions with new a religion (Christianity) and Western values did not help dilute age-old patriarchy. What the evidence shows is that in spite of the increasing prominence of Western values resulting from globalisation, women remain trapped in either local traditions or religion or both. As custodians of mourning, Ndau women are implicated in the perpetuation of their own domination while men apparently seem not to be bothered. As a result, these unwritten or covert regulations are passed down to younger generations while at the same time being reproduced in different contexts. One example of a different reproduction context is the school in which it would almost naturally apply that when the learners are there, they divide chores according to gender. Girls thus clean the classrooms while boys work around the area surrounding the classrooms. These findings may need to be corroborated with further larger-scale studies on the area under focus here. To support this, Wright (2004) encourages researchers of fashion history to develop an understanding of the relationship between class, gender and consumption. Thus, funeral dress has been seen to be determined by what is available, what the people can afford and what gender roles determine appropriate for them. This chapter goes further by demonstrating how the historical process has had an influence on funeral fashion. Such an extension aims at enabling the attire that people put on to speak with a louder voice and demonstrate the limits of both hegemony and negotiation (Hendrickson 2005: 338). As shown, cultural changes have not resulted in any radical challenge to patriarchal hegemony nor increased female negotiation power. Thus, this paper should be taken as stimulation for further research on an issue which has, evidently, not been greatly researched. Indeed, there are many other areas that have not experienced the same traditions and historical process as the Ndau people of Chipinge and Chimanimani districts in Zimbabwe over the past few centuries. Extending the scope of study will further contribute to a greater understanding of the forces that have shaped and altered these communities.
Notes
1 2 3 Ngungunyana and his Gaza Nguni group had migrated from present-day KwaZulu Natal during the reign of Shaka Zulu and ended up settling in Ndau territory. In simple terms longue duree refers to how structures affect events in the long term. The suppression of women by men is commonly referred to as chingungunyana, in reference to the ruthlessness of Ngungunyana, the Gaza Nguni king, who exercised ruthless overlord-ship on the Ndau people until 1889.
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References
Allman J (2004) Fashioning Africa: Power and the politics of dress. Indianapolis: Indiana University Press Brown PL (1989) Shoppers world; Zambias social fabric. The New York Times. Accessed 10 September 2009, http://www.nytimes.com/1989/11/26/travel/shopper-s-world-zambia-ssocial-fabric.html Chandler D (2007) Semiotics: The basics. London: Routledge Finch ML (2005) Fashions of worldly dames: Separatist discourses of dress in early modern London, Amsterdam, and Plymouth Colony. Church History 74 (3): 494533 Gergen KJ (2005) Knowledge as socially constructed. In M Gergen & KJ Gergen (Eds) Social construction: A reader. London: SAGE Publications Ltd Gutting G (2005) Introduction to Michel Foucault: A users manual. In G Gutting (Ed.) The Cambridge Companion to Foucault. Indiana: University of Notre Dame Harris D (2002) Neckties. The American Scholar 71 (2): 7984 Hendrickson H (2005) Review: Fashioning Africa. The International Journal of African Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za Historical Studies 38 (2): 3378 Kuchta D (2002) The three-piece suit and modern masculinity: England, 15501850. Berkeley: University of California Press Llewellyn-Jones L & Harlow M (2002) The clothed body in the ancient world. History Today 52 (1): 60 MacGonagle E (2007) Crafting identity in Zimbabwe and Mozambique. Rochester: University of Rochester Press MacGonagle E (2008) Living with a tyrant: Ndau memories and identities in the shadow of Ngungunyana. International Journal of African Historical Studies 41 (1): 2953 Mattingly C (2002) Appropriating dress: Womens rhetorical style in nineteenth-century America. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press Mudenge SI (1988) A political history of Munhumutapa. Harare: Zimbabwe Publishing House Munslow A (2006) Deconstructing history. (2nd edition). London: Routledge Mutangi T (2008) Religion, law and human rights in Zimbabwe. African Human Rights Law Journal 8: 526545 Noble I & Bestley R (2005) Visual research: An introduction to research methodologies in graphic design. London: AVA Books (UK) Ltd Perkyl A (2008) Analysing talk and text. In NK Denzin & YS Lincoln (Eds) Collecting and interpreting qualitative materials (3rd edition). Los Angeles: SAGE Publications Zook M (2003) Review: The three-piece suit and modern masculinity: England, 1550-1850. The Journal of Interdisciplinary History 34 (3): 450451
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10 Dressing sex/wearing a condom: Exploring social constructions of sexuality through a social semiotic analysis of the condom
Ran Tao and Claudia Mitchell
As we continue to live in the age of AIDS, condoms will continue to contribute to our social atmosphere and cultural climate. We are all people living with AIDS, and until there is a cure, we are also a people living and loving with condoms. (Lipton 2005: 103)
Are you wearing a condom?

With unsafe sex a major transmission mode of HIV, the fear of bodily fluid leads us to a greater concern regarding what can and what cannot be put into (and onto) the body. While wearing condoms has been recognised as the most effective measure to prevent HIV and other sexually transmitted infections (Hutchinson 2005), condom use is not just a straightforward decision to be made on health grounds (Freeman 1990, as cited in Holland et al. 1991). The use of condoms remains a contested issue which has led to a great deal of debate, both in relation to the use of the male condom and also to the development and use of the female condom. Who would ever have thought that a small latex sheath (in the case of the male condom) could be so controversial? But controversial is the appropriate term to apply to wearing a condom, as the views of everyone from the current Pope to former President Bush and ordinary people around the world illustrate. Because the functions of the condom relate to the question of sexual relations and morality (Lipton 2005: 94), the issue of condom use is complexly connected to social and cultural implications in relation to sexuality, and the condom itself might be read as symbolic of the many social issues surrounding sexuality. Nowhere has the symbolism of the condom been more visually apparent than in the fascinating work that has resulted in the production and exhibiting of condom dresses at public events such as international conferences on HIV/AIDS.
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Ahead of the 2004 International AIDS Conference in Bangkok, an exhibition showcased for example, a dazzling display of condom fashion. The exhibition occupied a vast space within the conference venue. Gowns made of latex condoms, as presented in Figure 10.1, became bright focal areas on the conference floor. Such creative work is designed to destigmatise the condom, promote talk about HIV/AIDS and related issues, and in general raise awareness of condoms in relation to safer sex practices, in much the same way that t-shirts with messages can and do. Similar work organised around arts-based inquiry can be seen in the installation Prom Dress #1: I am a Woman Now designed by Sandra Weber and Sophie Cloutier (cited in Weber & Mitchell 2004: 259). Their curatorial explanation highlights the multilayered meanings of the condom as viewed through the lens of the prom/matric dance dress: Made out of almost two hundred unwrapped but not unrolled condoms sewn together to form a lacy strapless short formal gown, the condom dress serves as an example of how the material of the dress (latex condoms), the occasion (the prom), the ritual (association in the heteronormativity of popular culture with the loss of virginity), the design (a conventional low-cut no longer a little girl short evening dress) all symbolically work together to interrogate the cultural context of the prom and the transition of identities often associated with adolescence. The fact that the latex of this installation dress has, over several years, begun to deteriorate, adds yet another dimension to the work, and offers in and of itself a further statement about the event of the prom and the various ritualistic associations with heterosexual sex. How, for example, does the latex disintegrate much like the actual memories women have of their prom? Does it evoke, perhaps blatantly, the perils of HIV/AIDS and the preaching about safe sex? To what extent does the very use of latex speak to the man-madeness of the event as represented in many of the conventional images of the prom in popular culture where a date of the opposite sex is the norm? (Weber & Mitchell 2004: 258) As Weber and Mitchell write, dresses can be viewed as clothing texts that carry with them their own narrationor as dress stories, as they term these narratives (2004: 258). The condom, as something like a tiny dress to put on before sexual intercourse, also carries within itself its own stories with regard to sexuality, and these stories are shaped by different cultural contexts. As Holland et al. argue, the nature of systematic inequalities in heterosexual relationships and in the social relationships between men and women construct and constrain choices and decisions about using condoms (1991: 129). The condom, in this situation, can be read as a cultural artefact that constructs and transmits symbolic meanings illustrative of the gendered nature of sexual encounters and of male power in heterosexual relationships. Given that the symbolic meanings that the condom
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Figure 10.1 Delegates look at dresses made from condoms at an exhibition ahead of the 15th International
AIDS conference in Bangkok, Thailand, July 2004.
carries differ from time to time and from place to place, it can also be read as a sign of a changing, culturally specific sexual culture. In this chapter we explore some of the complex symbolic meanings embodied in the condom. We start with fieldwork conducted by Ran Tao in China as an entry point for considering the ways in which a social and historical exploration of sexual discourses constructed by the condom, and as contextualised in a particular culture, can help us to understand sexuality more broadly as a cultural construct. In starting with this fieldwork, we highlight the significance of the role of an insider perspective. Ran is from China and although she now lives in Canada and completed this fieldwork as part of a doctoral study at McGill University, it is her insider reading of Chinese youth that offers the source material (Tao 2009). Her study also provides a historical perspective in terms of present-day Chinese youths conceptualisation of sexuality and condom use. In the context of condom use being prioritised as the critical method of HIV prevention, an investigation of how young people conceptualise condoms and condom use, and how they understand sexuality, can inform sex education and HIV-prevention programmes that target Chinese youth. In this way Chinese youth who participated in the fieldwork serve to illustrate how youth shaped by a particular socio-cultural context make meaning of condoms and condom use.
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We use the approach of social semiotics to explore the condom as it is situated across a range of Chinese societies. This analytic strategy, as we show, could also be applied in the study of condom culture in South Africa in order to explore symbolic meanings constructed by the condom and how these meanings develop with changes in South Africans sexual beliefs and values. Semiotics is concerned with how meaning occurs in signs. A sign, simply put, is something that makes sense in someones mind, and is something combined with the signifier and signified, both linked mentally (Manning 2004). Broadly, a sign could be anything that stands for something else (Chandler 2002) and thus can be identifiable as a word, a picture, a sound, a shape, a colour, a smell, an artefact, or a performance (for example, gestures and body language) (Tomaselli 1996). Alongside this work we also draw on Rigginss (1994) work on the socialness of things and the idea of denotative meaning (the history and factual background) in relation to connotative meaning (the stories and narration). Drawing on this semiotic framework we treat as signs several textsthe condom-as-object and a Trojan condom advertisement poster (including visual and verbal texts)in an effort to discover what the small latex sheath signifies and how the signified is evolving over time in China.
Not just a sheath: A historical inquiry into the condom in Chinese societies
Condoms made of sheep intestines and fish lungs are recorded in Classics of Mountains and Seas, a valuable collection, at least 2 200 years old, of data on rituals, medicine, natural history and ethnic peoples in primitive Chinese society (Ancient Chinese Contraceptive Choices n.d.). Sheaths of sheep intestines had to be soaked in hot water for a day prior to use because of the materials lack of elasticity. Fish bladders, softer and more flexible in texture, were used for contraception purposes in ancient China 2 000 years ago. However, the difficulty of matching a bladder to the penis of a particular size undermined its usefulness (Contraceptive Strategies in Various Ages of Time n.d.). Contraceptive sheaths were also recorded as having been fashioned in silk and cotton (Ancient Chinese Contraceptive Choices n.d.). Because contraceptive sheaths used by men were difficult to obtain, Chinese women took the main responsibility for contraception. Various contraceptive strategies are recorded to have been used by ancient Chinese women, such as several kinds of herbal soup with musk or persimmon pedicels as ingredients, and birth-control potions containing mercury and arsenic, to name two (Ancient Chinese Contraceptive Choices n.d.). Regardless of the great harm to health of these metal deposits, women had no choice but to take such potions as contraceptive measures against unintended pregnancies and in order to please male partners who had no wish to procreate.
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During the lengthy period of time before condoms became readily available in present-day China, the condom was an object of shame because it was associated with a culturally stigmatised practicesex for recreation rather than procreation. The Confucian doctrine, which is profoundly embedded in Chinese culture, defines such sexual practices as dangerous to the stability of family units and even to the stability of the whole nation (Gallagher 2001). Sex was legitimate exclusively within the domain of procreation for the succession of heirs, especially male heirs. In any other context, sex was considered obscene, deviant and something to be condemned. Within this ideology, condoms, clearly used to prevent pregnancy, represented a striving for sexual pleasure and were therefore seen as something disgraceful and shameful. They were kept in dark, private spheres such as bedrooms. Over time, condoms gradually came to be permitted in certain public spheresfor example, in medical sectors, for the purpose of family planning. In the Maoist 1960s and 1970s, medical institutions such as community clinics and hospitals provided condoms in limited numbers to legitimately married couples. Rans mother recalls that, in the early 1970s when she got married to Rans father, the school clinic handed out a monthly provision of condoms or pills to married couples. Condoms and other contraceptives were inaccessible to those who did not have a legal, heterosexual marriage. For those who engaged in immoral behaviours such as premarital and extramarital sex and unfortunately got pregnant, punishment followed; they were branded, metaphorically, for life. This censure extended to the man involved and even to the womans family. Shame accompanied these womenbelieved to have been corruptedthroughout their lives. Cases of suicide by pregnant single women were not rare at this time. These women were despised because it was believed that they had been contaminated by poisonous capitalist thought and therefore deserved what had befallen them. Maoist ideologies, which remained influential in China for decades, had inherited many aspects of Confucianism and therefore also portrayed sex as degenerative and as reactionary against the communist cause. While the notion of sexual liberation and sexual freedom was advocated and valued in the capitalist Western world, in China sexual pleasure and desire were deemed to be poisonous weeds from the capitalist West and barriers to socialist advancement. Although the state encouraged married couples to have more children (to be their communist successors) sex for purposes other than procreation was considered to be a shameful, reactionary act. It is evident then that sexuality, the natural sexual instinct and basic sexual pleasure, were politically and ideologically condemned in Maos time. Using the slogan, for the good of our nation, the machine of the communist state put peoples sexual life under political control through the limited issue of condoms and contraceptive pills. Although the low volume of condom production partially
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accounted for the planned allocation of condoms to each family unit, it can be argued that condoms were used in the Maoist era as a tool to control and discipline peoples (sexual) behaviours. Through the monthly assignment of a limited number of condoms, peoples private sexual life was monitored and regulated by the institutions. If they had no intention of procreating then their sexual intercourse encounters needed to be no greater in number than the number of condoms offered. But resistance is always intertwined with discipline and oppression (Foucault 1977). The use of contraceptive rings provided a means of resistance to this sexual discipline and control. Condoms, although the most sanitary and convenient contraceptive, were not popularly adopted by married Chinese women, who instead chose to use vaginal contraceptive rings. Inserting this ring-shaped device into the vagina to provide long-term contraceptive protection required an operation. The limited manufacture of condoms at that time was attributable to womens choice of vaginal rings because these rings allowed more sexual freedom. At least couples no longer had to strictly limit the frequency of their sexual encounters according to the number of condoms that had been assigned to them. However, for single women or married women who planned to have children some time in future, vaginal contraceptive rings were inappropriate, as it was shameful for the former and inconvenient for the latter to go to hospital for the operation required to either insert or remove these vaginal rings. Hence, they had no choice but to use condoms and, by doing so, to subject themselves to the disciplinary practices of the state institution in relation to their sexual activities. More than three decades have passed since the end of the Maoist era in 1976, during which there have been great social, political, economic and cultural transformations in China. People have enjoyed far more individual and sexual freedom than was possible in Maos time (Pan 1993; 2006). Sex, once categorised as fierce floods and savage beasts (hongshuimengshou)a term used in Chinese culture to define behaviours and thoughts that run counter to the collective will and merits of the majoritynow has new meanings. The new meanings, understandings and moral standards related to sexuality have burgeoned, especially among the younger generation in contemporary Chinese society (Farrer 2006). In the meantime, condoms have become easily accessible in an increasing number of sexual appliance stores scattered throughout urban regions of China (Sigley 2006). This easy availability of condoms has brought forth new sexual and ethical views among the Chinese. But has the shameful spin attached to the small sheath changed? How do present-day Chinese youth look at condoms and condom use, especially in the context of the HIV epidemic? How do old sexual ideologies associated with the condom impact upon Chinese youth as they cope with the challenges of today? In seeking answers to these questions, we applied a semiotic reading to a Trojan
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condoms advertisement that is found on Shanghais subways, and examined viewers reactions to it. Our findings reveal that condoms, despite their function in terms of both contraception and public health, are persistently controversial in todays Chinaand so are condoms ads.
Condoms in present-day China: Promoting sex or safe sex?

The condom advertisement described here was launched in China in the early 1990s but, after accusations that it promoted sex and had negative effects on a young audience, it was banned. During the next two decades all condom ads and commercials were banned and this remained the case until very recently. In May 2007, Trojan, an American condom company, entered the Chinese market and attempted a common business strategyadvertisingto introduce its products which had gained a good name among consumers in the West and elsewhere. The company tentatively launched its advertising campaigns in modern metropolises such as Shanghai, Beijing, and Guangzhou. These Trojan condoms ads, posted in Shanghai subway cars, drew the attention of John, an American living in Shanghai, who then shared his reaction to the ads on his personal website (http://www. sinosplice.com/life). His posting generated heated discussions among a group of foreign residents and visitors in China, some of whom were familiar with the Trojan brand. Figure 10.2 shows the Trojan condom ad found in Shanghais subway cars, as well as some comments made by visitors to Johns website.
Figure 10.2 A Trojan condom advert on a Shanghai subway car
(retrieved 27 October 2008 from http://ditiezu.com/viewthread.php?tid=15057)
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Translation of Trojan condom ad 1: In ancient Greece lived the most beautiful woman in the worldHelen. She was captured by a prince of Troy and brought back to his castle. The prince fell passionately in love with Helen and vigilantly kept his beloved woman in his kingdom. In a short time, a ten-year war broke out between ancient Greece and Troy over the possession of this romantic and legendary woman. Even now, the Trojan myth carries on It is interesting to note that the text of the ad (both in Chinese and English) features no explicit reference either to condoms or to safe sex. It tells, rather, the legendary story of the Trojan War, with reference to the beauty of Helen and the Trojan princes passionate love for this woman, and how this led to the Trojan War. Were they to take a closer look, careful viewers might see the Trojan companys logo in the upper centre but what this logo signifies would be limited to a small number of people who have knowledge of this Western company. To its target audience, the Chinese, however, this ad is nothing more than a recounting of a well-known, supposedly historical event. Even for some visitors from other cultures, this ad does not promote condoms. An Australian residing in China left a comment on the website: Im from Australia, where we dont have Trojans. I have seen these ads before, but didnt understand what they were for. I thought they were public education programs, educating Shanghai citizens about ancient European history. Another foreign commenter observes: Condoms? I thought those signs were just put up by a bunch of expat USC fans. The observation of another foreigner in China was, Some Chinese viewers might take the ad to be a tourism advertisement since Troy is the name of a place. There is another clue, besides the company logo, which is also hardly noticeable. If they look closely at the ad, viewers can find the Trojan companys website addresswww.trojancondoms.com.cnbelow the companys logo. Of course, the English word condom in the address may make sense to a limited number of Chinese commuters who know this English word. But condom is not a common English word in China. Ran, for example, offers that she did not have a chance to learn this word until she was a graduate student in the English Department of Wuhan University in the late 1990s. Even young Chinese people, who have received an English education since their primary school days, do not have more opportunity to encounter what is, for them, this embarrassing English word than Ran did as a young woman. This is illustrated in the following comment, also from Johns website: I actually overheard a group of Shanghainese 20-somethings discussing the ad on the metro the other day; they focused on the American import phrasethey had no idea what it was, but figured out the key must have been hidden in the unknown meaning of the word condom. One girl was very
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firm in her guess that it was something edibleThoroughly amusing. the only reason i didnt interrupt and tell them what condoms were was b/c i didnt know how to say condom, sex, or any proper terms in Chinese Even though the English word condom makes no sense to most young people in China, parents are nevertheless upset about the ad. As a mother of a 10-year-old son told a journalist, Although the ad caption does not contain any sensitive words, it is disturbing if young kids note down the website address and google it. This parents anxiety seems to arise from her belief that condom ads promote sex, which is something that children and young people are not supposed to know about, or engage in. Even though condom use is the most rational form of protection, parents equate condoms with sex, and with immoral sex at that. Because the easy availability and portability of condoms allows sexual activity to occur at any time and any place, it is assumed that condoms bring this great convenience to people engaging in immoral sexual encounters. People tend to consider condom users to be violators of ethics, people who get involved in, for example, premarital or extramarital sex. If they are a legitimate couple, why bother using condoms? argued several middle-aged informants whom Ran interviewed. When the easy availability of condoms brings about a crisis of trust and fidelity, and challenges the monogamous relationship (Holland et al. 1992, as cited in Hutchinson 2005), condom use comes to function as something that can be used to judge a persons morality (Lipton 2005). Non-users are those who are faithful to a stable sexual relationship while condom users are seen to be engaging in immoral sex; and the more condoms a person uses, the more debauchedwith very low levels of morality that person is seen to be. We have seen that the older generation is inclined to associate condoms and condom-wearing with immoral sex. Does the younger generation in China also attach this cultural stigma to condoms? How do they see condoms and condom use? What is their level of awareness of condom use?
Condom stories: Talking about condoms and condom use with young people
The best way to initiate communication about sex with young people is to bring up the subject of condoms. (Lipton 2005: 103) Ran reflects on talking about condoms: In speaking with young people in contemporary China about their perceptions of condoms and condom use, I was struck by some interesting and thought-provoking stories they came up with. As
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a person growing up in China and presently residing in North America, I am concerned with the cultural construction of sexuality among young people in contemporary Chinese society and how the findings can inform sex education and HIV-prevention programmes targeting Chinese youth. I returned to China in 2007 to carry out my fieldwork in an urban university, working with 25 first-year students from the English Department. Considering that participants might be constrained in speaking about sex and sexuality, we began the talk on the subject of condoms, inspired by Liptons remark, as noted above. A number of memories emerged which helped to shed light on the participants understandings of sexuality. A young woman, growing up in a metropolitan city in China, for example, shared her condom story: When I was a middle school student a couple of years ago, every day I took a convenient road that could direct me to school in a short while. But one day, I noticed that there was a condom-vending machine installed along that road. Then every time I passed by it, I felt uncomfortable and embarrassed, especially in the presence of other passers-by. Even I dared not give a glance at the device for fear of being noticed. It seemed as if a glimpse at the machine showed that you had interest in the condoms in it and you would get some for sex. Some time later, I decided to take another road which required longer time for getting to the school. What was surprising and interesting is that I was not alone in this case. I found later that many people including some of my classmates had the same response to the machine, trying to circumvent it on purpose as I did.2 Another young woman told me a similar account. One day, while wandering in a department store, she accidentally approached the counter, located in a corner, which sold contraceptive products. As a result of not wearing glasses that day, she took the glittering covers of condoms for other goods like candies. When she bent down in an effort to identify what those things were, she felt herself being watched with sidelong glances by customers close to the counter and even by the saleswoman. Realising that she had intruded into an area where she was not supposed to be, she got out of the store immediately, feeling flushed. Obviously, a condom in Chinese culture is not a neutral object. Rather, it is an object associated with seximmoral sex. Such knowledge constructed and transmitted by condoms persistently works on young people and influences the ways they perceive condoms. However, it was interesting to discover that there is a high awareness of condom use among the participants. This results from a wide recognition of condoms as an effective contraceptive, the easy availability of condoms, and young peoples changing attitudes towards condoms. As illustrated below, all the male participants had positive attitudes towards the use of condoms.
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Sure. I used it every time I had sex with my girlfriend. It secures our sexual practices, relieves us of anxieties about unexpected pregnancy, and protects my girlfriend from pains abortion would bringEven if, for example, I did not want to use it, my girlfriend would insist on the use of itWe used the best brand I googled out in the internet Of course, I will use a condom if I have sex with a girl. Even if she does not want to use it, I will bring one with me. That is safe against the transmission of viruses and the possibility of pregnancy. I have known how to use a condom and what brands of condoms are good in the market although I do not have any sexual experience until now. My roommate, he is active in sex. He has shown us how to put on a condomwhat brands feel good. Young men embraced the use of the condom in their (potential) sexual practices because it can provide security and enjoyment. All the female participants were also in favour of condom use in their future sexual experiences. Yeah, I will definitely use a condom. It protects me from getting pregnant, STIsIf he does not want to use it, then we will not have sex. Certainly, we will use a condom and I will demand the use of itif my boyfriend would not, what if I get pregnant? If he insistshis rejection of using a condom indicates he does not care about me. There is another phenomenonthe naming and renaming of condom in Chinese culturewhich also embodies the change in the Chinese notion of condoms and condom use. Condoms in Maoist times were named contraceptive sheaths (biyuntao), highlighting their function of preventing pregnancy. They were then renamed safety sheaths (anquantao), thus showing an increasing awareness of condoms as a preventative device against unwanted pregnancy as well as infection. Now, the younger generation, aged 18 to 35, tends to call condoms, fondly, taotao. This still refers to sheaths but it carries a sense of liking, of affection. Condoms tend to be seen by these young people as a close friend in life. Such a transformation in the Chinese conception of condoms reflects a growing acceptance of this previously stigmatised object and a changing (sexual) moral standard in the general population. However, the development of a positive view of the condom among young people does not necessarily mean that they will use one every time they have a sexual encounter. A young woman who expressed her yearning for romantic love said that she would reject condom use in her first sexual encounter in the near future because the material object would somehow ruin the beautiful, spiritual quality of romantic love. As she observes:
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I do not deny the protective functions of condoms. On the contrary, I think condoms are quite useful and helpful in keeping the users from infections of many kinds. But it just makes me feel uncomfortable to use it in the process of love making with my boyfriend or husbandat least, I will not use it for the first timeWhy? Cos love is noble and romantic and having bodily intimacy with the guy that loves you and you really love is a means of the realisation of the love between you both. The use of a condom would kind of harm it Anyway, definitely I will not use itat least for the first time. This young woman, like many of her peers, had a good knowledge of the transmission modes of HIV and she appreciates gender equality, but nevertheless she would knowingly jeopardise herself by rejecting the most effective method of preventing HIV infection. It could be that she would have sex with her partner without the ruin of a condom only that first time, and yet this could be the kind of experience that she would regret for the rest of her life.
Pregnancy versus HIV protection?

It needs to be noted that many young people prefer to use condoms in their sexual experience primarily because condoms are easily available, are convenient to use and effective in preventing unintended pregnancy. According to many participants, however, preventing pregnancy is the only function of condoms. A somewhat limited number of participants named HIV prevention as one of the purposes of condom use. This displays a poor awareness among urban Chinese youth concerning HIV infection. It also suggests that a high awareness of condom use is not necessarily equivalent to a high awareness of HIV. Nevertheless, we can still see that young Chinese people, as compared with the generation of their parents, have healthier and more rational attitudes towards the condom. They consider condom use an effective strategy that can help to control various aspects of their sexual life and believe that as such it brings users more freedom. Also, as is implied in the young peoples attitudes towards condom use, we can see that attitudes about sexual morality are transforming within Chinese societyhowever subtlyfrom attitudes that condemn sex to ones that advocate safe sex. Similar to the way in which the condom has brought about striking changes to social morals in Western societies, as observed by Lipton (2005), what is thought acceptable and right in the Chinese context is also shifting. It is now less about not engaging in sex and more about engaging in protected sex. Condoms are playing a significant role in developing contemporary cultural norms and values in Chinese society.
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Implications of are you wearing a condom studies

In this chapter we have used China and Chinese youth as a case study to illustrate how youth in a particular socio-cultural context, having been influenced by a particular socio-historical context, understand and make meaning of condoms and condom-wearing in the era of HIV. However, we wonder how a socio-semiotic reading of the condom-as-object in contemporary culture can inform the debates and interventions elsewhere. For example, the statements below are all myths, stereotypes and/or beliefs about condoms and condom use that currently circulate in many communities in South Africa and which contribute to stigmatising condoms and reducing condom use. Condoms are killing us! Foreign governments are infecting our condoms with the virus. These condoms are too small. The condoms they are giving us have holes in them. A girl who is carrying condoms around with her must have other partners. Condoms cost: we have no money for sex. Condoms break. I need to use two condoms at a time to be really safe. I dont take a bath with my socks on. The condom is like a candy wrapper. As we have attempted to show, the socio-historical and cultural study of sexuality in Chinese contexts, done through a socio-semiotic analysis of condoms, helps to explore the sexual discourses condoms signify and to reveal how these sexual discourses act on people today (and especially on young people), influencing their conceptualisation of sexuality and its embodiment. This work also offers a lens through which to look at how people and condomssocial actors and objects interact within various Chinese social contexts, and how the sexual knowledge constructed by condoms persistently functions and restrains present-day Chinese youth from new ways of seeing sex and sexuality. There is an obvious commonality between China and South Africa with regard to the HIV epidemic in that in both societies young people, especially young women, represent one of the groups at highest risk of HIV infection as a result of unsafe sex. Recent surveys of young South Africans aged 1524 reveal that this population remains a high-risk group for HIV infection, with young women disproportionately more vulnerable because of the low prevalence of condom use among young men and the much lower use among young women. This is in spite of the current context of the easier availability of condoms and the high awareness levels of condom use (DaCruz 2004;
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Hendriksen et al. 2007; Pettifor et al. 2005). These research findings confirm that using condoms is not the result of a simple decision. The complexity of issues surrounding sexual decision-making and negotiation entails adopting a more ecological approach which means giving focus to political, economic, and sociocultural determinants of high risk sexual practices, rather than centering attention exclusively on sexual behaviour itself (Varga 1997: 47).
Conclusion
Sherry Turkle observes that we live our lives in the middle of things and, in accord with a number of other researchers who study things, objects and artefacts, she argues that things are evocative (2007: 6). As texts give meaning, they also acquire meaning. Taking the perspective of objects as actors in order to look at the interaction between condom-users (or non-users) and condoms provides a new angle from which to consider the complex issue of condom use and sexuality. In this chapter we have highlighted some of the ways in which condoms-as-objects might be read and interpreted, and also some of the ways in which the use of the visual image itself can be a tool for social change. Social science research, we argue, can draw on some of the reading strategies of semiotics normally associated with art history and cultural studies to read the condom as a text and as an item of dress. The chapter also invites us to consider the condom within a comparative framework. Here we have drawn on extensive fieldwork in China (and comparative work in relation to generations), and then have considered some of the ways in which this work might be applied to other contexts, including South Africa. We propose that questions surrounding the small latex sheathhow it is worn, who wears it, who controls access, and how it is displayed, and of course, the question Are you wearing a condom?are ones that offer critical entry points to thinking about social accessories in dress research.
Notes
1 There is an English version of the ad text underneath the Chinese version but it is so blurry in the image that it can scarcely be read. We could not find the original text elsewhere. Therefore, the translated version of the original Chinese version is provided here. 2 These accounts are reported verbatim, based on statements that were originally offered in Chinese. The translations aim to be as close as possible in meaning to the original statements.
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References
Ancient Chinese Contraceptive Choices (n.d.) Accessed May 2009, http://www.womenofchina. cn/Lifestyle/Customs/211403.jsp Chandler D (2002) Semiotics: The basics. London & New York: Routledge DaCruz C (2004) From policy to practice: The anthropology of condom use. In D Kauffman & D Lindauer (Eds) AIDS and South Africa: The social expression of a pandemic. New York: Palgrave Farrer J (2006) Sexual citizenship and the politics of sexual story-telling among Chinese youth. In E Jeffreys (Ed.) Sex and sexuality in China. London & New York: Routledge Foucault M (1977) Discipline and punish: The birth of the prison. (trans. A Sheridan) London: Penguin Freeman R (1990) The condom in Manchester. Working papers in Applied Social Research, University of Manchester Gallagher M (2001) Women and gender. In H Giskin & BS Walsh (Eds) An introduction to Chinese culture through the family. Albany: State University of New York Press Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za Hendriksen ES, Pettifor A, Lee S, Coates TJ & Rees HV (2007) Predictors of condom use among young adults in South Africa: The reproductive health and HIV research unit national youth survey. American Journal of Public Health 97(7): 1241 1248 Holland J, Ramazanoglu C, Scott S, Sharpe S & Thomson R (1991) Between embarrassment and trust: Young women and the diversity of condom use. In P Aggleton, G Hart & P Davies (Eds) AIDS: Responses, interventions and care. London, New York & Philadelphia: The Falmer Press Holland J, Ramazanoglu C, Scott S, Sharpe S & Thomson R (1992) Risk, power, and possibility of pleasure: Young women and safer sex. AIDS Care 4(3): 273283 Hutchinson JF (2005) Female identity and the construction of condom use among young African-American women. In K Anijar & T DaoJensen (Eds) Culture and the condom. New York: Peter Lang Lipton M (2005) The condom in history: Shame and fear. In K Anijar & T DaoJensen (Eds) Culture and the condom. New York: Peter Lang Manning PK (2004) Semiotics and data analysis. In M Hardy & A Bryman (Eds) Handbook of data analysis. London, Thousand Oaks & New Delhi: SAGE Pan SM (1993) A sex revolution in current China. Journal of Psychology and Human sexuality 6(2): 114 Pan SM (2006) Transformations in the primary life cycle: The origins and nature of Chinas sexual revolution. In E Jeffreys (Ed.) Sex and sexuality in China. London & New York: Routledge Pettifor AE, Rees HV, Kleinschmidt I, Steffenson AE, MacPhail C, Hlongwa-Madikizela L, Vermaak K & Padian, NS (2005) Young peoples sexual health in South Africa: HIV prevalence and sexual behaviours from a nationally representative household survey. AIDS 19(14): 15251534 Riggins SH (1994) Fieldwork in the living room: An autoethnographic essay. In SH Riggins (Ed.) The socialness of things: Essays on the socio-semiotics of objects. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyer
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Sigley G (2006) Sex, politics and the policing of virtue in the Peoples Republic of China. In E Jeffreys (Ed.) Sex and sexuality in China. London & New York: Routledge Tao R (2009) Using visual ethnography to address sexuality, Chinese youth and HIV and AIDS. Doctoral thesis. Department of Integrated Studies in Education, McGill University. Tomaselli KG (1996) Appropriating images: The semiotics of visual representation. Hjbjerg: Intervention Press Turkle S (Ed.) (2007) Evocative objects: Things we think with. Cambridge: MIT Press Varga CA (1997) Sexual decision-making and negotiation in the midst of AIDS: Youth in KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa. Health Transmission Review Supplement 3 to Vol. 7: 4567 Weber S & Mitchell C (2004) Theorizing dress stories. In S Weber & C Mitchell (Eds) Not just any dress: Narratives of memory, body and identity. New York: Peter Lang
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s ing to dres arn to learn/Le section 3 Dressing
11 Who wears the trousers here? Women teachers and the politics of gender and the dress code in South African schools
Pontso Moorosi
Case 1: It is the woman with the red lipstick wearing pants1 who teaches our children about sex A young female teacher in rural KwaZulu-Natal became very unpopular with the community around her school for teaching about sex while she was wearing pants [trousers]. The exact nature of the problem here is not easy to pin-point but it is interesting that the description of the teacher makes an association between the content of the teachers talk and the teachers dress code: It is the woman with the red lipstick wearing pants who teaches our children about sex... Several inferences about what the parents did not like about this incident can be made. Is the content of the lesson problematic, or is its delivery? Is it the way the teacher is dressed and about her make-up? Or is it the combination of all these? Regardless of how one may read this statement, one thing is clear: the teacher who taught children about sex was a woman wearing pants. One then wonders what the relationship is between being a woman, wearing pants and teaching about sex in the twenty-first century. Sex education is a necessity in the South African curriculum, but should it matter what the sex education teacher looks like? How does dress affect the way women teachers teach and, most importantly, what they teach? For example, would the community have reacted in a similar manner had the sex education lesson been delivered by a male teacher? And would it matter what the male dress code was like? (Journal extract, female student in a postgraduate class, March 2008) Case 2: In this school women do not wear trousers. As a young teacher I taught at a school where women teachers were not allowed to wear trousers. I was told categorically during the interview that In this school women do not wear trousers. The explanation given was that
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trousers on a woman teacher are not decent enough and they encourage sexual attention from male learners, which then distracts them from what they are supposed to be doinglearning. It was never part of the discussion that dresses could make young women teachers vulnerable and subject them to sexual harassment by those very same male learners2 or other male colleagues or even the community. There are cases showing the vulnerability of schoolgirls in skirt uniforms but none explore the vulnerability of women teachers. The important question is whether the woman teachers dress or trousers have anything to do with what she teaches, and whether wearing a dress or a skirt necessarily makes learners more attentive. (Authors personal reflection, August 2009) Case 3: They call me a girl because I am unmarried and wear pants. A female principal of a school in a rural farming town was often ridiculed by the community in which she worked because, amongst other things she did, she wore pants to school. She received less support in her new position as a principal of a secondary school and she was referred to as a girl in a derogatory manner because of her single marital status and the fact that she used to wear pants. What insinuations are being made here about the single status of the woman teacher, her dress code and perhaps (albeit more implicit, yet significant) her suitability for principalship? (Extract from interviews with women principals; see Moorosi 2006) While a variety of inferences can be made from the scenarios above, their common element is that they each tell a woman teachers wearing trousers as dress story. How often have those of us who are involved in the teaching profession heard women teachers telling their trousers or dress stories in South Africa? And why would this even be an issue in the 21st century? Should the subject of women teachers wearing trousers even be part of academic discourse related to professional development and teacher identity? Whose professional practice is going to be changed by this subject and what difference does it make? Are dress stories a luxury that we cannot afford while living and working, as we are, in a context of HIV prevalence, rape, teenage pregnancy, child abuse and many other social problems? Surely excellent education is needed if we are to curb these social ills that affect us? And who is best positioned to give this education? It is the teacher. What happens, then, when the teacher is central to the issues being addressed? What should that teacher look like? Does it matter? Why would any community find it unacceptable for a woman teacher who wears trousers and red lipstick to teach sex education? Why would women teachers not be allowed to wear trousers to work in the first place? And why would a woman
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principal receive less respect and support simply because she is single and wears trousers? These women teachers stories about the reactions they have encountered as a result of their wearing trousers tell us a great deal about the relationship between teaching and dress codes. In addition, and perhaps most importantly, these womens dress experiences tell us about the value systems and social expectations that are currently operating with regard to women teachers generally. To what extent do these stories reflect women teachers expression of choice? It is clear from the scenarios above that there is a moral value attached to dress and, in these cases, to women teachers who wear trousers. Clearly, there is a tension hereone that cannot be ignoredbetween the norms and beliefs of society on the one hand and professionalism and personal interests related to dress on the other. In this chapter I investigate the perceptions surrounding the apparent unsuitability of women teachers who teach while wearing trousers. The chapter deals with the subject by asking questions about women teachers and dress. This technique is intended to generate dialogue related to women teachers dress stories stories that can be used as part of broader discourse on gender and dressand gender and professional development in teaching in South Africa. These questions are framed within the understanding that dress as material culture tells us a great deal about the values and belief systems of a society and, in terms of these particular aspects of it, even more about the dressed body of the woman teacher, which forms part of her identity. In other words, dress as material culture and its relationship to teaching are issues central to this chapter.
Making a case for stories of women teachers wearing trousers

Why are women teachers accounts of wearing or not wearing trousers so important? In their book Reinventing Ourselves as Teachers: Beyond Nostalgia, Mitchell and Weber (1999) consider the story of a female teacher who gets whistled at when, on hot days, she takes off her jacket while the female teachers male counterparts are able to take their jackets off without causing any commotion. This reaction to a woman taking off her jacket immediately confirms the gendered nature of dressing and undressing, and, of course, the body. In contexts where women teachers are not allowed to wear trousers, the sight of one doing so often attracts a great deal of attention, such as whistles from boys and men. The important question to ask is why, in some schools, do women who wear trousers attract this type of attention, and what effect might their wearing trousers have on their teaching? Lastly, why do we think this is an important area that needs to be explored in detail? Although the wearing of trousers by women teachers has thus far not been part of the academic and professional literature (at least to the best of my
Who Wears the trousers here?
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knowledge), it is clearly part of the unofficial discourse of what is considered appropriate for women teachers; the fact that I was told what to wear in a job interview is clearly representative of this. Elsewhere, the exploration of dress as material culture has been a subject of interest in various contexts outside South Africa. Weber and Mitchell (1995), in Thats Funny, You Dont Look Like a Teacher, explore the notion of teachers dress as an expression of self and identity. Relevant to this chapter are the two contrasted images of the women teachers we see at the beginning of their book: Behind the teachers desk sat Mrs Arnette. She looked as reserved as usual, her hair in a neat bun. But walking over to her was a tall, slender girl who looked like a model. The girl leaned over Mrs Arnettes shoulder and began talking as she smoothed back a strand of curly blond hair. She was wearing a fuchsia zip-front shirt, tight black leggings, and funky black shoes. (Suzanne [1992] cited in Weber & Mitchell 1995: 1)
In their analysis of this and other extracts, Weber and Mitchell (1995) bring to the fore two critical issues relevant to this chapter. First, that there is an accepted normative image of the teacher as represented by the woman class-teacher (Mrs Arnette) sitting behind the teachers desk. The title of the book is suggestive of the notion that some images of a teacher are not normative and may therefore not be acceptable. The second point, which is equally significant and related to the first, is the effect that the counter-image of the teacher (represented by the tall, slender and funky-looking woman who happens to be a student-teacher) may have on the students and school community at large. For Weber and Mitchell (1995), the wearing of leggings by a woman student-teacher is not necessarily an issue but it is their sharp contrast between the images of the two women (the class-teacher and the student-teacher) that is important for this chapter. Given this contrast, would having a teacher who fulfils the normative image of what a teacher should look like have a different effect on students and on the content of what is being taught? Perhaps a question that also needs to be asked at this point is this: In an ordinary rural South African school, what is the normative image of a female teacher? Would this question conjure up the image of a woman in (tight) leggings and red lipstick? This juxtaposition of the accepted and the non-accepted image of a woman teacher is significant for this chapter as we navigate our way through the relationship between gender, dress (wearing trousers) and teaching. In making a case for women teachers dress stories it is important to acknowledge that dress has been identified as a significant part of human identity and sexuality. In their edited volume, Barnes and Eicher show that dress expresses a persons (cultural) identity. They contend that attributes of a persons identity are affected by the gender identification of them as a dressed person. To this effect,
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they assert that, gender distinctions are a crucial part of the construction of dress, whether they are made on biological or social grounds (1993: 2). Mitchell and Weber (1999) also use dress to explore women teachers identities and other issues relating to their life experiences, as captured in photographs. What these texts and many others on the subject highlight is how central dress is to the life of women and, in this case, to women teachers. What has not been explored thus far, in the South African context, is how dress interacts with teaching, as well as what meanings are often attached to a particular teachers dress code, especially as regards the wearing of trousers by women. This chapter therefore directly confronts the meanings attached to women who wear trousers as part of the women teachers dress code and the effect of these meanings on teaching. To what extent does the wearing of trousers depict unacceptable behaviour and the lack of morality of a woman principal, or of a woman teacher who teaches sex education? How does dress as material object interact with teaching and what influences does this interaction have on the learners and on the broader school community? If the act of women wearing trousers is an issue for some communities in the South African context, what kind of dialogue would be necessary to address the issue?
Women in trousers: A historical perspective

Historical accounts reveal that societies around the world have always dictated different dress codes for men and women. Societies have also been resistant to dress change and reform, particularly when it comes to women, as seen in the dress reform story of American women (Kesselman 1991). These accounts show that in the West it was within societys classification of dress that trousers were regarded as part of mens dress code and skirts and/or dresses were regarded as womens. In Eastern societies such as China, however, trousers were part of the acceptable dress code for women while it was the men who dressed in gowns which were more dress-like (Hayworth 1994). Hayworth highlights this to illustrate the point that dress codes do not have much to do with the anatomical differences between mens and womens bodies, although the former shipping tycoon Dimitri Marchessini, in his misogynistic book Women in Trousers: A Rear View (2000), challenges this notion.3 Weber and Mitchell (1995) concur with Steele (1989), who argues that there is nothing about dress that is inherently masculine or feminine but, rather, that the choice of dress is almost always a reflection of cultural norms. Returning to Western culture (which as a result of colonialism largely influenced dress codes in most of Africa), the history of dress suggests that the various and changing responses to women wearing trousers emerged through different social contexts. For example, women increasingly began to wear trousers
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during World War II when they started working in the factories and found trousers to be more practical. After the war, although trousers remained part of womens wardrobes they were not usually worn in public or on formal occasions. However, with the rise of feminist influence in the 1970s women began to wear trousers both formally and informally, including in the workplace, as evidenced with the advent of the trouser-suit. In Europe, and particularly in Britain, historical accounts reveal that trousers emerged as a break-away option from the traditional Victorian dresses (Bill 1993) and such trousers were designed for women who were playing a domestic role as mothers and wives. Fashion of the 20th century made womens dress code more practical but in many social situations women who wore trousers were still received with shock and until very recently such dress was considered taboo amongst many societies. In the context of globalisation, many African societies, in which neither the dress/skirt nor pants (as we often refer to them in South Africa) have been part of the traditional attire for either men or women, have been influenced by Western notions of dress. Bill (1993) asserts that the influence of dress, and particularly the wearing of trousers by women, coincided with the change of status and position of women in society that resulted from the feminist movement, as mentioned earlier. Perhaps the subtle feminist influence has had some impact in the African context as well. Rabine (2002) shows that, in terms of dress, African societies responded in different and contrasting ways to the influence of colonialism and globalisation. These sartorial differences highlighted the heterogeneity of African societies and to a large extent even that of women themselves. Some African societies still largely dictate that dresses should be worn by women and trousers by men, and actually place punitive measures on cross-dressing. 4 Schools, as microcosms of society, have in most cases implicitly and explicitly prescribed for teachers a dress code that reflects the prevailing social influences and expectations. In some rural areas a woman-in-trousers is still a shocking phenomenon and regarded as socially unacceptable, particularly on occasions such as funerals, attending church,5 being in school and at other traditional functions. These social dictates and practices serve as a reminder of the expression of the unequal gender power relations manifested through dress. It is against this background that this chapter argues that more stories of women and dress have to be told in order to begin to question the power relations embedded in them.
Feminism, body and dress

Writing about dress and women, Tyner and Ogle (2007) acknowledge that most feminist work around dress and the body has centred on sexuality,6 rape/abuse and reproduction. The womans body as a subject of male control has been central
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to most of these studies and has prompted feminists to argue that women must claim their bodies back from male control. Bourdieu sees the body as a product of culture and a centre of social controla socially constructed space upon which males exercise domination that, in practice, then becomes the norm: The social world constructs the body as a sexually defined reality and as the depository of sexually defining principles of vision and division. This embodied social programme of perception is applied to all the things of the world and firstly to the body itself, in its biological reality. It is this programme which constructs the difference between biological sexes in conformity with the principles of a mythic vision of the world rooted in the arbitrary relationship of domination of men over women, itself inscribed, with the division of labour, in the reality of the social order. (Bourdieu 1998: 11) Other arguments about womens body and dress are located in, for example, the work of Michel Foucault (1980) who, according to his theory on the docile body and gendered power, sees the relationship between womens bodies and, particularly, male control within a patriarchal social structure. In this context, the womans body is seen as an object, a passive container of the active mind that is dressed (and undressed) to satisfy male patriarchal power (Shilling 2003: 23). It is against this backdrop that dress is seen as one form of oppression. Many feminists such as bell hooks have questioned and rejected the notion of the female body as a playground for male power and have therefore argued for womens bodies to be respected and be freed from male control (hooks 2000). Di Stephano (1990) identifies three broad forms of feminist thought that can be used in this analysis of women and dress within the school context. The rational feminist thought aims to collapse gender differences and focus on womens sameness (to men). The goal behind this is to have women viewed as no different from men in all realms of society, particularly in the context of work. (Perhaps women who wear trousers and take powerful positions such as a school headshipa historically male arenawould be an example of this.) But the critical question is whether this kind of assimilation of women into what has traditionally been regarded as the mens world of dress would empower women to deal with unequal power relations. In other words, would dressing women in trousers free them from inequality and patriarchal power? Contrary to the rational view, the anti-rational feminist perspective takes a more celebratory approach and argues for the preservation of culture and lifestyle as opposed to merging and disintegrating groups into oneness. It could be argued, therefore, that the anti-rational view of feminism, with its emphasis on cultural preservation, would advocate for an accentuation of differences in dress codes between men and women which would preserve womens uniqueness and value
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their individual expressions of human experience with distinct identifiable attributes (Tyner & Ogle 2007: 76). But the question remains: To what extent does celebrating womens uniqueness and preserving culture and traditional lifestyle choices (women in skirts/dresses and men in trousers) tackle the unequal power relations that deny women the liberty to choose what they wear? Doesnt this approach run the risk of perpetuating sex-based and gender-based stereotypes that inhibit women from dressing as they please in favour of compliance with social norms and expectations? This view is essentialist and ignores ethnicity and social class differences that may exist even between women themselves. Di Stephano (1990) makes her criticism clear: the attempt to preserve womens difference would be at the expense of womens transformation and liberation from the oppressive conventions of femininity. Post-rational feminist thought takes a different approach from the previous two and deconstructs categories that define socially constructed gender relations (Tyner & Ogle 2007: 76). Post-rationalists would, therefore, reject any categorisation of dress between men and women because such categorisation perpetuates the construction of dualistic hierarchies such as male and female, which are often embedded with binaries of inequality. Rather, post-rationalistsstress the importance ofpersonal experience that is shaped by social practices and the contextual interpretation of human existence (Tyner & Ogle 2007: 77). This, I argue, would allow women teachers to use their own discretion in terms of what is appropriate for them to wearwhen and howbecause no universal dress code would be singled out for either men or women. These choices of dress would, of course, be based on the context of varying teaching and leading situations within the schools, such as what teachers teach and what their actual daily role entails. But perhaps in our academic discourses, and in theorising through poststructural feminism, we need to be critical about the lives of women (including women teachers) in several contexts, which Connell (2000) has argued are unlikely to be directly touched by such radical views, due to the persisting nature of gendered power relations.
The teachers body: Dress and morality

Every society has its own taboos and practices when it comes to dress and certain dresses or dress codes are often associated with particular personalities of people and certain behavioural codes. But to what extent is dress linked to functionality, and, more precisely, to what extent do teachers and women teachers in South Africa dress for functionality? Is wearing a skirt with high-heeled shoes functional for teaching young children with whom the teacher has to jump up and down, sit on the floor or demonstrate exercises and so on? Does dressing in trousers in this workplace environment imply a lack of morality? Why, in the women do not wear
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trousers here scenario is wearing trousers even demonised? In the introduction to her book Dress and Morality, Ribeiro (2003) makes an interesting observation that in the history of dress, reason and practicality have come second to tradition and custom. She adds, however, that sometimes dress was determined by superstition and by very irrational customary practices. This tells us that we sometimes dress up in uncomfortable apparel because society dictates to us the appropriate dress code for certain functions and occasions. However, it is important to establish where morality fits in as far as dress is concerned. Ribeiro argues that morality serves to assure group solidarity, and with regard to dress, to act as a kind of social lubricant, to ease contacts between people in society. It is thus a conservative force, and the history of dress has been seen as a constant battle against the introduction of new styles, which may be thought of as immoral until their novelty is muted by the passage of time. (2003: 12) She adds that any moral indignation towards dress is based on what society deems acceptable or unacceptable in any one given situation. Thus, dress on its own cannot be regarded as immoral unless some view or perspective is attached to it. She cites Quinton Bell, the art historian, who reiterates that dress on its own cannot be immoral but what becomes immoral is the inappropriateness of certain dress codes at certain functions or in certain settings. Society also attaches particular dress to different sex groups in such a manner that it becomes inappropriate for men, for example, to be seen wearing what is regarded as part of womens dress code and vice versa. However, as Ribeiro (2003) indicates, over time the immorality of certain dress may disappear as society becomes accustomed to certain fashion boundaries being crossed. The acceptance of women in trousers is a typical example of this assertion; in many societies it is not as much of an issue as it was a few decades ago. But could this possible link to immorality be the reason why women wearing trousers are still not socially acceptable in some societies? How might this be linked to the religious beliefs of the society in question?7 Could this explain some of the religious views about women and mens dress and why cross-dressing would be considered by some to be an abominable act? In many societies, it is not only women dressing in trousers who are deemed immoral or thought to be dressing inappropriately, but also those who dress in garments that are considered either too tight or too revealing. However, in response to the question of what makes clothes moral or immoral, moralists tend to focus more on styles of female dress than on styles of male dress and certainly direct more criticism towards womens style of dress (Ribeiro 2003). Ribeiros work might be particularly useful in understanding the dress code for female teachers. As an important part of society, schools have always remained at the centre of these dress practices and debates. The official South African dress
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code ethic for educators does not place any restrictions on women who wish to wear trousers to work, but the reactions (in some communities) to the women who do show the significance of the relationship between dress and teaching. Dress remains a significant part of non-verbal communication in all human interaction and perhaps particularly in teaching. Theorists of language have perceived non-verbal behaviour (of which dress is a part) in teaching as preceding other forms of communication (see Smith 1979) and therefore (sometimes) to portray unintended messages. Mitchell and Weber have also argued that clothes have great communicative power that may sometimes exceed our intention because when we dress we are not always aware of what we convey to others (1999: 55). These authors have further established that it is the body of the teacher and how it is dressed that elicits attention from learners. But to what extent are teachers aware of the messages communicated by their dress code and, in particular, those communicated by their wearing trousers?
Gender, power and dress as material culture

Writing about the importance of dress in political leadership, Perani and Wolff (1999) assert that dress is a critical component of leadership as it is used by leaders to reinforce, through visual display, their status and power. A link between dress, appearance and power is made in some feminist discourses in the context of womens empowerment and as a call for women to become free and more independent. One feminist objective is to have women free to choose their dress so as to dress for comfort and not for mens or societal approval (Kesselman 1991). But perhaps we need to be cautious not to overplay individual womens agency in their choice of dress. As Andrade (2002) argues, it is nave to assume that African women have autonomous capacity to change their situation under the oppressive mechanisms of patriarchy, homophobia [my addition], colonialism, racism and socio-economic exclusion (Arndt 2002: 37). Indeed, the South African women teachers dress stories do not reflect empowerment or freedom of choice of dress. Instead, these stories reflect the victim status of women and how society dictates what is suitable for their dress code, which is based neither on functionality nor comfort. These dress stories articulate a particular discourse, culture, expectation and practice concerning dress. They portray a taken-for-granted practice which implies that society controls women and how they should dress and that this goes unchallenged because that is the way things are. Because it is a norm this practice goes unchallenged even while it perpetuates social divisions through gendered dichotomies. Ely and Meyerson (2000) have warned against such taken-for-granted gendered social practices as these, because of their insidious nature, are the most
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prevalent forms of gender oppression. Thus, dress is used as a power strategy that controls and shapes societys experiences and expressions of identity in particularly restrictive and socially conforming ways which disadvantage women and people of various sexual orientations. The display of gendered power is seen in at least two main ways that play out in the scenarios presented at the beginning of this essay: first, it is women teachers who, through proper dressing (in this case, not wearing trousers), conform to societys dictates about dress and who get respect because they do not upset the gender norms. Arguably, these women benefit from their conformity to traditional gender dress codes and they are rewarded and gain certain benefits while other women who challenge the status quo are ridiculed. Women who challenge the status quo are demonised and accused of using sex (both by talking about sex and by sexually provoking learners by wearing trousers) for their own devious agendas which could corrupt innocent learners minds. These women are accused of corrupting these young minds not only with their sex teaching but also by the way they dress. Thus, the conventional image of a woman schoolteacher, one who is traditionally pedestalled in society, would not be associated with sex talk. It is only immoral women who do not have self-respect, such as those who wear trousers and who teach children about sex. This implicit labelling hampers efforts made to address the social ills that are so prevalent in South African society. As a result of this labelling, women principals who dress in what is perceived to be sexually provocative clothing (that is, wearing trousers) are believed not to deserve the respect usually shown towards school principals in communities, irrespective of how effective their work might be. They do not get rewarded because they are deemed to have violated societys oppressive gendered dress code. This notion of rewarding the conventional image of a woman teacher and punishing and demonising the modernised defiant version that does not give in to oppressive societal norms undermines womens progress towards gender equality and affirms notions of a gendered and unequal coexistence. Arguing from a different context, Ely and Meyerson assert that conformity to traditional gender [systems] reinforces oppressive gender arrangements and can have detrimental effects on womens credibility more generally (2000: 122). The second way in which gendered power plays out in the women teachers dress narratives is through the banishing of womens own ways of expressing their identity and sexuality, which forces them to succumb to certain stereotyped cultural ideals of femininity that restrict social and personal transformation. The directive that in this school women do not wear trousers suggests differentiated female and male dress identities that are fixed in the biological sex that differentiates men and women. Thus, women and men are defined and differentiated by dress
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codes that are not seen as transferable because they depict idealised notions of womanhood and manhood. This conception of gender and dress code is narrow and does not accommodate homosexuality and/or any other form of gender difference. It is a cultural practice that uses stereotypic images of femininity to keep women in their place (Wolf 1991). It is a conception that remains largely ignorant of the many changes that are occurring in a modern society in which gender equality is a constitutional righta society that is politically and legally recognised in 21st-century South Africa. It must be acknowledged, however, that the degree to which women suffer from these oppressive practices differs according to womens social class, religion, ethnicity and geographical location. For example, the three cases of women teachers mentioned above were based on scenarios more prevalent in the rural areas. Although the situation is slightly more complex than rural versus city life choices, it is evident that the same attitudes might not be as prevalent towards most women who live in the cities and are more economically privileged. Women who suffer more are those who are already disadvantaged in some way or another. It is further argued that this narrow and gendered definition of dress code is as limiting to women as it is to men. For example, what choice of dress do men have except for a pair of trousers? This also makes men victims of these idealised notions of femininity and masculinity. Thus, society deprives its men and women of the freedom to choose what they would like to wear by upholding stereotypically gendered binaries of dress code that are regarded as mutually exclusive. This suggests, therefore, that we need to scrutinise the notion of dress as a symbol of power and liberation for women on the one hand, and the degree to which dress is used as a symbol of morality and of power over women on the other.
Towards constructive dialogue: A call for dress stories and South African women teachers dress stories
...dress storiesautobiographical narratives in which an item of clothing becomes a key organizing feature for a detailed account of life events are not just any stories. (Weber & Mitchell 2004: 256) In writing about dress stories, Weber and Mitchell (2004) have suggested that womens dress stories could be generative in that they could lead to other stories capturing womens experiences of dress being told and that, in so doing, they could contribute to undressing dress. My analysis here, with its references to women teachers wearing trousers, aims to generate more of these dress and trouser stories by inviting real-life stories of women teachers in South African contexts to talk
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about their actual daily experiences of dress in the school context. In exploring these gender-and-dress stories we need to give sufficient attention to the intricacies of the visuality of dress and its material form. For example, what messages do women in trousers, as compared to women in skirts, communicate? While we acknowledge that dress is an expression of sexuality, self and identity as much as it is a response to fashion trends resulting from globalisation, we also need to find ways of connecting the phenomenon of dress to academic studies and, at the same time, link this to the study of everyday life experiences. In doing this as social science researchers, we need to be aware that we may often be in contradiction with each other and with ourselves; this is what dialogue is about. It is the heterogeneity of perspectives around dress (amongst other things) that will advance the study of dress as material culture in social research. As feminist researchers, we cannot achieve social transformation without scrutinising power relations and without upsetting the taken-for-granted yet oppressive gender order. In our attempt (as researchers) to address gender power relations surrounding dress, we would need to take approaches that leave no stone unturned in their quest for social justice. This would be methodological approaches that question societys beliefs, norms, values, deeply held assumptions and taken-forgranted practices in an ongoing way. That means disrupting oppressive gendered practices surrounding dress, as and when they happen, in an attempt to correct them. These approaches would need to make members of society (both men and women) part of the questioning process for, as long as researchers ask these questions alone, researchers will remain the only participants in these dress dialogues. These collective approaches would ensure progress in uprooting deeply institutionalised gendered practices. This chapter has flagged and problematised issues of freedom and power inherent in dress codes and, in particular, raised questions about an aspect of dresswomen wearing trousersas an attempt to contribute to emerging dialogues surrounding dress, gender and teaching in the South African context. Indeed, the main assertion in this chapter is that womens dress is still dictated by oppressive social norms that need to be challenged. This chapter therefore calls for research dialogue on womens dress stories and experiences to begin to challenge these norms which disallow womens freedom of choice regarding what they wear. Such dialogues are necessary to disrupt heteronormativity and oppressive patriarchal values and practices that prevent social transformation. They also provide a strong first step in determining who can wear the trousers.
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Notes
1 2 In South Africa, trousers are often referred to as pants, hence the use of pants in direct quotations. In 2005 one of the local schoolboy learners allegedly took a picture from underneath the skirt of a woman teacher and traded the picture amongst other boy learners (The Witness, 3 March 2005). There are many cases told of learners being harassed by teachers but womens stories about the harassment they suffer from boys often go untold. 3 Contrary to what other writers posit about dress not having anything to do with the anatomy of the body, Marchessinis view is that trousers were actually not made for women because they do not suit their bodies. He adds that trousers were not meant for the curvy, fuller-buttocked body of a woman and that women should not wear trousers because they are very unflattering to their bodies. In his account Marchessini makes little attempt to acknowledge the differences in womens body shapes or the fact that fashion has made it possible for women of all shapes and sizes to feel comfortable in trousers. 4 Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za The recent case of the Sudanese women who were publicly flogged and arrested for public indecency, which included wearing trousers, is a typical example. South Africa has had its fair share of such dress-related issues pertaining particularly to women wearing trousers. In one township women have been subjected to similar public humiliation and assault, apparently for dressing in a manner that is considered to be in violation of their cultural normsby wearing trousers. Women in many ethnic groups still predominantly wear dresses although this largely depends on their location. For example, most women who are married in rural areas but live in the suburban towns of South Africa still dig out their long skirts when they visit their in-laws in the rural areas. 5 Contrary to this, many religious accounts actually suggest that trousers are more modest compared to some of the revealing dresses worn by women. A recent horrific incident in South Africa, in which a young woman wearing a mini-skirt was booed, attacked, stripped half-naked and left utterly humiliated by a group of taxi operators at a local taxi rank, sparked a lot of rage amongst women, gender activists and feminists. 6 Hayworth (1994) maintains that clothing is highly linked to sexualityan interesting aspect of dress touched on in many chapters in this volume. Clothing and dress remain the focus of many gender socialisation practices and some researchers would argue that dress has always been one of the most significant ways in which gender and sexuality are constructed. Trousers and skirts, however, were not part of most African traditional dress codes and much of what these African societies now wear has been largely influenced by Western fashion and the Wests view of civilisation, as discussed in this chapter. 7 A woman shall not wear anything that pertains to a man, nor shall a man put on a womans garment; for whoever does these things is an abomination to the LORD your God. (Deuteuronomy 22: 5).
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Arndt S (2002) Perspectives on African feminism: Defining and classifying African-feminist literatures. Agenda 54: 3144 Barnes R & Eicher JB (1993) Introduction. In R Barnes & JB Eicher (Eds) Dress and gender: Making and meaning (Cross-cultural perspectives on women). Oxford: Berg Publishers Bill K (1993) Attitudes towards womens trousers: Britain in the 1930s. Journal of Design History 6 (1): 4549 Bourdieu P (1998) Masculine domination. California: Stanford University Press Connell RW (2002) Gender. Cambridge: Polity Press Di Stephano C (1990) Dilemmas of difference: Feminism, modernity and postmodernism. In LJ Nicholson (Ed.) Feminism/postmodernism. New York: Routledge Ely RJ & Meyerson DE (2000) Theories of gender in organisations: A new approach to organisational analysis and change. Research in Organisational Behaviour 22: 103151 Foucault M (1980) The history of sexuality. New York: Vintage Hayworth M (1994) Fashion, clothing and sex. In V Bullough & B Bullough (Eds) Human sexuality: An encyclopaedia. New York: Garland Publishing Inc hooks b (2000) Feminism is for everybody: Passionate politics. London: Pluto Press Kesselman A (1991) The freedom suit: Feminism and dress reform in the United States, Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za 18481875. Gender and Society 5 (4): 495510 Marchessini D (2000) Women in trousers: A rear view. Ionian Illustrated Editions. Accessed August 2009, http://www.marchessini.co.uk Mitchell C & Weber S (1999) Reinventing ourselves as teachers: Beyond nostalgia. London: Falmer Press Moorosi P (2006) Policy and practice related constraints to increased female participation in education management. Unpublished PhD thesis, University of KwaZulu-Natal Perani J & Wolff NH (1999) Cloth, dress and art patronage in Africa. Oxford: Oxford International Publishers Rabine LW (2002) The global circulation of African fashion. Oxford: Berg Publishers Ribeiro A (2003) Dress and morality. Oxford: Berg Publishers Shilling C (2003) The body and social theory. London: Sage Publications Smith HA (1979) Nonverbal communication in teaching. Review of Educational Research 49(4): 631672 Steele V (1989) Dressing for work. In CB Kidwell and V Steele (Eds) Men and women: Dressing the part. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institute Tyner K & Ogle JP (2007) Feminist perspectives on dress and the body: An analysis of Ms. Magazine, 1972 to 2002. Clothing & Textiles Research Journal 25 (1): 74105 Weber S & Mitchell C (1995) Thats funny, you dont look like a teacher!. London: The Falmer Press Weber S & Mitchell C (2004) Theorizing dress stories. In S Weber and C Mitchell (Eds) Not just any dress: Narratives of memory, body and identity. New York: Peter Lang Wolf N (1991) The beauty myth. New York: Doubleday
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12 Was it something she wore? Gender-based violence and the policing of the place of girls in the school space
Naydene de Lange
South AfricAn SchoolS Are preoccupied with school uniforms. They are seen to be more than just a necessity and a prerequisite for attending school. She thinks shes better than them the teacher offers as explanation of how a girl in a neat school uniform is viewed by other learners at the school. Having a uniform (or not having one) indicates the socio-economic status of the learner and her family but it also becomes a mechanism for control of who will be able to access schooling and, therefore, who, through schooling and further study, will get the opportunity to set themselves free from the cycle of poverty and lack of adequate education. Studying the wearing of school uniforms has potential as a method for exploring gender issues, including gender-based violence. Nearly all forms of violence against children, including those in schools, are entrenched in gender roles. They reflect a hidden curriculum that promotes gender inequality and stereotyping (Pinheiro 2006: x). In this instance, the excerpt above from a focus group interview with women teachers is used to highlight the issue of gender and the experience of a particular girl in a rural school context. This excerpt reveals the way in which a neat uniform is central to the narrative of this female learner because it is associated with a sign that she comes from a family that can take care of her, but also the idea that ... [the learners will] say to her she thinks shes better than them. Trying to make her feel inferior, to make her feel worthless. While the neat uniform of the schoolgirl ought not to be seen as out of the ordinary, in a rural community where women are often still not valued enough to be encouraged to become educated, the neat uniform is used by other women, in this instance other female teachers, to inadvertently support gender inequality. This brief excerptthe female teachers view of gender-based violence in the schoolis used to initiate an exploration into the power of dress as a method of inquiry (Weber & Mitchell 2004) and, more specifically, to examine how girls dress is implicated in gender-based violence.
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In this chapter I explore how uniforms act as a signifier of position and identity and how this can influence a girls place in a rural school. The uniform can therefore position the girl as not only ready to learn but also as not allowed to learn; as inviting seductioneither for pleasure or for money; and as enticing gender-based violence. Craiks work, Uniforms Exposed (2005), suggests that the meaning of uniforms is not transparent. While she explores the social and cultural meaning of uniforms, she also writes about uniforms as alluring, sensual and inviting, thus contradicting the innocence usually associated with dressing in a school uniform and going to school. Uniforms and school are often thought of as signifying the protection of the child and her body, in the same way a nuns habit and the convent are thought of as a protection of a nuns person and body. As Craik (2005) points out, uniforms express codes of power, both implicitly and explicitly, but also go beyond the notions of order, discipline, conformity, pride and authority, and are context dependent. In the context of the school, this allows the wearer of the uniform to be under surveillance and the teachers, and other learners, to do the surveillancing. While this chapter refers to the policingthrough uniform surveillanceof the place of girls in a rural school space in South Africa, it will be contextualised within the larger body of literature available on school uniforms in relation to gender-based violence.
Schooling and uniforms

The school uniform (sometimes referred to as school dress) had its origins in orphanages. The wearing of uniforms was later applied in military contexts and eventually adopted in the English public schools (Meadmore & Symes 1996). The debate as to whether or not to regularise the dress of learners through school uniform still continues among various roleplayers in various parts of the world, as well as in South Africa. The debate includes issues such as freedom of expression, freedom to express religious beliefs, the acceptance of diversity and, of course, the expense involved in obtaining a uniform (Draft national guidelines on school uniforms 2007). The discussion around school uniforms also intersects with the notion of childhood as a protected space in relation to safety, violence and social exclusion (Bodine 2003). In the United States, for example, Clintons 1997 and 1998 State of the Union addresses implied that school uniforms could potentially contribute towards making schools safer and the learners more disciplined (Starr 1998, cited in Craik 2005). According to Craik, school uniforms are intended for controlling body and its behaviour but also [for] actively producing the particular attributes of self that are deemed desirable by the school (2005: 52). This is linked to the
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idea that the school uniform, in any of its various forms, is a disciplinary measure designed to normalise populations (Foucault 1977) and to transform behavioural and psychological habits to construct new personae better equipped to perform scholastic and pro-social activities (Craik 2005: 73). This connotation is also evident in the dictionary definition of the word uniform; the adjective is defined as having always the same form, manner, or degree; not varying or variable; unchanging; consistent; equable; homogenous and, as a noun, uniform means clothing of distinctive design worn by members of a particular group as a means of identification.1 These two ideas together then refer to the fact that wearing a school uniform contributes towards particular attributes of selffor example, being wellbehaved, well-groomed, disciplined, industriousthat are desirable, and towards making the learners homogenous in terms of such behaviour and dress. In South Africas patriarchal and multicultural society a variation in socio-economic and gender status is clearly apparent, as is the diversity within a single schooling systemprivate and public, urban and rural, advantaged and disadvantaged, well-resourced and under-resourced, situated within affluent communities and impoverished ones. In this context the power associated with wearing a school uniform cannot be ignored. The range of school attire required by a private school, which clearly signifies wealth and success, is a far cry from the basic uniform required by a public school in a rural area. Wearing a uniform therefore links a learner to a particular school and its traditions, and it signifies belonging to a particular context and what this represents. It acts as a signifier or marker of class, status and access to a particular kind of schooling. Many instances have been reported of children being denied access to school and/or being bullied or ridiculed because they lacked a uniform, and of children being ridiculed for having a torn and tattered uniform (Bojer et al. 2007). This raises the issue of surveillance or policing or monitoring uniform behaviour (Craik 2005: 52). Such surveillance can come from various sources: the other learners, the teachers, the school management team, the school governing body and even the Department of Education, for example. Such policing can act as a gate-keeping mechanism that not only keeps learners in their place but often excludes them from access to education.
School uniform and girls

Craik, in her research on girls and the wearing of school uniforms, asserts that there is a public and a private face of uniforms, which contain contradictory messages such as the innocent schoolgirl in uniform and the sexualised schoolgirl in uniform (2005: 52). In relation to the public face of school uniforms, the wearing of these is found in many countries, including South Africa, which draws on the
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colonial tradition. The South African school uniform for girls usually consists of a white blouse (and probably a tie), a pinafore dress or skirt, a blazer (with specific colours), short white socks (in the summer) or knee-high socks or stockings (in the winter), with flat lace-up or buckle-up shoes. Some schools insist on a hat as part of their uniform. This very basic uniform is stripped of all frippery and tries to convey not only a sense of seriousness and responsibility but also one of innocence and safety; its intention is to protect. The often demure colour and style, as well as the uniformity of having all the girls look the same, is therefore intended to conceal the body and to protect. Some schoolgirls will, however, try to style themselves in a particular way in an attempt to make the uniform look more attractive. They may do this, for example, by wearing their socks in a certain way, or by adjusting the belt of a pinafore dress so as to make the pinafore shorter. Often, too, the body language of the schoolgirl in uniformthe way the girl wears her uniform, the way she carries herself, walks or gazes at otherscould suggest allure. Of course, in some instances the skirt or pinafore is shorter than the dress-code specification simply because the girl has outgrown her uniform and does not have the means to replace it. While exploring the public face of uniforms, I unexpectedly discovered, in Shadleys (2003) research carried out with schoolgirls in Canada, an example of the private face behind wearing a school uniform. Shadleys work, School Uniforms, Eros and Mixed Messages considers the impact of school uniforms on schoolgirls, in particular those worn by girls in a private school, and how the girls felt not only judged and scorned but sexually objectified when they were wearing their uniforms. This perception of the schoolgirl as sex object is not uncommon. The title of a Japanese website, http://blog.meet-japanese-girl.com/pictures/cutejapanese-school-girls-pictures.html,2 points to the ways in which the sexualising of the Japanese schoolgirl takes place through the agency of some of the girls themselves. These schoolgirls choose which high school they want to attend based on the school uniform they want to wear. An internet search also reveals various collections of photographs of Japanese schoolgirls who are represented in a seductive way, with descriptions like portrait of a female Asian teenager dressed in the traditional Japanese schoolgirl clothing.3 Another site, however, suggests that some Japanese girls are now adamant that they will present a more wholesome image: their uniforms are not unbuttoned and their skirts are longer than usual just above the kneecap. 4 A similar sexualisation of young girls in their school uniforms, found in many countries around the world, is found in the African context. The uniform as explicitly alluring seems not to be discussed, even though there is a whole body of work in sub-Saharan Africa on African schoolgirls in relation to gender-based violence, transactional sex and engagement in sexual relationships with sugar
Was it something she Wore?
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daddies (see Chege 2006; Hope 2007; Human Rights Watch 2001; Leach 2002; Leach & Mitchell 2006; South African Human Rights Commission 2006). If we are to make inferences about the wearing of school uniforms and gender-based violence, we need to consider the implications of the girls way of dressing and their body language. Body language that suggests some allure is often read as both presenting an invitation to the (male) viewer and revealing sexual availability. The girl is seen to be asking for it, and to be inviting behaviour inappropriate to a schoolgirl dressed in her school uniform. This sexualisation of the girlregardless of her sexual agency (or lack of it) in this presentation of herself leads to the belief that gender-based violence against schoolgirls is a function of the girls behaviour and/or dress rather than of the offending males attitude. Indeed while the relationship between dress and sexualisation is not always obvious (or even intended) or fully determined, this kind of sexualisation of schoolgirls in uniform increases their vulnerability, placing them at risk of contracting sexually transmitted infections, having unwanted pregnancies or unsafe abortions, and dropping out of school. In the context of HIV and AIDS and the feminisation of the HIV epidemic, any sexualisation of the schoolgirl places her at greater risk, and, of course jeopardises her chances of attaining an education.
Gender-based violence
South Africa has one of the highest rates of gender-based violence in the world (UNAIDS 2008). Gender-based violence, according to Leach refers to any form of violence that is directed against a male or a female because of their sex. It is usually overtly sexual in nature and is often tied up with the individuals perception of socially accepted norms of male and female behaviour. It is usually physical (assault, forced sex or rape) but may also be verbal, emotional or psychological (2002: 101). Leach also argues that an environment such as the school, which tolerates one illegal type of violence, e.g. corporal punishment, is also likely to be permissive of other types of violence (2002: 104). For the purposes of this chapter it is her next observation that is crucial. She points out that it is ironic that it is the very authoritarian nature of the school which allows gender violence to flourish (2002: 108). In a school in which the wearing of the correct uniform is overly monitored and policed in the name of furthering a proper code of conduct, a strong emphasis is necessarily being placed on external rules and regulations. In relation to genderbased violence, this could well be a crucial issue in itself. Gender-based violence, in its various forms, appears to be part of school life and it contributes to masculine and feminine socialisation (Leach 2002). Girls are vulnerable to aggressive sexual advances from male learners and teachers in
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the school (and from adult men and boys outside the school) because of a school culture in which stereotypical masculine and feminine behaviours are promoted. Such behaviours against schoolgirls include unwelcome physical and verbal and non-verbal gestures made either by their peers or educators. The Beijing Declaration and Platform for Action states that gender-based violence violates women and strips them of their human rights and freedom, and that physical, sexual or psychological abuse cuts across lines of income, class and culture.5 The wearing of a school uniform, intended to protect, could, in fact, contribute to such gender-based violence.
The context
In this section I provide the context of the focus group interview which explored teachers understanding of gender-based violence by elaborating on the research programme that led up to the focus group interview, in which a female teacher provided an example of gender-based violence, explaining how other learners in the class perceived and behaved towards a female learner in a rural school, based on her dress. In a rural district in KwaZulu-Natal where we6 have been using visual participatory methodologies in addressing issues related to gender and the prevalence of HIV and AIDS, unemployment is rife and hence poverty affects the lives of most members of the community. The poverty in the broader community is mirrored in the senior secondary school at which we work. The buildings are in a state of disrepair, some doors do not close, the windows are broken, the desks are dilapidated, the grass on the school grounds needs mowing and the electricity has been disconnected. The learners themselves, although from this poverty-stricken community, are all dressed in school uniform, albeit that some uniforms are torn and tattered. This is in stark contrast to the dress of the teachers, who are all well-dressed. We worked with young people from two senior secondary schools, using visual participatory methodologies. In one instance we used participatory video to explore issues affecting their lives. We noted that five of the six learner groups in the study chose to make a video about gender-based violence. In these videos they portrayed gender-based violence in different ways: as schoolboys raping a girl; a male teacher raping a girl; and a father raping his daughter (De Lange 2008; Mitchell & De Lange 2011). After some reflection we concluded that it was necessary to facilitate and open up discussion around gender-based violence, enabling the teachers to engage with the learners on this issue. We produced a teachers guide7 to supplement the participatory video work and introduced it to the teachers during a morning workshop at their school. In order to try to understand and evaluate the success of this work, we then interviewed a group of male and female teachers in sex-segregated
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or single-sex focus group interviews in which the issue of gender-based violence was explored. (For a discussion of the male teachers interview, see Bhana et al. 2008.) For this chapter I have looked only at the transcript of the five female teachers responding to three questions: (1) How do you see gender-based violence? (2) What examples of gender-based violence can be found in your school? and (3) How does your school address such violence? It is the response (She thinks shes better than them) that the teachers offered as an example of gender-based violence, which created a space to explore how dress is implicated in gender-based violence.
School uniforms and gender-based violence

Figure 12.1 provides an example of what a typical school uniform in South Africa looks like. It was taken by another learner participating in a photo-voice project on stigma and allows for exploring the communicative power of dress in the context of gender-based violence.
Figure 12.1 A female student in school uniform in a rural district (image provided by the author)
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From the interview with the teachers a simple retelling of a story about a girl wearing a neat uniform unexpectedly raised the idea of the power of dress as a method of inquiry (Weber & Mitchell 2004). The dress story revealed the teachers thinking about gender-based violence in terms of the function and effect of wearing school uniforms; the relationship between the schoolgirl and learning; and schooling in a poverty-stricken rural area. The teachers were inadvertently talking about the ways in which the communicative power of dress may far surpass[...] communicative intent through information which is transmitted silently from person to person (Weber & Mitchell 2004: 254). In response to the second interview question above, the female teachers at first indicated that they were unaware of examples or cases of gender-based violence at their school and only after further probing did one teacher refer to the example of the girls uniform having elicited negative reactions from other learners. This was then elaborated on by the other teachers.
Thololeka:
Interviewer: Thololeka:
Uh, like when youve got this eh young girl whos very clever, always wearing very neat school uniform, shell just be eh, eh, ill-treated for being in that state and being ready to be educated. Eh! cause eh that told us that would be a sign that eh she comes from a family that can take care of her and those others So...that neat girl could be someone, who...probably has more money, in the context of poverty? Yes. So, even when then she gives answers or asks questions, then the... [learners] theyll say to her she thinks shes better than them. Trying to make her feel inferior, to make her feel worthless.
What should be kept in mind is that this is how these teachers responded to the question that solicited examples of gender-based violence. They did not talk about sexual violence, although this occurs in the school and community (as the learners videos portrayed) but chose to refer to gender-based violence of a more psychological nature. This underscores the complexities and subtleties of gender-based violence but also reveals the difficulties educated women experience in a rural context when asked to voice their views on gender-based violence. They chose to speak about it in terms of a girls uniform and how other learners responded to it, placing distance between themselves and the issue of perceived gender-based violence. The above excerpt points to three issues. First, the construction that these female teachers in a rural community have of gender-based violence refers to the dress (the uniform) of the girl. Second, in this rural community, dress or uniform is seen to be a signifier of difference so it is ill-advised for any individual to stand out as being different or better off than the rest. Third, in this rural community, a
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girl appearing to be ready to learnby wearing a neat uniformis persecuted and made to feel inferior, which contributes to the violation of her right to education as a young girl. I wish to interpret these three issues in terms of the policing of the place and space of girls in a rural community.
Policing place and space in schools

As Leach and Mitchell (2006) point out, schools should be safe spaces in which all children are provided with an equal opportunity to learn and develop. However, the above example highlights an act of violating the rights of a female learner, based on both social inequality and gender inequality. The handful of female teachersall well-dressed themselveswhen asked about gender-based violence related a story which revealed their constructions of gender-based violence as related to dress. This does not imply that this is their only construction of gender-based violence. Dress in a poverty-stricken rural community is an important indicator of social standing and the female teachers example could possibly be read against the background of their awareness of schoolgirls selling sex. If a learners dress appears to be of a higher standard than what is usual, this may not only position the girl as better than them, but may also raise questions about the source of income for such dress, particularly in a community with a high unemployment rate. Commercialisation of sex (see also Moletsane et al. 2009) is sometimes a survival strategy adopted in order to put food on the table for the family and also as a means to buy smart clothing and accessories (including school uniforms). Dressing in general is a means of identifying self (Weber & Mitchell 2004), while dressing in a particular uniform is a means of identifying with the group and the school. It is clear that a uniform is not intended to display an individuals identity but rather the collective identity of the school. The interview text of the female teachers, however, exposes the way in which dress can play a role in social differentiation within the school and community (Meadmore & Symes 1997) and in social relations among learners themselves. The neat uniform signifies a difference in socio-economic status, which in a poverty-stricken rural community seems to position the girl as a threat to other girls and women. In a community propounding the notion of ubuntu (I am because you are) and of caring about each other, it is ironic that the neat uniform, as identified by a female teacher, is actually key to the process of learners othering the neatly dressed girl, and therefore positioning her as powerful and privileged, and therefore separate from them. The manner in which she is dressed influences their relationship with each other and opens up the space for putting her in her place.
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Weber and Mitchell write about a pedagogy of dress, referring to the fact that a teacher dresses in a particular way so as to command respect and to establish a relationship with the learners which is conducive to teaching (2004: 252). In a similar way, these female teachers view dress as enabling the female learner to be ready for education and taking up her right to education. It is interesting to note how the teachers associate a neat uniform with readiness to learn, thus concurring with the view of the Department of Basic Education, and many schools, that a uniform is a necessary prerequisite for education. Hence the teachers policing of whether the learner has a uniform or not influences the place the female learner may occupy in the school space.
Conclusion
I return to Weber and Mitchells notion that dress has the ability to evoke important social issues such as economic disparity, commodification, gender, race, class, cultural difference and so on, and in so doing offers critical entry points for reflection, narrative and interrogation (2004: 266). Craik concurs that dress does a good deal more than simply clad the body for warmth, modesty or comfort as dress codes are technical devices which articulate the relationship between a particular body and its lived milieu (1994: 4). In this chapter a female teachers comment about the dress of one of the girls has been used to probe the complexity (but also the subtlety) of gender-based violence. An exploration of the origins of South African school uniform and its function in schooling in general makes it clear that the uniform serves not only as a mechanism for establishing and maintaining tradition based on worthy characteristics and values but also serves as a mechanism for policing and control, and ensuring conformity. The exploration of the public and private face of school uniforms provided a framework for understanding the meaning of school uniforms in general, and how girls dress in particular, may not always be sexualised but is most often used to police the place she may occupy in the school space. The public face of uniforms in a rural school also raised the issue of the place and inclusion of a girl in the space of school in a rural community. The explicit study of the sexualising of girls in school uniforms elsewhere raises interesting issues in terms of the private face of uniforms and what work in this area might mean in South Africa. Given the vast body of work on the sexualising of girls in sub-Saharan Africa (Chege 2006; Human Rights Watch 2001; Leach 2002; Leach & Mitchell 2006; South African Human Rights Commission 2006), the explicit study of girls and their school uniform provides a valuable starting point and an interesting focus for further research.
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Finally, one could ask, What about the female teachers themselves? In the focus group interviews it was the male teachers who immediately spoke about examples of gender-based violence; the female teachers did so only when pressed. We might ask why this was so. How do we begin to delve more deeply into what it means to be a female teacher in the South African context? To what extent can their own autobiographies be a significant entry point into understanding gender-based violence in schools? How can their autobiographies disrupt messages and practices which make schools uncomfortable spaces for girls, contributing to the likelihood of their dropping out of school, especially in developing countries such as South Africa? While realising that working in the school space alone cannot solve such systemic problems on its own, it can be seen as a starting point towards taking action.
Acknowledgement
I gratefully acknowledge the financial support of the National Research Foundation (South Africa) in this research project. The ideas expressed in the article are those of the author.
Notes
1 2 3 4 5 6 http://ardictionary.com/Uniform/1595 Accessed 18 July 2009 http://blog.meet-japanese-girl.com/pictures/cute-japanese-school-girls-pictures.html Accessed 18 July 2009. http://www.crestock.com/image/510516-Japanese-Schoolgirl.aspx Accessed 16 July 2009 http://xorsyst.com/japan/japanese-schoolgirl-skirts Accessed 16 July 2009 Ending widespread violence against women Accessed 11 July 2009, http://www.unfpa. org.html De Lange N, Mitchell C, Moletsane R, Stuart J, Buthelezi T, Taylor M & Mazibuko F. Learning together: Towards an integrated participatory approach to youth, gender and HIV/AIDS interventions in rural KwaZulu-Natal Schools. (NRF funded project) 7 Seeing for ourselves is a video with a complementary guide, made as part of the NRF-funded Learning Together Project.
References
Bhana D, De Lange N & Mitchell C (2008) Male teachers talk about gender violence: Zulu men demand respect. Educational Review 61(1): 4962 Bodine A (2003) School uniforms and discourses on childhood. Childhood: A Global Journal of Child Research 10(1): 4363 Bojer M, Lamont A, Janitsch C, Dlamini C & Hassan Z (2007) Orphans and vulnerable children in South Africa. Washington: Africa Leadership Initiative Publishers
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Chege F (2006) He put his hands between girls thighs: Using student teachers memories to tackle gender violence. In F Leach & C Mitchell (2006) (Eds) Combating gender violence in and around schools. Stoke on Trent: Trentham Books Craik J (1994) The face of fashion: Cultural studies in fashion. London: Routledge Craik J (2005) Uniforms exposed: From conformity to transgression. New York: Berg Publishers De Lange N (2008) Women and community-based video: Communication in the age of AIDS. Agenda 77: 1931 Draft national guidelines on school uniforms (2007) Accessed 20 July 2009, http://www. education.gov.za/Documents/policies/GG28538SchoolUniform.pdf Foucault M (1977) Discipline and punish: The birth of the prison. Harmondsworth: Penguin Hope R (2007) Gender equality and sugar daddies. Gender equality series, paper 3/07. MIDEGO Inc. Accessed 19 July 2009, http://www.midego.com/docs/Sugar_Daddies.pdf Human Rights Watch (2001) Scared at school: Sexual violence against girls in South African schools. New York: Human Rights Watch Leach F (2002) School-based gender violence in Africa: A risk to adolescent sexual health. Perspectives in Education 20(2): 99112 Leach F & C Mitchell (2006) (Eds) Combating gender violence in and around schools. Stoke on Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za Trent: Trentham Books Meadmore D & Symes C (1996) Of uniform appearance: a symbol of school discipline and governmentality. Discourse: Studies in the Cultural Politics of Education 17(2): 209226 Meadmore D & Symes C (1997) Keeping up appearances: Uniform policy for school diversity? British Journal of Educational Studies 45(2): 174186 Mitchell C & De Lange N (2011) Community-based participatory video and social action in rural South Africa. In E Margolis & L Pauwels (Eds) The SAGE Handbook of Visual Research Methods. London: Sage Publishers Moletsane R, Mitchell C, De Lange N, Stuart J, Buthelezi T & Taylor M (2009) What can a woman do with a camera? Turning the female gaze on poverty and HIV/AIDS in rural South Africa. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education 22 (3): 315331 Pinheiro PS (2006) Preface. In F Leach & C Mitchell (Eds) Combating gender violence in and around schools. Stoke on Trent: Trentham Books Shadley G (2003) School Uniforms, Eros and Mixed Messages.Paper presented at the Congress of the Humanities and Social Sciences in Halifax, Canada (14 June 2003) South African Human Rights Commission (2006) Report of the public hearing on the right to basic education. Pretoria: SAHRC UNAIDS (Joint United Nations Programme on HIV and AIDS) (2008) AIDS. Accessed 21 June 2008, http://www.unaids.org Weber S & Mitchell C (2004) Theorizing dress stories. In S Weber and C Mitchell (Eds) Not just any dress: Narratives of dress, body and identity. New York: Peter Lang
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13 The gender politics of the school uniform

Nolutho Diko
In thIs chapter I draw on memory work as well as on fieldwork in contemporary South African high schools in order to investigate the significance of school uniforms in the context of gender equality in this country. I am interested in how the school uniform can be read or interpreted as a social text within the broader issue of equality between boys and girls in South African schools. My inspiration comes from my experiences as a learner at St. Matthews High School, a formerly black girls boarding school in the Eastern Cape Province, as well my as experience as a researcher in the same province. I was at school in the late 1970s and early 1980s during the peak of student activism and resistance against the segregationist Bantu Education policy that was espoused by the Nationalist government as part of its apartheid-based practices. The professional experiences I draw from started almost three decades ago. I chose to contrast the high school I attended with the one at which I did my research because they both played an important role in my personal and academic development. I blend the two experiences so as to go beyond the boundaries of each.
Memories of school and school uniform

My first memories of school uniforms date back to those years of student activism. St. Matthews High School was one of the prestigious girls schools during those years. The school was not far from the small rural town of Keiskammahoek. Until 1980 (when the schools offering of a primary teachers course was phased out by the government) the school had a teacher training college attached to it. The two schools had the same principal and all the girls, fondly referred to as amagelisi, wore the same school uniform. We competed in the same athletics competitions. The school attracted girls from different parts of the country. Like most South African schools at the time, the school was founded on strong Christian values. The founders had
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come from England. One of my teachers was an old remnant of a group of teachers who had come from England in the mid 1950s. It was therefore not surprising that the school had a strong Anglican church culture. Our teachers, the missionary who was the head of the church and whom we called Father, and the nuns all expected us to be well behaved whether we were in school uniform or not. Every day when we were going to school or church, in full school uniform, we had to form two lines and walk quietly. Prefects would march next to us, ready to reprimand any girl who was not in full uniform. This infringement, as well as the failure to obey any other rule, would lead to punishment such as cleaning the dormitories, bathrooms, grounds or any other part of the hostel. The court of public opinion played an equally important role in this matter. Other students would readily shun a student they thought had committed a serious offence. I remember how we would react to a student who had broken the rules and regulations to the point of being expelled: from the time of hearing about the mishap until the person left we would distance ourselves from her and talk about her in whispers. School discipline was very rigid. We could not go beyond the school boundaries without written permission from the school or hostel authorities. Even the hospital, which we passed on our way from the school to the hostel, was out of bounds. The road that divided the school grounds from the hospital, called the Top Road, was also out of bounds for high school students. Nevertheless, the political climate in the country was very conducive to student activism and this road became one of the sites where we used to contest the rigid school rules. Even though we knew it was out of bounds for us, we would stroll under the green trees there, especially during weekends when we were being visited by boys and we wanted space. Being at the Top Road during weekdays was a little more difficult because teachers on their way to the training school used that road a lot during the week. Walking on the Top Road, especially with a boy, could land one in serious trouble. But because we believed that it was not easy for the matrons or teachers to tell the girls apart, especially when they were not wearing uniform, we did it anyway. The risks involved even made the stroll more enjoyable. We also used to encourage or incite the teacher trainees, whose behaviour was always exemplary, to break the rules too. I remember how we used to ambush teacher training students on Sunday evenings, when they were on their way to their hostel, which was further along than ours, in order to disturb their poise. Our actions used to result in them running in all directions and thus breaking their lines. They would scatter all over the road and sometimes even took to avoiding this convenient route, the Top Road, in order to remain unmolested by us. It got to the point where teachers had to be in the vicinity when we came out of church. We hated the fact that the teacher trainees were not trying to break the rules as hard as we were.
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There were also times when we would converge outside our dormitory and sing loudly, our songs usually about issues at school or at the hostel about which we were not happy. We made disobeying the school authorities, whether openly or secretly, our business. In line with our political awareness, school uniform was one of the strategies we employed to make our voices heard. Whenever possible, and within what we considered reasonable boundaries, we would break the school uniform rules. These rules were the easiest rules to break. The authorities, meanwhile, used everything available to them to frustrate our efforts at resistance. School uniform was one of the tools they had at their disposal to do this. School uniform helped the authorities in the sense that wearing it placed certain feelings of responsibility and guilt on the students. We were always reminded of the obligations placed on us by the school uniform. But we also wanted to be part of the greater student community and to participate in the militancy that was brewing out there. However, our love for our school and our sense of pride came first. The community, too, knew what was and what was not allowed and some people were always willing to cooperate with the school in maintaining school discipline. For example, most people around the school knew that visiting the hospital without permission was not allowed. If permission had been granted it was essential that we wore school uniform. Even hospital officials could report us to the school if they thought we were breaking that particular rule. If a girl was sick, the matrons would send her to the sick room. If she was not getting better, she would be given permission to visit the hospital. If permission was granted, she would still have to be dressed in school uniform. Basically, the rule was that we had to wear school uniform whenever we went beyond the school boundaries. This rule included our journey home. The matrons expected girls to wear school uniform when they went home and when they came back to the school.
Uniform, discipline and pride

That those in authority use the wearing of school uniform to their advantage is an established practice. In my student days, the school uniform policy was one of the ways in which the apartheid government could control students in public schools. They did this through teachers who were very eager to make the policy as stringent as they could. Teachers were always willing to act as uniform police and to mete out the heaviest possible punishment to offenders. A student could be severely punished simply for failing to wear the full school uniform. Parents were part of the system, too, having been socialised into siding with the school against the students. If you were reported to your parents, you would be punished both by the school and by your parents. School uniform was part of the strategy that was employed at the
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time to enforce and maintain strict discipline. The policy was effective because it eroded individuality and instilled the fear of authority. It was a way of preparing the learners for the adult world at the time, and for the world of work in which top-down authority was paramount. School uniform, however, also taught us how to live communally. The uniform bound us to each other and encouraged feelings of sisterhood and a spirit of comradeship. No one wanted to be sidelined. We felt accountable to each other. We were protective of each other. If a teacher asked one student to identify a student who had broken a school rule there was a tendency to try to protect the transgressor. Generally, despite the conservative uniform policy and student reaction to it, most students took great pride in wearing their uniform, especially if the school was popular. School popularity depended on a number of factors. It could come about as a result of good matriculation results, as was the case in our school, or excellent performance in sports. We loved our school and we loved our school uniform so much that we used to wear it in full, especially for meetings with other schools. The school had sports uniform for athletes and they too took great pleasure in representing the school and wearing their uniform. We took pride in looking neat and well-groomed. During meetings with other schools, we would organise ourselves into groups and chant songs about the school and our principal, whom we held in high esteem. At that time, he was the only black principal in the area who held a doctoral degree. Being associated with him and the school was an honour we did not take lightly. We had this one song which bound us to him that we loved so much, Nantso, nantso ingena inzala kaFeks, literally meaning here come the children of Feks. We would follow this up with our war chant Sa-a-a-a-a-ints. Our voices would start off low and gradually go up and then die down again in unison. When we were in that mood, we would feel invincible and the principal would shyly smile back, full of pride. We wore turquoise tunics with white shirts. At the time, we were the only schoolchildren who wore this type of tunic, so we called it cant geta shortened version of cant get it in South Africa. During the apartheid years, school uniforms, especially for black schools, were not very complicated. In most public schools, girls could wear tunics, gym dresses or skirts with white shirts. The colour of the tunics or skirts would depend on the colours of the school. Sometimes different schools would have similar uniforms but there was no other school that had the same colours, material or even design as ours. This distinction was one of our sources of pride. For us it was some guarantee of success later on in life. We were aware of the selective process the school employed to choose and admit girls. Our principal, who was a great motivational speaker, used to make sure that he reminded us of all the distinguished South Africans who had gone through our school, like the late Robert Sobukwe. It was as if it were a foregone conclusion that after graduating from the
the gender politics of the school uniform
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school we would go on to become respected citizens and professionals. We believed that our school could provide us with that opportunity and wearing the uniform kept us mindful of this. We were always aware of where our school stood in respect to other schools in terms of the Grade 12 results. Our uniform reminded us of the degree of privilege we enjoyed.
Uniforms and gender

Until the late 1970s, our school uniform could be bought only in the small town of Keiskammahoek which was close to the school. The general dealer store, run by the Schoeder family, sold these imported uniforms. As mentioned above, we wore tunics and shirts but the sizes of the tunics were usually too big and they always looked clumsy on small girls, especially if they had not been properly altered. The cut of the tunics made them difficult to alter in a way that would make them look good. But, if the fit was perfect, they would give one a feminine shape and feel. The school uniform brought the issue of gender to the fore in our lives because a perfectly sized uniform enhanced ones femininity. The top part of the tunic had the shape of a pinafore as the neckline was a little low in the front. At the back it was high and right up to the neck. The sides were open and therefore allowed enough space for the later development of breasts. The top part of the tunic was joined to the skirt at the waistline. The bottom part was a slightly flared skirt. Where the top and the skirt came together there was a wide waistline shaped like a form-fitting belt. This waistline, too, could emphasise a girls shape and it allowed the skirt to flow freely and beautifully around the hips and bottom. The tunics had to be more or less knee-length. On the right-hand side the skirt had a buttoned opening that made slipping the tunic off an easy task. The figures of younger girls who were still developing were never flattered by the tunics but the tunic fitted well on a girl with clearly defined breasts, waistline and hips. For boys, however, the uniform was similar in almost all South African public schools. In the few years during which we had boys in our school, they, as did most boys, wore long grey trousers with white shirts, or long khaki trousers with khaki shirts, although these gave way in most schools to the grey and white combination of trousers and shirt. In most former white schools, shorts were allowed in summer. (Girls, however, were not allowed to wear trousers even in cold weather, never mind shorts in summer.) A gendered aspect of this uniformity that is not often mentioned is that this uniformity in the boys school attire made it easier for a boy to move from one school to another because he could still wear the same uniform. This is still, largely, the case today. However, a girl who changes school faces double expenditure: she has to pay for everything a boy would pay for as well as for a new school uniform.
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Through wearing a school uniform girls learned what was considered to be appropriately feminine. Neatness was emphasised for everyone, but far more so for girls. Every learner had to comb their hair neatly. Fancy hairstyles were not allowed and deviance from the norm was not tolerated. But, as girls, we found ways around this rule, at least to some extent. Every night, after school, we would braid our hair and then unpick it in the morning, comb it neatly and go to school. Over weekends we would do the same thing but because we were not allowed to go to the dining hall with braided hair we had to make a choice: either skip a meal and keep the hairdo or unpick it, go to the dining hall and braid it again afterwards. Teachers and prefects used to monitor learners (as we came to be called, rather than students) in terms of how well they observed the neatness standard and how they wore their school uniform. Culprits would either be punished or publicly embarrassed. The school authorities appointed prefects to represent them and to generally augment their authority. These prefects could write someone down for punishment if they thought that person had broken the school uniform policy. Depending on the infringement, punishment could sometimes be quite severe.
Conforming and resistance

What is interesting here is that, in spite of the rigid and oppressive nature of the school uniform policy, the issue of school uniform was never the primary focus of anti-government student riots. Students, instead, used school uniform as a means to defy the school authorities. School discipline relied heavily on learners obeying their authoritiesteachers, in this case. Breaking the school uniform rule was thus against the spirit of obedience. It posed a challenge for teachers. These challenges were more prevalent in township schools because of the large numbers of students in school and were less prevalent in rural schools. In my school, there was a school uniform and a church uniform, and it was through the challenging of these strict uniform codes that certain learners were able to show resistance to authority. Church uniform was a knee-length black skirt and a white shirt. Black shoes with laces were to be worn with both uniforms. We were not allowed to wear black skirts when going to class as these were reserved for church uniform only. We were supposed to wear tunics from the first day until the last day of school. However, after coming back from the holidays or just before the holidays, some learners would swap their tunics for black skirts. Understandably, some newcomers would come without the tunic and wear a black skirt on the first day and then go to town after school and buy the required tunic. However, some established students, simply to give the authorities a hard time and to make the school difficult to control, would wear their black skirts to class. Students wearing
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black skirts were not allowed to sit in class and, rather, were forced to constantly hide from teachers they knew to be strict. As a result, some learners would be in class one minute and out of class the next. This meant that there could be a constant flow of people between classrooms, the hostel and the bathrooms. The end result of this was that the school would become ungovernable, especially during the period before the school closed for the day when some learners would sit outside the classrooms, others would run around or perhaps go to the hostel, while others would even go to the small town nearby. By the end of the day there would be few students left in school. Whenever the opportunity presented itself, students would not wear their school uniform in full. The wave of student political awareness that at that time gripped the country defined my school days. Our political awareness and our thirst and desire for the best education were contradictions that impacted upon our everyday lives. We knew our school was one of the best available to black girls. Although we appreciated being at such a good school we were also aware of the responsibility we had as students in apartheid South Africa. Some of the girls came from highly politicised backgrounds. They could see the unfairness and lack of justice of some of the school policies. We would discuss what we thought was unjust and how we should respond to it. It was because of this political awareness that, in a subtle way, schoolgirls never stopped showing that they would prefer a relaxation of certain school policies, including the school uniform policy. The defiance and resistance strategies we employed varied. Some defiance was expressed within the limitations of the school rules and the wearing of uniforms, while there were also expressions of outright resistance to the point of not wearing school uniform at all. On Saturdays, it was compulsory to secure permission to go to town and to wear school uniform and yet the only time I remember adhering to these rules was during my first month at the school. Students, especially those who had been in the school for a long time, would frequently go to town both without permission and in clothes other than their uniforms. Both were considered very serious offences but learners preferred the risk of punishment to wearing the school uniform on a Saturday. We thought such rules to be grossly unfair and considered them too controlling and an attempt to erase our identities and ignore our interests.
Style and class

In 1976 girls at St. Matthews went on strike just like most of the schools in the country. The strike was violent and police had to be called in and the girls were sent home for some time. In 1977 the girls went on strike again but this time around
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the strike was not violent. Gradually, the girls became bolder and bolder and were more willing to push the boundaries and challenge the authorities. They began to disregard some of the rules and from 1978 onwards, uniforms became a solid area of contestation in that, as girls began to find their own voices, these uniforms became a way of expressing the self. Girls wanted the school uniform to become an expression of their own taste, fashion and style. They wanted it to reflect the changing times. Girls defied the prescription that a tunic must be knee-length, especially as they became more conscious of looking good in school uniform. Over time, the tunics got shorter and shorter. The general dealer that used to sell our tunics suddenly got some tough competition from a small factory that opened closer to the school and provided the students with more form-fitting tunics. The younger girls, and the more petite girls, were now able to get the right size and, as a consequence of this, could look neater. Moreover, the material that was used by the new factory was easy to iron. The opportunity to look good brought another dimension to the identity of schoolgirlsstyle and class. Some, especially seniors and younger girls who could afford it, began to wear stylish black pantyhose which were not part of the school uniform. Pantyhose were expensive and high maintenance items of clothing. If a girl was not careful enough or her hands were rough, she could ladder these pantyhose. There were many girls who could not afford to discard a pair of pantyhose each time a pair became laddered so mending them, or applying nail polish to stop the ladder running any further, became common. Pantyhose then became another tool the girls could use to test how far they could push the boundaries with the authorities. When pantyhose first became the in thing in schools, girls bought the simple, unpatterned black ones. But in line with style, fashion and class, black silky patterned styles increasingly replaced the more simple black pantyhose. I remember how, in the beginning, girls would hide from the matrons and teachers if they were wearing patterned pantyhose. Wearing expensive and designer-type clothing was then extended to the white shirts, black school shoes and the black jerseys that were part of the uniform. Our jerseys were supposed to be black v-necked jerseys, either with or without buttons. When the market introduced zipped jerseys, they too found their way into the uniform. Gradually, brand names became common, especially with shoes. School shoes from Bata were the most common, especially for poorer students, because they were not so expensive. However, with more effort being made to be stylish, girls moved away from buying lace-up Bata shoes to purchasing the strapped variety. Then names like Bostonian came into the picture, too. I remember that some shoes had soles with a white lining. Heels also became the in thing. It was usually the same girls who always set the fashion trends. In this manner, school uniform gradually became a way of expressing both personal style and taste as well
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as revealing our class. I remember asking an older friend why we had to wear school uniform. Her answer was so that we could all look the same. If we all look the same, she explained, poor students will not feel that they want to leave school because they are feeling school is not for the poor.
Conducting research: Discipline and punishment

The second school that features in my story, the one where I later conducted my research, is a rural co-educational high school in the Eastern Cape. The school is on a hill in the centre of five villages. The community has a very strong sense of ownership of the school and parents are highly involved in how it is governed. Learners, too, make sure that their school is the best through their commitment to hard work and their strict adherence to and observance of school policies and rules, including wearing their school uniform. While I was at the school I once attended a disciplinary meeting that included parents, teachers and students. In this meeting, the sameness of purpose among the different stakeholders was evident. Parents and teachers wanted the students to be punished. Students did not refuse and teachers did not oppose. When I interviewed students after the meeting I asked if they were aware that the South African Schools Act (SASA) calls for non-violent punitive measures. They said they were aware of the Act but preferred corporal punishment because it helped teachers to maintain discipline and orderliness in the school. They never contested or complained about punishment while I was there. Teachers, too, were very happy to give students corporal punishment. They punished students for every little offence. Punishment was meted out for offences such as the failure to wear school uniform, late-coming, making a noise and failure to sweep the classrooms. Girls were usually the main recipients of punishment as they were more inclined to make mistakes like being noisy and leaving without cleaning the classrooms. Another common form of punishment the teachers employed was making girls launder the sports uniforms and making boys clean the school grounds. Boys had the advantage, however, in that few boys broke the simple school uniform policy of wearing grey trousers and white shirts. The girls uniform code left far more room for error and so, according to the uniform policy of the school, girls were continually breaking the uniform policy. Consequently, they were under more scrutiny for this offence than boys. From the schools adherence to corporal punishment, and from the way the school was governed and administered, I gathered that the school believed in strict discipline. Later, both parents and teachers affirmed my observations. They wanted the students to be punished and yet, they were aware that the 1996 South
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African Schools Act (SASA) had abolished corporal punishment and called for the establishment of a disciplined and purposeful learning environment. They knowingly ignored the call to use non-violent ways of establishing an environment that leads to and encourages quality teaching and learning. Instead, they opted to continue to use corporal punishment and strict discipline. The quote in the following section shows that the strict and conservative discipline promoted at the school engenders gendered thinking about school uniform policy and how its application promotes and legitimises patriarchal ideology.
Uniforms and expectations

When the school reopened in January 2003, the chairperson of the school governing body said in his welcome speech: Remember that when you wear our school uniform it makes you recognizable to everyone as being a student of this school. If while wearing it you engage in activities that do not reflect well on this school, you put all of us in embarrassment. Students should not partake in alcoholic beverages, especially girls. It is not a good sight to see a drunken schoolgirl. If you leave home to come to school, then come to school. Do not go and loiter in town in school uniform. (Quoted in Diko 2004: 105) This speech included a prayer in celebration of the good Grade 12 results that had been obtained at the end of the previous year, along with a welcome to the students coming back from their holidays. The chairpersons aim was to motivate, inspire, stimulate and encourage the students to do well in their school work and to continue to outperform other schools in the district with their Grade 12 results. In addition, he wanted to instil in them the need to behave well and uphold the good name of the school. In a show of support, after the prayer session, the teachers reinforced the chairpersons speech by distributing a printed version of the isiXhosa school code of conduct, which emphasises discipline and learning on the part of the learners and teaching on the part of the teachers. Clearly, the chairperson regarded the school uniform as a reflection and a symbol of the school and everyone in it, which, if well displayed, brought prestige and honour to the school. This is why he took time to explain that the school uniform makes students identifiable and that any activities they engage in, whether good or bad, reflect on the school. As I listened to the speech, I accepted that some things do not change much. Intentional or not, the chairpersons speech was implicitly legitimising patriarchy. Its focus was on what girls could and could not do. There was no mention of boys who, after all, constituted half the student
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population that was in front of the chairperson that morning. Nor was there any mention of how long the grace period would be for the boys who were not wearing school uniform because they had just returned from circumcision school. This was nine years after equality had been accepted as the law of the land. One of the values on which the Constitution of the Republic of South Africa is basedthe illegality of sexismwas still far from being realised. In fact, gender equality was not even accorded the status of being a core value on which the policies of the school were founded. Girls were held to higher standards of discipline than boys and, unbeknown to them, boys were being cheated out of learning how a non-sexist society expects them to behave. In the same way as apartheid schools used to socialise students to maintain gender inequality, so did this school. It was privileging values that were held by the surrounding communities and replicating the social culture of the villages around it instead of doing what had been constitutionally advocated. As the chairpersons speech implied, in his opinion and that of the rest of the school authorities, there are certain behaviours that are still associated with what being a girl or being a boy means. To these school authorities, part of the lessons that a school must teach are lessons on how to become a girl or a woman and how to become a boy or a man. Girls were not expected to engage in certain kinds of behaviour and yet boys were. I wondered if I were the only person there that morning that could see how the narrowly focused expectations of the chairman, and ultimately the school, were transferring the local patriarchal culture onto the learners and consequently herding them further along a sexist path. I wondered if they understood that more than half of the countrys student population is female. It is therefore strategically essential, surely, to focus on gender sensitivity and equality in education. The speech prompted my mind to travel back in time and space to that girls boarding school that I had attended 20 years earlier. I realised that just as it was the case back in my own high school days, an individual in school uniform ceases to be an individual and to have the freedom to do as she or he pleases. Girls represent their school anywhereand that is every time they are in uniformand they have to obey school rules at all times. Most importantly, according to SASA, the current policy emphasises that learners, parents and teachers are equal partners in governing schools. Learners, too, have a voice in legislating what happens in schools; this includes how they behave and what they wear. When a policy is received from the government it is mandatory that, within the limits of SASA, it is customised to meet the demands of the school. Therefore, according to this, what the chairperson said was based on the schools policy or interpretation of SASA and therefore represented the views of all the stakeholders in the school. After this speech I thought more deeply than ever before about the implications of wearing a school uniform and the fact that it gives a leaner multiple roles. Each of these roles comes with responsibilities. Consequently, a school uniform
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becomes more than just attire to cover the body. And from the perspective of school authorities, it is not intended to make an individual look good. There is nothing that a student can change without being called upon to account for it. Among other things, a school uniform indicates sameness and a common purpose. People who think like the chairperson believe that a school uniform binds a person to a group and renders them accountable to the whole group and thus restricts the wearer to actions that conform to the group norms and actions that are considered acceptable to most people in the school. In a way, it stipulates what is allowed and what is not allowed. The school uniform supposedly gives students in the same school, rich or poor, boy or girl, black or white, the same identity. But, as the chairpersons speech shows, it is not always true that wearing a school uniform breaks down gendered biases. If the values and principles that wearing a uniform promotes are not properly examined, school uniform has the potential to inculcate and promote sexism. The culture of discipline on the one hand and pride in ones school on the other are twin qualities that are as old as public schooling itself, and trying to stand up against them usually has negative consequences. For the duration of ones schooling career, personal preferences and tastes become stifled and space for self-presentation and performance becomes very limited (Weber & Mitchell 2004). One picks up a group identity that is prescribed by affiliation to the school. As the chairman put it, failure to comply with the group or school rules results in punishment. Of course, I expected the chairperson to encourage students to be well-behaved. However, I was saddened to realise that the thinking of the school authorities, whom he was representing, were still influenced by traditional gender roles and entrenched in definitions of what girls or boys can and cannot do. I had hoped that there might have been some changes over the past 20 years, no matter how small. There had, however, been very little meaningful change. I found that the constructions of what is considered acceptable or unacceptable behaviour for girls and boys are still embedded in what the surrounding public thinks. I was baffled to learn that, in favour of upholding tradition, the school opted to miss an opportunity to teach the public a different way of seeing life. Nobody attempted to investigate and take advantage of the possibilities that could be opened up by fully exploring the ideal of non-sexism. After the speech, having listened to the expectations that were expressed by the chairman, I felt even more certain that school uniform policy is an area that needs serious investigation and change, as it sends strong messages about what it means to be a girl or a boy. Parents, through their approval of the chairmans sentiments, were happy to allow the uniform policy to keep certain aspects of sexism in place. School authorities and teachers, too, were using the school uniform policy to manipulate students and to either change or keep some rules as they saw fit. Such actions are tantamount to policy abuse.
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As soon as the morning prayer was over, I went to one of the female teachers and asked her to explain the school uniform policy. I learned that during summer months, girls wear green tunics with white shirts, a green tie, green socks with a white stripe and black shoes. The tunic has panels from the shoulder to the waist and from the waist down. On the side there is a zipper that assists with putting on and taking off the tunic. Boys wear white shirts, long grey trousers, green socks with white stripes and black shoes. In addition, in winter every student wears a green v-necked jersey with two white stripes on the neck, sleeves and waist. They also wear green blazers and school tracksuits in cases of extreme cold. Most senior girls, by choice, wear jerseys throughout the year. They told me they look neater when they wear jerseys. I also learned that, just as with discipline, the school places great importance on adherence to the school uniform requirements, and has a policy of very low tolerance for offenders. In fact, there are no special concessions, especially for girls. Pregnant girls, if they want to remain in school, have to wear their school uniform in full just like all the other girls, no matter how tight-fitting the tunic might be. The only way a girl can create room for her stomach (or for sheer comfort) is by leaving open the zipper on the side and then wearing a jersey over it, even if it is hot. This is where the preference to wear a jersey throughout the year may seem a wise one. A pregnant girl cannot be singled out and asked to take her jersey off for teachers to verify if she is pregnant. In this way a pregnant girl can escape getting expelled even if teachers suspect that she is pregnant. They collude with her attempts to hide her shape behind a jersey. What kind of shameful, sexist message does this send out about women and pregnancy? The school policy clearly states that parents must remove a pregnant girl from the school. The school has phrased the policy intelligently and ensured that teachers cannot and will not be directly responsible for violating any girls rights which may be constitutionally protected.1 Instead they hope that the rural parents and grandparents, who usually have a limited understanding of the current laws, will be afraid to be seen as offenders against school policy and therefore embarrassed enough to remove their pregnant child from the education system. It is a pity that the government has not given more explicit guidelines in this regard, particularly because gendered tendencies can sometimes be masked either as progressive and disciplinary or as governance issues. They are so elusive that even teachers who normally have a sharp eye regarding how they act or talk can unknowingly act in a manner that is not akin to gender sensitivity. To avoid the confusion, teachers need to be trained on gender mainstreaming. The school uniform policy is less stringent for boys. In fact it is accommodating and reflective of the culture of the area. After every school holiday, like other schools with African boys who observe circumcision, the school welcomes
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back a group of new young menor amakrwala, as they are called in isiXhosa. The school gives such young men a special concession.2 For the first three months after they return from their circumcision rites they are allowed to wear their own private clothes. New initiates dress in khaki or shades thereof to distinguish them from the rest of the males. The fact that boys are allowed to wear private clothes after their circumcision provides a direct contrast to the policies adopted for girls, who, as I have mentioned, are expected to be removed from the school if they fall pregnant. In response to this policy, many pregnant girls drop out although others do sometimes take advantage of the clause that puts the prerogative on the parent and elect to stay on. The issue of the girls constitutional rights in relation to the policy is never discussed. When I asked the chairperson if he was aware of what the Constitution said about the right to education for pregnant girls, he admitted that he was not. Girls are aware of the differential treatment to which they are subjected. At the time that I was conducting my research, they were seeking some flexibility in the school uniform policy. They were fighting to be permitted to wear grey trousers when they went to school, but they were doing so in a non-confrontational manner. I heard that the fight had intensified in 2002, when the school admitted a girl from one of the large urban schools and allowed her to continue wearing the grey trousers that she had worn at her former school. The other girls made a request to be permitted to wear grey trousers too. When I asked the girl in question for her opinion on the issue, she told me, I do not take badly to the fact that teachers single me out because this is a rural high school. I think the teachers are compelled by the environment to enforce the rules they insist on. In my previous high school, which was a multiracial co-educational high school, it was more relaxed, and as girls we were allowed to wear grey trousers. I asked the teachers for their opinion on the matter. They told me they were aware of changes taking place in other schools dress codes but said that they favour tradition as they believe that school uniform plays an important part in the maintenance of discipline. I also asked the teachers if the school was aware that it is supposed to relax the school uniform policy to accommodate the new Constitution and to show respect for the rights of the learners. They told me they were aware that learners have more flexibility with regard to wearing school uniform and that some high schools were more relaxed in their dress code than others. They, however, chose to maintain a harsh school uniform policy. They reasoned that it is hard to teach learners who are not disciplined and that is for this reason that they continued to strictly control how the uniform is worn. They could not see any alternative method that the school might employ to enforce discipline. They associated discipline with school uniform.
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Reforming school uniform policy

School uniform policy is one of the policies that school governing bodies have at their disposal to improve the quality of education in our schools, in that uniforms can encourage feelings of school pride and academic endeavour. However, schools need to evaluate the values and beliefs inherited from the orientations of outlawed apartheid policies, such as the gender stereotypes that are still implicitly upheld. Schools should also ensure that these outdated policies do not underpin current school policies as they do not have currency in the new dispensation. Any policy that is founded on divisive principles, including school uniform policy, is a direct violation of our Constitution and the promotion of or adherence to such policies, even partially, is oppressive and unconstitutional. A policy that still teaches boys how to be boys and girls how to be girls, as the school uniform policy does, needs close scrutiny. To promote equality in all its forms and to uphold it, there is a need to collectively fight any policy that undermines equality in any way, including gender equality, and to create a policy that specifically addresses the issue. Implementing the recommendations of the Wolpe report that was produced for the national Department of Education in 1997 is one of the ways in which schools can begin to teach, however implicitly, non-traditional gender-related content. We need concerted effort. Movements such as the Girls Education Movement 3 and social groups like the student population and the society at large must advocate for the development of a national policy that specifically addresses issues related to the education of girls and women as well as the eradication of violence against them and others. There needs to be a national policy that explicitly addresses the issue of gender equality and all its various facets. Enforcing a fair and equitable school uniform policy is a much needed strategy that can be used to promote gender equality. National guidelines and rules regarding school uniform will be more effective than allowing schools to adopt their own uniform policies, as nationallevel policies tend to be accorded more respect. Watchdogs like the Commission on Gender Equality (CGE)4 need to be more vigilant and vocal about perceived gaps or lapses in the implementation of these programmes. For example, if the government fails to employ gender specialists who can effectively and efficiently run gender-focus desks at the provincial and district offices, as has happened in some cases, then the watchdogs must bring the government to task. Gender specialists are trained to read how school uniform policies continue to promote sexism. Mobilisation, conscientisation and education will prove crucial. Policy-makers and policy practitioners, as well as all the accompanying state machinery, have strong visibility and credibility. The Minister
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for Women, Children, and People with Disabilities can be influential in pushing for the ratification of global changes in school uniform policy. The study that I have conducted is not exhaustive, but my findings show that there is a need for more research into understanding how schools evade complying with government policies and selectively implement other policies. The wearing of a school uniform is a very powerful tool that is used to teach learners values such as a sense of belonging. It can also be used to teach learners gender sensitivity as well as gender equality. This is one area in which researchers can play an important role. The issue of how school uniforms can contribute to bringing about equality can be investigated in depth. Parents, too, need to actively transform their thinking about what it means to be a girl and what it means to be a boy and how we create the kind of boys and girls who are characteristic of the new South Africa. They can ask questions about how the dress code that is promoted in schools influences boys and girls. Can we say it is still safe for girls to wear short tunics in schools, given the rising number of school rapes? Or can we say Life Orientation prepares our children to deal adequately with the gender challenges they face in schools? I conclude that as long as schools and communities, either implicitly or explicitly, teach lessons that are based on past beliefs and values about gender and prescribe gendered school uniforms, girls and women will continue to be the victims of gender inequality.
Notes
1 Section 9 (3) of the Constitution, entitled Equality states that: The state may not unfairly discriminate directly or indirectly against anyone on one or more grounds including race, gender, sex, pregnancy, marital status, ethnic or social origin, colour, sexual orientation, age, disability, religion, conscience, beliefs, culture, language and birth. 2 Circumcision is performed on boys between the ages of 16 and 20; it is done when young African males, coming from those groups that observe the ritual, are believed to be ready to make the transition from boyhood to manhood. It is a major milestone in a young mans life. The society accords a circumcised male a higher status than an uncircumcised male. 3 The Girls Education Movement is an African child-driven grassroots movement aimed at bringing equality between boys and girls. The South African government launched it in parliament in 2003. 4 The Commission on Gender Equality is a state institution that was set up to promote gender equality in all spheres of life, according to the terms of the South African Constitution.
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References
Diko NN (2004) School Reform and the Education of Girls in South Africa. PhD dissertation, Indiana University, USA Weber S & Mitchell C (2004) Not just any dress: Narratives of memory, body and identity. New York: Peter Lang Wolpe A, Quinlan O & Martinez L (1997) Gender equity in education: A report by the Gender Equity Task Team. Pretoria: National Department of Education
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14 The perfect matric dance dress

Linda van Laren
In South AfrIcA mAtrIc (Matriculation) refers to the final year of the 12 years of schooling. The matriculation qualification that the learners receive on finishing high school qualifies them to enter higher education at a university or other tertiary institution. In some schools, particularly the former white schools1 which are now attended mostly by children from middle-class families of all races, a formal ball, referred to as the Matric Dance, is held to bid farewell to those who will be completing high school at the end of the year. In other countries the end-of-year function is referred to as the prom or the grad dance. In this study I reflect on my experiences of my younger daughters matric dance. Now that my daughter, Lilly,2 is studying at a university that is far away from home, I realise that the matric dance celebrations gave us the opportunity to spend a considerable amount of quality time together. Her matric year was her last year of living at home permanently so the matric dance preparations, and the associated celebrations, occupied a significant part of our precious time together. This reflection serves as a documentation of our experiences of Lillys matric dance celebrations and also highlights the important role that the matric dance ceremony plays in providing experience for real-life competitions, both beneficial and potentially stressful. In 2008, Lilly attended her matric dance. She went to a single-sex high school (Grades 812) in one of the relatively affluent middle to upper class suburbs of Durban, KwaZulu-Natal. This English-medium public girls high school prides itself on being classified as a good school where, unlike what happens in many other South African high schools, the vast majority of matriculants pass their final public examinations. The ethnic groupings of the learners and teachers at the school are mainly Asian (mostly of Indian descent) but there are some white (of European descent) and a few African and coloured (of Malay, African and white descent) learners. The racial composition of the learners and teachers in this high school does not reflect the same composition (in terms of percentages) as the population of South Africa.3
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KwaZulu-Natals Asian people are largely English-speaking. A significant number of Asian families live in the suburb of Durban where Lillys high school is situated, so this English-medium girls school has changed from accommodating predominantly white learners to catering for mainly Asian learners. The racial composition of the learners changed after the first democratic elections took place in South Africa in 1994. Over the years the matric dance traditions at Lillys high school have, however, retained the same basic format. Many South African learners prepare for the matric dance years before it happens because the function is considered to be a momentous occasion and undoubtedly the highlight of the entire Grade 12 school calendar. Lilly, who matriculated at the age of 17, remembers that she started designing her dress while she was in Grade 8. Her list of important considerations for the planning of a matric dance included the dress; the date (partner); the arrival; and, lastly, the dance itself. The order of the items in Lillys list highlights the significance of the dress in relation to the celebrationthe actual formal dance. This leads to the questions, Why is the matric dance dress so important? and Why does the matric dance dress play such an important role in the lives of teenagers growing up in our society, particularly in the post-apartheid era?
Locating the study

Prown (1982) describes a particular methodology that is based on the proposition that an object, such as a dress, is primary data for a study in the field of material culture. In using a matric dance dress as evidence, it is possible to study the beliefs of a particular society at a particular time in a specific space. In studying material culture, using the matric dance dress as an artefact means that the existence of this object is taken as real evidence of the presence of the human dimension required in the making of the matric dress as embodied in the teenager who commissioned, purchased and used the object. As such, the matric dance dress reflects societal beliefs about these teenagers and the other role players (including her peers, her teachers, and her parents and siblings) in a matric dance celebration. Furthermore this function provides ways of understanding the complexity of issues that are particular to girls lives (Mitchell 2005). The object in this study of material culture is Lillys matric dance dress. This dress, while paid for by her father and me, was commissioned by Lilly. She asked our family friend of over 20 years, Audrey, 4 who has been a dressmaker for over four decades, to make her dress. Audrey has made many garments for my mother, as well as for me and my daughters. Churchs (2002) autobiographical research describes how many dressmakers become trusted friends and, despite being commissioned
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to make a specific garment, they play a significant role throughout the process of preparing the garment. According to Church, part of [the dressmaker] is in that dress at the end of the dressmaking process, yet, at the same time, the dress forms part of the wearer (2002: 242). Even though Audrey could simply describe the external features of Lillys dress as being made of green teal raw silk, organza and tulle fabric with embellishments of bugle-shaped beads, having sequins together with a butterfly necklace attached to the neckline, and being in the style of an empire line with a fishtail skirt and a ruched crossed-over bodice, her input was far more important than that of merely being the skilled seamstress. These structural descriptions, however, do not fully represent the belief systems of our culture that the matric dance dress symbolises. The work of art that Lilly commissioned could be considered a special artefact because of the aesthetic and spiritual factors involved in designing and making the unique dress. The dress is a direct, overt and intentional expression of a certain set of cultural beliefs (Prown 1982) because it portrays what Lilly and Audrey considered to be an appropriate garment for the matric dance that is both celebration and ceremony. These cultural beliefs have evolved in a particular segment of society, influenced by our nationality as South Africans living in the post-apartheid era, our location in a suburb of Durban, and the fact that we are middle class, to name only some of the societal markers.
Methodology
In this study, the interpretations of cultural beliefs surrounding the matric dance celebration and this dress are based on my own lived experiences (as mother of the matriculant), on my interactions with Lilly, on an informal interview with Audrey and on Lillys written and spoken reflections on her matric dance experience. I asked Audrey if I could interview her about her experiences as a dressmaker of matric dance gowns. With her consent I conducted the informal interview at her home. Before I asked whether I could audio-record our conversation, I gave her the interview questions to read so that she would be comfortable about the types of questions to which she would be expected to respond. I asked Lilly to write about her matric dance experience after the event. I did not tell her that my focus was on her dress so that she would be free to reflect on any aspects of the matric dance that she felt were significant. I did, however, frequently ask Lilly for clarification on particular recorded points. For checking purposes, I gave Audrey and Lilly a printed copy of this chapter so that they could comment on any possible misinterpretations. Lilly provided some feedback but Audrey provided no comments on its contents.
the perfect matric dance dress
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Lilly selected one of the photographs that I took in our garden on the evening of the dance to show her dress (see Figure 14.2). Audrey kept Lillys handdrawn sketch of her matric dance dress which provided details of how she wanted her dress to be made. Lilly willingly provided a photograph of one of her earlier sketches, made when she was in Grade 8. This sketch (see Figure 14.1) was from one of her private diaries so I had to promise that none of the background writing would be made public. Conversations with Lilly and Audrey, the photograph (Figure 14.2), and Lillys sketch (Figure 14.1) gave me insight into how my reflections were intertwined with the experiences of Audrey and Lilly in relation to the matric dance dress. But it is not my reflections so much as the matric dance dress itself that is the material focus of this study. The dress, however, cannot be isolated from the role that this object plays in all the activities related to the matric dance celebration and ceremony. These activities include the choices made by Lilly whilst having the perfect dress made by Audrey, planning the arrival at the dance ceremony, attending the actual dance, as well as the other events that occurred after the ceremony. According to Prown (1982) an important consideration in material culture is the function of the object in a particular society. The function of Lillys matric dance dress may be superficially described as a decorative adornment used at a specific dance or function. The displayingshowing and revealingof the matric dance dress at the function forms a central part of the dance celebration. Because Lillys dress would be worn only once at a particular social eventher matric dance it had a decorative function rather than a utilitarian purpose. More importantly, her dress has aesthetic and spiritual value in its expression of particular attitudes towards others involved in the celebration. Furthermore, Lillys dress is concrete evidence of the dance experience that celebrated the historical event of her having finished 12 years of schooling and reflects Lillys decisions about how she should look at this celebration. The inherent value of a matric dance dress is reflected in the fact that it is an object that is treasured and kept. Lilly remembers how, when she was a little girl, she looked at my matric dance dress, which dates back to 1969. She commented that one day she would also want her children to look at her dress and to feel inspired to dream about having pretty dresses of their own. Lilly considered her dress to be very stylish at the particular time when she designed and commissioned its making. For safekeeping, Lilly has now also placed her dress in her bedroom cupboard, where she can easily and frequently admire it.
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The dance celebration

For this once-in-a-lifetime matric dance celebration, Lilly was afforded the opportunity to experiment with dressing-up. The dressing-up opportunity allowed her to show, in a tangible and permanent way, her ability to interpret and express contemporary fashionable styles which she had seen worn by international and local celebrities in magazines, on the television and in films. The numerous activities surrounding the dressing-up opportunity are now presented according to separate yet related aspects, that is, choosing the perfect, unique dress; the partner; the dressmaker; the arrival at the dance; the dance; the after-party; and the fashion parade.
The perfect, unique dress

Best (2000) studied high school proms by collecting narratives from American college students and she notes the importance of obtaining the perfect unique dress. The author describes how, to prevent the possibility of girls arriving at the same prom wearing identical dresses, boutiques in the vicinity of particular schools kept a detailed record of who bought each dress. Some of the matriculants at Lillys school ordered dresses from overseas to secure exclusivity. One of her friends imported fabric from Singapore and another purchased a dress that was made in Italy. Lilly also comments on her quest for her ideal dress in a note about her initial visit to Audrey. I went to my designer with a fixed idea about what I wanted but changed my mind after browsing through bridal magazines. Seeing so many different ideas in the magazines confused me quite a lot because I wanted my dress to be perfect. In Grade 8, Lilly pasted into her secret diary one of her many drawings (Figure 14.1) showing her selection of special dress requirements. Best (2000), in her study, confirms that many girls made hand-drawn sketches of their dresses. Lillys drawing shows the importance that she placed on using a dress to emphasise her voluptuous feminine body shape. Although Lilly considers her design to have changed many times before she finally settled on what she wanted, this line drawing from four years before her actual matric dance was very similar to her final design. The colour of her eventual matric dance dress was not as dark as shown in her drawing but it had the same snug-fitting upper-bodice detail, bodyhugging hip feature and slightly flared skirt.
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While speaking of a friend who specifically designed her matric dance outfit to be different, Lilly mentioned that although the dress was unusual, it was not slimming. This remark is gender-related in that the importance of the dress in displaying the female body in a particular socially acceptable way is highlighted, as are the concerns teenagers have about being fashionably slender. Having a dressmaker specially make a garment obviously allows for a dress that fits well so that the teenagers body shape is accentuated. From Lillys drawing and from her eventual dress it is obvious that she sought a young yet sophisticated feminine style. An important function of her dress was to flatter her figure. After we had purchased all the required materials for the dress, Lilly took scraps of the fabrics that she had chosen to school to show her friends their colour and texture. Some of her friends, however, kept the details of their dresses a complete secret by refusing to share any details about them. Matriculants are keen on setting themselves apart and they go to great lengths to find something exclusive to wear. Lilly wrote: My dress is special to me because it was made especially for me. My mother and I shopped for the fabric together and I watched as my dress was created from a six-metre piece of raw silk into a stunning dress. As part of this quest for exclusivity Lilly also decided to make a parasol, using a piece of the netting fabric with sequins that had been used to make the overlaid frill of her dress. She wrote, I loved the matching parasol that my family helped me to make (see Figure 14.2). It is worth noting in her reflection the importance of family involvement in the preparation for the matric dance dress.
Figure 14.1 Lillys sketch of her matric dance
dress drawn when she was in Grade 8
Figure 14.2 Photograph of Lilly5 in her matric dance

dress, taken on the day of the dance
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Lilly did not purchase additional fabric for the parasol but its decoration did involve additional costs. According to Audrey, matriculants parents or families who have the financial means spare no expense on the dress. Amongst the matriculants there is also open discussion about the costs involved in making the dresses. Exorbitant amounts of money usually change hands when the girls purchase fabric that is then fashioned by dressmakers and/or designers. For example, Lilly commented that one of her friends paid R2 500 (approximately $300) for the design and making of her dress, while Audrey charged one-tenth of this amount. Another of Lillys friends chose fabric embellished with sequins and Swarovski crystals that cost R4 000 (approximately $500) per metre. Similarly, while the amounts involved were far from exorbitant, Lilly was allowed to choose exactly what she wanted and this involved travelling to many fabric centres in and around Durban. During these fabric-hunting expeditions we were afforded the opportunity of spending a number of hours together, as mother and daughter, navigating the streets of Durban to find what Lilly considered to be the perfect fabric for her dress. In other words, we afforded her the opportunity to independently decide on her perfect dress without imposing seriously limiting financial restrictions on her choices. It is, however, not surprising that matriculants believe that it is necessary to spend large sums of money to secure the perfect dress. The way in which dresses are illustrated in the media goes hand in hand with the capacity to spend excessively, particularly in the case of teenage girls wanting to display their ability to dress up as glamorous women. Most of the dress illustrations in the media show slender, glamorous, excessively rich celebrities in designer dresses that mirror European or American fashion trends. The dressing-up opportunity for girls often results in a spending frenzy that capitalises on the need girls have to express what is expected of the modern woman and simultaneously stand apart to make a statement (Best 2000). The dress becomes a cultural symbol that may be used to gauge how girls make the transition to adulthood through becoming consumers exercising spending power.
The partner
An important consideration in a partner, according to Lilly, is summed up here: the golden rule is to ask yourself: If I look back on these matric dance photos, will my date still impress me? Lillys comment highlights the fact that a partner who looks good on the treasured photographs is essential. At the dance there was a constant flashing of cameras to record the girls with their partners. Lilly went to great lengths to ensure that her boyfriend was her partner at the dance and arranged for him to fly from the North-
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West Province to accompany her. Obviously she considered her boyfriend suitable for the photographs that would be treasured for a long time. Sometimes even the partners appearance did not escape becoming somehow connected to the dance dress. Lilly wrote: The final touch to the matric dance dress was my partners tie. All the girls gave their partners either a tie or waistcoat to complete their overall look. Some girls made their partners wear suits made entirely from their dress fabricthat looked a bit extreme and detracted attention from their dresses. Underlying Lillys comment is her view that the partner should somehow be linked to the dress but at the same time should not overshadow the girls appearance. Obviously Lilly realised that her perfect matric dress should not be complicated by issues relating to a partners outfit. Parental involvement also played a role in partner selection for the dance. Lilly pointed out that some of the matriculants fathers refused to allow them to take a male friend to the dance so they were accompanied by cousins or family members. Two of the girls came unaccompanied but the reasons for these two matriculants not choosing partners is unknown. One same-sex female couple attracted considerable attention. Lilly commented on the fact that one girl was wearing a masculine suit and she observed, The openness of their lesbian relationship was an interesting talking point of the evening. This particular pair of girls had, however, been together for a number of months and they had never been secretive about their relationship. At Lillys school there are a number of lesbian teacher couples so the arrival of the two girls as partners was acceptable but none the less interesting. These two matriculants opted to mimic a heterosexual couple, with only one of the girls wearing a ball gown. The other partner decided to take on a masculine appearance and, in so doing, attracted an enormous amount of attention. By wearing a suit instead of a dress this matriculant was sending a clear message that she did not consider the perfect dress a necessary requirement for being unique. This pair of girls, however, still wanted to dress according to the conventions of a heterosexual couple.
The dressmaker
Prown (1982) points out that information regarding the dressmakers purpose or intent, whilst using the concrete materials to make the dress, plays an important role in the study of the object. Audreys description of Lillys dress can be considered to be external information about the matric dance dress but her role in the construction process also makes her involvement a significant source of internal evidence.
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During 2008, Audrey made approximately 30 different matric dance gowns. According to her, matriculants often ask dressmakers to make their dresses because of the unique result obtained from commissioning a garment. Furthermore, the matriculants are often not able to find the particular design that fulfills all their complicated expectations. Derry (2004) explains how difficult it can be to shop for a prom dress at a regular mall where stores that stock young girls clothing usually cater for cute little girls rather than regular-shaped teenagers. Often the matriculants require a particular dress size that is unavailable in commercial stores and boutiques and this is where the dressmaker steps in. She is able to produce a garment that fits the matriculant far better than any ready-made garment. Each girl aspires to a vision of how she would appear on a red carpet as a celebrity wearing a custom-made designer outfit. Audrey has noticed that there are some cultural and racial differences in parental involvement in the dressmaking process. The grandmothers and grandfathers of the Asian matriculants often pay for the outfits. Being of an older generation these sponsors choose outfits that are more conservative. Audrey has found that Asian matriculants families often make the preparation of the dance dress a family affair, sometimes with up to ten family members being present at each stage of the dressmaking process. The particular religion of the Asian matriculant dictates whether shoulders and arms may be exposed and whether any visible cleavage is permitted. Some of these matriculants are expected to wear a shrug or jacket to cover their shoulders and arms. Audrey has found that the outfits of the Asian matriculants range from being highly sequined and bejeweled (as is fashionable in Bollywood film productions) to more traditional sari outfits that are imported from India. None of the matriculants at Lillys matric dance, however, wore traditional sari outfits. This is probably because the high school is fashioned after a white English-speaking culture that favours Western culture. (As mentioned earlier, prior to 1994, this school was classified as a school for white learners.) In contrast to this, the white matriculants who ask Audrey to make their dance dresses have minimal parental or family involvement. The teenagers arrive for the planning and fitting sessions with their mothers and rarely is a father or other family member present. Most often, only Lilly and I travelled to and from Audreys home for dress-fitting appointments. Audreys home is approximately 60 km from where we live and during these trips we were able to spend quality time together, chatting about matters that did not necessarily focus on the matric dance dress. I was always consulted and involved in the dressmaking process but I allowed Lilly to decide exactly how she would like their (it was, in a sense, both hers and Audreys) farewell dress to look. As a white South African parent I believe that independence is an important quality for a young adult to develop. I gave Lilly free
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reign in making decisions about her dress so it was up to Audrey to convince Lilly to adhere to sensible and practical considerations. Audrey commented on how complicated the hand-drawn, customised designs are that most matriculants produce when they meet her for initial appointments. Audrey finds that these designs often include bits and pieces of a multitude of incompatible styles that are difficult to organise and arrange to make up one welldesigned garment. Furthermore, according to her, the matriculants often do not take into account their particular body shape when designing their ideal custom-made showpiece. She is often required to negotiate important decisions with the girls in a firm manner, and her opinion frequently holds sway in design and construction selections. For example, when girls who have large breasts expect Audrey to make skimpy, thin-strapped dresses that cannot offer appropriate support, she has to be firm in her negotiations and often resorts to stern yet convincing arguments to persuade matriculants to consider significant design requirements. In Lillys reflections it is interesting to note how the status of our dressmaker was elevated to that of a designer. Lilly realised that Audreys role in synthesising the perfect dress encompassed far more than skills-related activities. Audrey did not simply follow instructions but also provided sound advice about how to create a unique, appropriate matric dance garment.
The arrival at the dance

In addition to acquiring the most eye-catching dress at the dance, matriculants consider it important to make a statement by arriving at the dance in a unique manner. The arrival at the matric dance probably relates to a similar tradition at weddings. The arrival of the bride at a wedding ceremony is significant because this is often the first time that the bridal gown is publicly revealed. It is interesting to note that the best arrival at Lillys matric dance was awarded to the learner who was carried to the venue by her partner. Perhaps this also relates to the tradition where the groom carries his new bride across the threshold of their new home? There was stiff competition in terms of the best arrival and it is interesting that the least expensive mode of arrival at Lillys matric dance was rewarded as being the best. The mode of arrival was clearly an important contest because the girls searched for unusual, interesting forms of transport. Lilly reflected on the arrival competition: Planning the arrival proved to be a big stress for most girls. There were fights about who would be arriving with whom and about what the most eye-catching way to arrive in style would be. Some of the outrageous ways in which the girls arrived included stopping traffic in the middle of Durban to
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arrive in a helicopter, a pumpkin carriage (Cinderella-style) carried by four half-naked men, and being dropped off by a rickshaw.6 Weeks before the dance, the main topic in the car on the way to school was how she would arrive at the matric dance. Eventually Lilly decided that she wanted to arrive in a particular type of sports car. She spotted her idea of a stylish car parked in the driveway of neighbours we had never met. She plucked up enough courage to ask the strangers if they would be willing to transport her and her partner to the matric dance. They agreed. Usually Lilly relied on me to organise and arrange any negotiations that required communication with strangers. On this occasion, however, she independently and confidently handled all her own negotiations and arrangements to secure her transport to the matric dance. She commented on how exceptionally proud she was to arrive in her favourite type of sports car. She added, The Audi was the same colour as my dress and I had been very brave to stalk our neighbours and request that they take me to the dance in the sparkly car. She was not concerned about the sports cars limited space nor that her partner would have to squeeze into the back of the tiny two-seater car. She and the owner of the car sat in front while her partner was forced to lie horizontally and crumpled up behind them. Lilly was determined to arrive in her favourite type of sports car and the fact that the colour of the car matched the colour of her dress made her arrival somewhat unique. Her initiative in organising her transport to the dance increased Lillys feelings of independence and confidence. The pressure and competitiveness attached to the arrival resulted in Lilly developing social negotiation skills.
The dance
Audrey commented on the enormous competitive pressure experienced by teenagers who want to be seen as adults through the selection of their matric dance dresses. She proudly remarked that one of the dresses she made won all 10 prizes on offer at a particular matric dance. The girls appear to be burdened by the many competitions that form a central component of the matric dance celebration. Lilly described some of the competition categories in which the girls were required to compete and listed the recipients of these prizes at the end of her matric dance thus: Most likely to become presidentthe prize went to the bossiest girl in our grade; Most likely to become first ladythe prize went to a perfectionist; Belle of the ball: the most beautiful dress, hair and all-round appearance was won by a girl who had friends on the committee who chose the winners; Best hairstylethe girl who won this prize was rather upset because I think she thought she deserved all the prizes; Best arrivalthe girls date carried her
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into the venue; Player of the year was awarded to the girl who invited the most males to accompany her to the dance but who ended up just choosing one. The list of competitions at the matric dance focuses on the traits that are considered to be important. But it is clear that apart from the traits required to be a president of a country, most of the competition categories focus on the need for girls to have an appealing outward appearance.
The after-party
In South Africa, as in Canada and the United States, matriculants often organise another function that is held on the same day, immediately after the official formal matric dance. The late function is called an after-party. Usually the matriculants wear another, more casual outfit to this informal celebration. The formalities of the matric dance, and dressing up in the perfect dress, are no longer important. Perhaps the after-party could be seen as a celebration akin to the honeymoon after a wedding celebration when the bridal outfit is replaced by the going away outfit. At afterparties the matriculants usually plan to stay up all night and to see the sun rise, often with entertainment that involves excessive drinking, much merry-making and indulgence in sexual activities. These functions are heralded as the occasions where, in the heteronomativity of popular youth culture, the ritual of the loss of ones virginity is most likely to be rumoured to occur (Weber & Mitchell 2004). Some time after the matric dance evening Lilly told me that the teachers at her high school had appealed to the girls to do nothing they would regret at the after-parties. Lilly initially intended going to a night club as her after-party function but she decided against this because she was too exhausted after spending the whole day preparing for the dance. The anticipation and intense excitement of the long-awaited event had been overwhelming. Instead, Lilly and her partner went to a friends house to have what she called a nerds gathering.
The fashion parade

Traditionally, at Lillys high school, a matric dance dress fashion parade occurs shortly after the matric dance function. At the fashion parade there are yet more competition categories. This event is patronised by the parents (mainly mothers) of the matriculants, and learners from lower grades. This is the time when parents begin to realise that serious saving is required for when their Grade 11 daughters will dress up as celebrity adults the following year. As soon as the Grade 12 learners have completed their fashion show the Grade 11 learners begin earnestly planning their own matric dance dresses. Lilly indicated that she had enjoyed her fashion parade
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far more than the actual matric dance. In her comparison she wrote: I enjoyed the fashion show because there were more photo opportunities and I did not have to stress about my arrival or keeping my date entertained. At the fashion parade each matriculant is afforded the opportunity to showcase her dress while a short commentary about the dress is presented by a compre as she models her dress on the ramp. The compre clearly announces if one of the dresses that is being modelled received a prize in any of the judging categories. The script for the commentary is prepared by the matriculant and each matriculant describes any important features of the fabric, dress and/or designer. We invited Audrey to attend this function so that she could see the variety of dresses, have her share in the excitement, and to show our appreciation for her having made Lillys dress. Sometimes a particular member of the family is singled out as having played a significant role in the dressmaking/designing process. During this fashion parade frequent mention was made of the significant role that mothers play in the dressmaking and dress-shopping processes but it was clear that very few mothers are brave enough, or able enough, to attempt designing and making the matric dance dresses for their own daughters. At the fashion show the matriculants usually do not concern themselves with styling their hair and no partners are required so each teenager is afforded the pleasure of enjoying a red carpet moment in her special matric dance dress without too much emphasis being placed on salon-styled hair and other accessories.
Discussion
Why is the matric dance dress so important? Why does the matric dance dress play such an important role in the lives of teenagers growing up in our society, particularly in the post-apartheid era? What difference does this piece of research on the matric dance function make to understanding the bigger picture of the lives of girls and young women? By using the matric dance dress, the experiences of female matriculants like Lilly, in their final year of schooling in the South African education system, can be studied at a particular time in a specific space. By using the matric dance dress as an artefact for evidence it is possible to explore the subtle manner in which young women are encouraged to compete for uniqueness by focusing on their external appearance. The matric dance dress competitions and matric dance celebrations show how the matriculants at girls schools are under far more pressure to be uniquely dressed than are their male teenage partners. The female teenagers are expected to stand out through having the perfect, distinctive dress in order to be counted
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and rewarded with prizes. Male teenagers may have other pressures surrounding matric dance celebrations but these aspects are not as profoundly obvious in terms of how the body is presented in its external appearance (Weber & Mitchell 2002). Some boys at single-sex high schools in the Durban area of KwaZulu-Natal are even obliged to wear their school uniforms to their matric dance so that no competition based on appearance is possible. Only the female partners of these boys are expected to wear dance dresses which need to be acquired at additional effort and cost. The female partners external appearance, particularly the dress, is an important way to compete with other girls and to show off with the chosen partner. At Lillys school the dressing-up expectation was central to many of the stressful competitions at the plethora of events that accompany matric dance celebrations. The matriculants are encouraged to be unique, using all the fashionable trappings of modern society, through overt external means. The ability to stand apart from other matriculants is dependent on how much effort, time and money they have been able to spend on an objectthe matric dance dress. Because teenagers are determined to conform to what peers consider acceptable, matriculants are not perturbed about spending exorbitant amounts of money and effort on a dress. The matric dance celebration appears to encourage finding the perfect, unique dress, whereas teenagers usually try to keep up with similar (if not identical) hairstyles, clothes and other fashion fads. Most South African learners wear uniforms to public schools. In South African schools the learners are occasionally permitted to arrange a civvies day. Civvies is an abbreviation for civilian clothes and the civvies day at schools involves allowing the learners to wear casual clothes to school instead of school uniforms. The civvies day is usually considered a real treat and is awaited with anticipation. The learners are required to pay a nominal amount for this privilege and this money is often donated to a charity. Lillys high school uniform consists of a rather unflattering, loosely fitted white shirt, navy-blue skirt and blazer, and flat, buckle-up or laced black shoes with white ankle-high socks. The style of many school uniforms may be an attempt to camouflage the external appearance of the female body but for civvies days the girls at Lillys school usually wear casual denims and big shirts. Despite welcoming the opportunity to shed the school uniform, the privilege of wearing different clothes generally ends up with the learners all looking uniformly dressed. From a distance the teenagers leaving the school gates in the afternoon appear to be a sea of navy-blue denim jeans with a sprinkling of colourful shirts. The girls look so alike in these casual clothes that it is difficult to distinguish the Grade 8 learners from the matriculants. On these occasions the dressing competition appears to be focused on fitting in with the crowd and being in keeping with the latest informal clothing fashions.
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The matric dance dress choices do, however, appear to encourage matriculants to be seen as individuals. The dance dress, which marks, as I mentioned earlier, the culmination of 12 years of schooling, is used by individuals to set them apart. The many different matric dance competitions all encourage uniqueness. Wearing a unique matric dance dress that is fit for a celebrity is important for the young adult who is about to compete in many different aspects of society. The matric dance provides opportunities to dress up as a celebrity where star qualities, rather than school-related talents, are clearly displayed. I was proud of the choices Lilly made in her efforts to show her individuality. Her dress was not an excessive, extravagant outfit, yet by making the accompanying parasol she was able to demonstrate skilful creativity and stand apart. The matriculants ability to display their star qualities were accentuated by salon-styled hair, make-up and other accessories such as jewellery, shoes and partner. But the most important aspect of the dressing up remains the dress because this is an opportunity to show that, once the school uniform is discarded, it is possible to be a celebrity. The use of technology to display the images of the teenage girls wearing their perfect matric dance dresses has a profound impact on recording the meaning that matriculants attach to the dance. Choice of partner is also linked to how these girls will appear in the photographs because they [girls] would treasure the photos for a long time. The importance of looking distinctive and grown-up needs to be captured in as many ways as possible. Even now, almost two years after the matric dance, Lillys friends all still have photographs of their dance dresses posted on their Facebook profiles. Video recordings are made of the matriculants as they arrive at the dance venue and professional photographs are taken of individuals, couples and groups. The girls are constantly asked to pose for friends and family so that images of the matriculants can be captured using cellular phones or digital cameras. Photographs of selected couples from matric dances are also placed in local newspapers. The format of these photographs in the media is similar to that of bride and groom portraits. There is a constant pressure to record evidence of how the dressing up has transformed a uniform-wearing schoolgirl into an adult.
Conclusion
There are many links between the matric dance ceremony and wedding ceremonies. These include photographs of the couples in local magazines, numerous photographs and videos captured before and after the ceremony, the importance of the dress and the revealing of the dress on arrival at the venue. Perhaps the after-party function may be seen as a form of honeymoon where sexual activities
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are expected as part of the celebration. The dance celebration is often marketed as a pre-wedding rehearsal for young women (Best 2000). The importance of the appearance of the bride at any wedding is similar to what is expected of female matriculants at their farewell function. Perhaps the competitions associated with the matric dance are ways of encouraging the matriculants to break away from the uniformity and regimentation of their school days and to look towards becoming an adult, but excessive emphasis on competing can result in a disproportionate amount of stress for the participants. Although it is important for a teenager to be seen as a distinctive individual, instead of being able to celebrate their diversity, they can become stressed as a result of all the preparations and expectations, particularly the teenage girls who are expected to sparkle and will be judged by their external appearance. Their partners, however, usually purchase or hire suits or tuxedos and are not compelled by pervasive external forces to comply with socially constituted competitive practices. For young women, in particular, the matric dance dress is the most overt expression of their being different. This quality is favoured in society because of the challenging nature of our rapidly changing world in which we are expected to adapt or die. For girls in particular, the importance of looking good at the matric dance in a unique dress forms part of the rite of passage into our highly competitive society. Despite all the emphasis on competition during the matric dance celebration, as a mother of a matriculant I found that during the preparation for the event a number of opportunities for interacting with my teenager were created. All the arrangements that needed to be made allowed for valuable discussions between me and my daughter who would soon independently be making many real-life decisions whilst living away from home at a university residence in Gauteng. The importance of being able to spend quality time with my daughter during her last year of schooling cannot be underestimated. Even the drama, excitement and the temptation to go over the top whilst acquiring the perfect dress provided worthwhile opportunities for reflection. The material object, Lillys matric dance dress, has not been worn again but the real-life lessons learnt will no doubt remain with Lilly and influence her decision-making ability when pressures to either conform or be unique need to balanced.
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Notes
1 2 3 During the apartheid era separate schools were provided for white, Asian, African and coloured learners. My daughter wanted to be known as Lilly; this is the name she has always wanted. According to the mid-2007 estimates, the South African population consisted of approximately 79.6% of African origin, 9.1% white, 8.9% coloured and 2.5% Indian/Asian (SouthAfrica.info 2007). In the province of KwaZulu-Natal, however, and specifically in the Durban area, there is a large Indian/Asian community that represents approximately 20% of the Durban population (Durban Metro-Statistics n. d.) 4 5 6 A pseudonym is used here to protect the identity of our dressmaker. Source of images from private collection of Linda van Laren, with written consent from Lilly. In Durban, African rickshaws consist of two-wheeled carts. The cart is drawn by an African man who is flamboyantly dressed in colourful clothing and a gigantic hat. This form of transport is a major tourist attraction in the beachfront area of Durban. Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za
References
Best AL (2000) Prom night: Youth, schools, and popular culture. New York: Routledge Church K (2002) The hard road home. In AP Bochner & C Ellis (Eds) Ethnographically speaking: Autoethnography, literature, and aesthetics. Walnut Creek: AltaMira Press Derry C (2004) Ill never find a dress: Shopping for the prom. In S Weber & C Mitchell (Eds) Not just any dress: Narratives of memory, body, and identity. New York: Peter Lang Durban MetroStatistics (n. d.) Accessed 14 September 2009, http://www.kznhealth.gov.za/ GIS/metrostats.pdf Mitchell C (2005) Mapping a southern African girlhood in the age of AIDS. In L Chisholm & J September (Eds) Gender equity in South African Education 19942004. Cape Town: Human Sciences Research Council Prown JD (1982) Mind in matter: An introduction to Material Culture theory and method. Winterthur Portfolio 17(1): 119 SouthAfrica.info (2007) South Africas population. Accessed 14 August 2009, http://www. southafrica.info/about/people/population.htm Weber S & Mitchell C (2002) Canadian Pie: A video on boys and their proms. Montreal: Taffetta Productions Weber S & Mitchell C (2004) Theorising dress stories. In S Weber & C Mitchell (Eds) Not just any dress: Narratives of memory, body and identity. New York: Peter Lang
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15 Angeke ngibe isitabane1: The perceived relationship between dress and sexuality among young African men at the University of KwaZulu-Natal
Thabo Msibi
Mondli2 caMe into My flat looking drained, perplexed and very tense. He had just visited a school before starting his month-long teaching practice at Dwebula High School. Mondli is a slim and attractive young man in his early twenties. He has dreadlocks and wears tight and expensive designer clothing. He feels that by dressing this way he is not only stylish but also attracts potential girlfriends something, he says, which is very important to a heterosexual man. Although Mondli acknowledges that he is effeminate he denies a gay identity and becomes angry when someone assumes that he is gay. He had come to see me because he needed solace after an upsetting incident at the school. He had gone to the school, in his own words, looking ravishing. Dressing up is generally the norm when student teachers go on school visits, in part because student teachers often perceive male African teachers as careless when it comes to their professional dress. Young African student teachers, in contrast, use this period in their lives to challenge this perception and also to look attractive to the learners they teach. But Mondli had encountered a major problem at the school he had visited as the boys there had rioted in his presence in reaction to his dress style, shouting and insisting that they would not be taught by a faggot. Conclusions pertaining to his sexual orientation had apparently been made based merely on his style of dress, without any other form of evidence. The girls reactions had been very different but even more intriguing. Mondli explained how the girls had immediately cheered and screamed for him as soon as he had walked into the class. For the girls, Mondli differed from other heterosexual men because he had adopted a dress style that was more attractive than usual and this made him more desirable. In this chapter, encouraged by Mondlis experience, I explore the perceived relationship between dress and sexuality among young African men at the University of KwaZulu-Natal. I argue that attending to dress can offer insight into
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the constructions of masculinity. Furthermore, I show that certain forms of dress can serve to entrench some of the more heteronormative discourses surrounding manhood. As the findings will illustrate, fashion has provided a platform for young men to express themselves and their sexualities through dress. However, this expression is under constant surveillance and policing. Goodwatch (2005) notes that sexuality is a highly value-laden terrain, which is always under scrutiny and is highly controlled. This chapter also exposes and explores the pervasive fear of the queer. Such fear marks the insidious nature of homophobia, which regulates manhood and heterosexuality through dress.
Literature on dress and sexuality

Few studies have been conducted that explore the issue of dress in relation to sexuality, particularly among young African men. I therefore use crossdisciplinary work to show how dress has been perceived in youth culture and African contexts. Studies in social science research have looked at dress largely as a mode of representation. While this is important, an understanding of the narration (identification) which emanates from the dressed self may prove more interesting. Weber and Mitchell note that a wide range of meanings are constructed and co-exist around and through our clothessome of them fleeting and unstable, some of them contradictory (2004: 255). Mondlis story is an example of how, in a single context, varied and contradictory interpretations of a dressed individual can co-exist. Such contradictions not only exist from the point of view of the observer but also from that of the wearer. Magwaza (2001), in her article Private transgressions: The voice of Zulu women, explores how symbolism and dress codes provide women of CamperNdwedwe3 with the means to communicate a range of social and cultural messages, including silent social protests. In her study Magwaza defines dress as referring to both the body and to items added to the body. She notes that a dressed person is not only somebody who has on detachable items of clothing but that this term should also be understood to refer to all modifications made to the body itself. Magwaza further argues that dress sends out particular messages about a persons identitytheir sense of being. Barnes and Eicher concur that one can expect dress to precede verbal communication in establishing an individuals gender identity as well as to set up expectations regarding other types of behaviour (1995, cited in Magwaza 2001). We can see, therefore, that dress can be used in many ways as a marker of identity.
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Tatum (2000) notes that various factors, including individual characteristics, family dynamics, historical factors, and social and political contexts interact with each other to form particular constructs that shape our social identities. In addition, Giddens (1991), Keupp et al (1999) and Jen (2004) all note that identity can be viewed as an ongoing, constructive and reflective process. From this, one can conclude that the representation of the self is never fixed and stable. Further to this, it would follow that the interaction between our dress and sexuality is more complex than simply being a question of identification and identifying. There are many other dynamics at play which may include the context, time, space and other social forces, to which will I return later. People perceive nearly all types of social identities as being articulated through clothing (Davis 1989). Because people see clothing as linked with the self, this allows them to make particular assumptions. Davis sees dress as being associated with a particular codea code that is ambiguous and semantically indeterminate. He notes that among the prominent ambivalences underlying such fashion-susceptible instabilities are the subjective tensions of youth versus age, masculinity vs. femininity, androgyny vs. singularity, inclusiveness vs. exclusiveness, work versus play, domesticity vs. worldliness, display vs. modestyetc. Fashions code modifications seem constantly to move within and among the symbols by which clothing encodes these tensions, now highlighting this, muting that, juxtaposing what was previously disparate (Davis 1989: 343) From Daviss explanation it is conceivable that a person can be categorised racially or sexually, or have their gender, class and age determined through the way they dress. Dress, therefore, can provide an opportunity for regulation as one of its functions. Sexuality, as a realm that is highly controlled, does not evade this policing and regulation. In fact, dress provides a perfect vehicle for such policing in that it allows for young men (and women) to be monitored by others regarding the choices they make about their sexualities and their behaviours in relation to how they dress. Following on from this, a dressed self can be seen to carry many meanings. Such meanings can come from the self (representation) and from those observing (identification). It can communicate a range of factors, including an individuals political stance, rebellion, activism and social identity. This chapter will report how the perceived information from dress can limit, oppress and also affirm some identities at the expense of others. In this chapter, I explore how young men read their own and others sexualities through their dress. This account addresses questions of power, subordination, domination, hegemony and identity through dress.
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Setting the context

The study was carried out at the Edgewood campus of the University of KwaZuluNatal, in Durban, South Africa, where the universitys Faculty of Education is based. The campus, like most teacher education sites around the world, has a predominantly female population. According to the most recent university statistics, 4 there are currently 3 394 (69 per cent) registered female students compared to a male student registration of only 1 496 (31 per cent). This campus offers programmes for initial teacher education, continuing education and postgraduate education. Prior to being incorporated by the then University of Natal in the year 2000, the campus used to be a college of education which had been set up originally for white students during the apartheid era. In 2004, the University of Natal merged with the University of Durban-Westville to form the University of KwaZulu-Natal. Edgewood is now predominantly African, with 3 709 African students registered, compared to the 110 coloured, 849 Asian and 221 white students currently registered at the campus5 . The majority of students come from disadvantaged backgrounds. The African men in my study came predominantly from rural settingsareas that are deprived of resources. For most of the men, this was the first time that anyone in their families had had any university education and as a result education is highly valued. This context is thus relevant to but not representative of Zulu men from rural areas. The study, as indicated earlier, explored the perceived relationship between dress and sexuality among young African men. I was puzzled by the response of the boys when Mondli visited the school. I wanted to understand how the young mens day-to-day encounters with each other operated to subordinate some male dress identities while at the same time worked to privilege others. My study addresses these critical questions: Do young Zulu men at the University of KwaZulu-Natal perceive a relationship between dress and sexuality? What is their perception of the relationship, if they believe that one exists? How does this relationship play out in the day-to-day understanding of masculinity? The study was conducted through semi-structured interviews with seven African male participants from rural settings and largely from disadvantaged backgrounds, all of whom were studying to be teachers at the Edgewood campus of UKZN. Their ages ranged from 19 to 26. Participants were at different levels of their education, ranging from the second to the final year of study. The study was qualitative and interpretivist in its orientation. The interviews were conducted via Skype, a free
dress and sexuality among young african men
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video conferencing facility that allows participants to interact with each other across the world. This was necessitated by my being in the United States of America at the time of the interviews. In order to ensure the reliability of data, interviews were recorded and participants were allowed an opportunity to review what they had indicated in the interview. Informed consent was elicited from participants and pseudonyms were used in data presentation to ensure anonymity and confidentiality. Participants acknowledged voluntary participation with the freedom to withdraw at any stage without any penalty or prejudice. Participants were also requested to view the data after analysis to ensure internal validity (see Mason 1996; Pillay 2004; Silverman 2000). As this study was conducted with Zulu men, it is useful to give a brief background to Zulu masculinities, both traditional and evolving (Bhana et al. 2009; Hemson 2001; Morrell & Makhaye 2006). The men participating in my study, as I have already mentioned, came largely from disadvantaged rural communities in KwaZulu-Natal, which Morrell (2001) notes are characterised by few opportunities and an expectation of a heterosexual expression of masculinity. In traditional Zulu settings, power tends to rest with the chief, his headman and the elder men, with women and girls, and to some extent, young boys, relegated to a minority status. Bhana et al. note that, traditionally, economic achievement [for the men] was associated with building a homestead, accumulating cattle (a symbol of power) as well as having several wives (Bhana et al. 2009: 51). The introduction of migrant labour during colonial and apartheid South Africa together with the progressive policies of the post-1994 dispensation has seen a drastic shift in the way Zulu masculinities are constructed. Whether the shift emanates from not having sufficient economic wealth for paying lobolo (bride-price) or from South Africas progressive constitution, Zulu traditional masculinities are under constant transformation, which is viewed by some, particularly Zulu men, as a threat. Young Zulu men of today therefore find themselves in the dilemma of having to maintain some of the traditional constructions, such as respect, lobolo, and being amasoka, 6 while at the same time possibly feeling threatened by the rising economic power of women as well as by unemployment. Many of the young men have turned to drugs, violence and alcohol as a reaction to the difficulties of coping and survival, with very few having access to education. It is rather interesting, therefore, to observe how young Zulu men with access to education negotiate their identities through dress in an evolving South Africa. In the next section I present the findings of the study which detail how dress operates to foster and contest traditional forms of masculinity, as well as the measures that are taken to regulate and police mens behaviours in the attempt to maintain normative masculinities.
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Gay fear: Dress and representation as a form of social control

As stated above, the study sought to explore the perceived relationship between dress and sexuality among a group of young African men studying to be teachers at the University of KwaZulu-Natal. In general, the study found that the young men were fearful of being identified as gay, and believed that an individuals dress was one way through which such identification could be made. Such fear ensured individual sanctioning and regulation, both by the individual as well as by other men. The participants all spoke about not crossing the line. To illustrate, when responding to the question of whether there was a need to be careful when choosing a dress style, Musa, a final-year student, commented: Yes, because theres an existence of gays, I need to make sure that Im not gay and I need to do that by showing or dressing in a way that shows that Im not gay.
To these men, dressing up in a particular way was not simply about fashion and style but about the expression of ones identity, particularly ones sexual orientation. Thus, to avoid being perceived as gay, the men reported that men could/should dress in a particular way. This chapter posits that it is this type of thinking that allows for the strict regulation and control of mens sexualities. If being perceived as gay is something to be avoided at all costs, it follows that the presentation of oneself as gay can make a person liable for punishment. There were two major aspects to this regulation. First, there were rules pertaining to the way in which the body was represented, dressed and sexualised. Second, labelling and categorising were used to subordinate and restrict men. The next sections explore these forms of regulation.
Regulating the dressed body

Martin Mac an Ghaill, in The Making of Men (1994), argues that masculinity is a socially constructed positionality which is negotiated through power relations, social structures and subjectivity. He perceives masculinity to be socially reproduced and reconstructed through very complex social interactions. My findings in this chapter are consistent with this understanding. Throughout my interviews with the seven participants there was a clear discourse around aspects of the body, in which the bodies were seen as vehicles which were required to demonstrate mens masculinities. In particular, any aspect of the body which was considered to be effeminate was considered deviant and was suspected of being gay and as something to be rejected and even punished. Not only was the body constructed and represented through dress, it also represented manhood itself. For example, the
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men in the study suggested that men could be identified as either gay or straight through their dress or through the way they walk. For example, men were not meant to shake their bums when walking (Sihle, third-year student). Another method for regulating manhood through the body is the way men speak. Men are expected to have loud and deep voices. Those men who generally have soft voices were seen to be not men enough. Senzo, a final-year student, notes: I think people can see that I am a real man. The way I walk, talk and dress says that Im a real man. I dont act and talk in a soft voice like a woman... When I look at people, it gives me the view of other people. When I see people not acting and dressing like me, I can see that they are not real men. These responses suggest that the discourses around masculinity are characterised by fixed assumptions which do not necessarily associate sexuality with the gender of a persons preferred sexual partner but rather with superficial characteristics which are read through the representation of the body. These markers are then used to pass judgement and effectively rank men according their supposed manhood. In particular, among the men in the study, a dressed body was read through a combination of these markers. In this regard both the voice and walking styles were intrinsically intertwined with dress. They could therefore not isolate clothing from the body; the combination communicated, for them, a sexual identity.
Labelling and categorising the dressed body

Labelling was a very clear theme in the interviews in this study. I use labelling here to mean the classifications that men made of each other on the basis of their dress. Unlike the premise of Howard Beckers labelling theory7, labelling here does not focus solely on the names given by dominant groups to categorise subordinate groups who deviate from the norm but, rather, focuses on the relationship between power, discourse and meaning-making among and against specific groups. By this, I mean that different groups of men labelled each other regardless of their perceived masculinities and power positions. This means that the power to label was not located in one group of men but was instead dependent on various social and contextual factors like friendship, comfort and space. Each man I interviewed was able to list more than three similar categories into which men could be placed, based on the way they dressed. According to Connell (1995), there are four different types of masculinities, each with its distinctive features. Connell distinguishes hegemonic masculinitieswhich he describes as the dominant form of masculinity and an exemplary formfrom three other types of less dominant masculinities. These are marginalised (or protest), complicit (practised by most men because
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in doing so they benefit from patriarchy through the marginalisation of women) and subordinate (predominantly gay) masculinities. Linked to these forms of masculinities, the participants in this study categorised and ranked men according to their dressing styles (intertwined with voice and ways of walking), identifying the following categories: amabhujwa; O-outie/olova/amajita; amakholwa; amaqaba; sportsmen and izitabane.
Amabhujwa
The amabhujwa/ibhujwa8 (amabhujwa is the plural form and ibhujwa the singular) are men whose dress places them between heterosexuality and homosexuality. The word ibhujwa has a historical meaning in that its roots and pronunciation lie in the word bourgeoisie, which referred to a sophisticated class in the late 19th and early 20th century in Britain. This was a class which possessed wealth. Alan Shannon (2003) argues that in Britain, during the period from 1860 to 1910, the bourgeoisie led a fashion revolution that gave new direction to mens clothing. In the context of this study, amabhujwa were men who challenged traditional mens dress norms. These men wore tight, expensive and colourful clothes. They mainly identified themselves as heterosexual but dressed in ways which participants in this study (and others) often characterise as feminine. In fact, men who were labelled as amabhujwa generally did not appreciate this label as it often implied a degree of emasculation. For those men who considered themselves as amabhujwa, being a bhujwa implied nothing more than being fashionable. It represented men who liked to take care of themselves. These men also felt that they were labelled in this way simply because they did not represent the norm and because they wanted to be different. Hector, a fourth-year student who does not identify himself as an ibhujwa but is labelled as one, noted in his observations: A person who is called a bhujwa thinks he is being hated because he doesnt want to join the clan. If you fail to do something that the group does and you do your own thing, theyll call you ibhujwa just to cause you painto exclude you. Others think being ibhujwa means that you are rebellious and you dont want to follow rules. People in the townships have their ideas on what one should do to live. So theyll call you ibhujwa just to make you feel the pain. I note that although the label is meant to represent something positive in terms of fashion, being categorised into this group is not seen as positive but rather as something painful. For the more hegemonic forms of masculinity, being a bhujwa represented a deviant character who behaves like a woman, and is, therefore, gay. Time and time again, I was confronted with suggestions that amabhujwa were either gay or were on their way to becoming gay. This, it should be noted, was only from
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those men who were perceived or who perceived themselves to be more masculine. Sihle, a third-year student who sees himself as an outie, 9 had this to say about amabhujwa and their sexuality: A person who starts off as a bhujwa goes further to being gay. A person who is a bhujwa is meant to be soft. If you change and after two years you become soft, wear tight clothes then you become a stabane.10 This is what happens to some bhujwas. For men like Sihle, being a bhujwa has little to do with fashion but has very much to do with being on a continuum towards being gay. Because of this perception, all the men I interviewed who considered themselves to be bhujwas acknowledged some form of self-policing. Some made sure that if they wore tight trousers, the clothing did not show off their private parts. Others wore tight clothes but policed themselves by having girlfriends or walking in a manner which could be perceived as masculine. In addition, wearing tight clothes was not necessarily seen in a negative light by the amabhujwa themselves. For some men, like Mdu, a third-year student, wearing tight clothes was a way of projecting his masculinity. For him, being a bhujwa is to be stylish. Mdu stated that he wore tight clothes to get the attention of women, though this (however unintentionally) often got the attention of men too. He commented on how fantastic his figure looked and how attractive his penis looked when it was bulging through his tight trousers. However, he was very quick to inform me that although he enjoyed the dressing up he nevertheless took care that he didnt cross the line. For him, personal policing ensured that he was not gay. He claimed to be a bhujwa but at the same time insisted that he was normal. He notes: Theres a thin line being gay and being ibhujwayou need to make sure that you dont cross the line. Interviewer: What do you mean when you say that you have to make sure that you dont cross the line? You need to make sure that you are a man. The talk, the walk needs to ensure that you are seen as a man. Noas a heterosexual [correcting himself]. Although Mdu corrected himself, it is clear that he and others in this study link manhood exclusively to real manhood and heterosexuality. Men who were generally effeminate but identified themselves as straight were therefore not only policed through dress, language and styles or ways of walking but were made to censure themselves to ensure that they were perceived to be real men. In this context masculinities are constructed in a manner that projects same-sex relations
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as being deviant and unacceptable. Although South Africa has arguably the most liberal constitution in the world, social spaces and cultural values restrict men to either conceal their same-sex desires or enact them in the closet, for fear of not being considered real men. Mondlis experience in the school, therefore, demonstrates the extent to which dress provides text in legitimising certain forms of manhood above others. For the boys in his class, Mondlis bhujwa dress style, together with his effeminate disposition, meant that he did not qualify as a real man. His dress style, together with his dreadlocked hair and his physical appearance, challenged the boys conceptions of manhood and, as such, he required policing and objection; hence their refusal to be taught by him. This refusal reveals the perverse manner in which sexualities are regulated and controlled through complex social and institutional networks in order to maintain and sustain hegemonic forms of masculinity. This is a system in which deviance is punished and silenceda system in which even schoolboys can legitimise or delegitimise their teachers manhood.
O-outie/Olova/Amajita
This group represented men who were perceived to be unquestionably heterosexual. The words O-outie/Olova/Amajita have similar meanings and refer to men who are perceived to be streetwise. These men represent the dominant form of masculinity. When it came to dress, as a group the O-outie/Olova/Amajita had no definite way of dressing. However, they were seen to be normal no matter how they dressed. The only restriction was that they could not wear clothes considered to be gay. All the respondents in this study, regardless of either the group they were labelled as belonging to or their sexual identities, referred to this groups dress as normal. When prompted to describe the exact dressing style of this group, the participants were unable to provide a substantive explanation. They spoke of normal trousers, normal shirts and normal shoes. What was clear, however, was that the normality was created in opposition to femininity (and homosexuality). Pinar notes that becoming a man in any machismo sense requires a defensive and compensatory denial of femininity (2001: 1115). Men in this group were expected to dress only in what was considered to be mens clothing and were discouraged from engaging in fashionable activities such as hairstyling and dressing in colourful or tight clothing. These men were also prevented from using feminine hand gestures. This group defined manhood and therefore set the parameters for other men and women. The interviewed outies advocated for an exclusively heterosexual orientation, an act that Epstein and Johnson (1998) deplore as oppressive and problematic. All the men in this study saw this group as the most important group when it came to definitions of manhood. As one of the respondents noted, they represented
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the cream of the crop, an exclusively straight group that had very little regard for fashion and presentation but was more concerned with the competition for women and hanging out with other men. All the seven men in this study, regardless of the group into which they had been labelled, had something to say about the pressure of having to hang out with other men. Sihle, who, as mentioned earlier, sees himself as a member of this very masculine group, spoke about the importance of spending time with his uncles: I also live in Durban, though 60 per cent of my time is in Jozi (Johannesburg). Thats where my uncles are, thats where my male family members are. I mostly spend my moments with them, not that I hate females; its just that you need that male advice. Interviewer: Dont you need female advice too? I also need female advice, but the thing is that its good to imitate males, cause I am a male, cause Ill take what my uncle says as right for me. I take what I think is right for me in order to be a better person. The same appreciation for learning from men were also expressed by Hector, a final-year student. But unlike Sihle, Hector expressed a deep dislike of old Zulu men. He lamented the fact that old Zulu men expected him to behave in a particular way but, because of his upbringing, he just didnt know how to react towards them. The struggle that Hector feels represents the roots of patriarchy in traditional Zulu contexts in which men are revered and treated in special ways. By hanging out with other men, men learnt what was considered appropriate dress and what was not. This insistence that men must hang around other men in order to learn can serve as a form of social control which legitimises an exclusively heterosexual identity. However, learning from older men is not necessarily undesirable. People do learn from others and this learning cannot simply be reduced to being defined as a means of social control. In traditional Zulu societies, this learning is and always has been key to socialisation and the upbringing of young people.
Amaqaba
The amaqaba 12 label refers to a group that represents an exclusively heterosexual identity but is financially deprived. The historical meaning of the word amaqaba was uncivilised people. When the missionaries arrived in South Africa, there were huge divisions between those who saw the white influence as being destructive and problematic for the future of African people and who rejected Christianity, and those who saw new possibilities for progress and, therefore, accepted the religion.
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The latter saw the new opportunities that came with Christianity as ideal for their advancement in a powerful white world. They dropped the Zulu traditional dress and started wearing Western clothing. As Mangcu puts it, this was itself a form of adaptationa way in which parents facilitated their childrens survival in the new world (2007: 56). Those who assimilated were called amakholwabelieverswhile those who rejected Christianity were called amaqabauncivilised. The men in this study identified the amaqaba as a group of men who were from rural areas and who knew very little about fashion. This group was seen to be very traditional in their thinking and also as being unable to tell the difference between good fashion and femininity. When I asked Hector about this group, he noted: This group does not try to match clothingIts [dress] doesnt co-ordinate. Wearing bright colours may not be acceptable. These are people who are seriousMr and Miss Serious.
The men and women in this group were looked down upon by the participants of this study. They felt that men who belonged to this category lacked the resources to become part of the hegemonic masculinities. Apart from lacking the financial resources to buy attractive and expensive clothing, the men in this group were seen to be weak because they rarely possessed any beautiful girlfriends. Their heterosexuality was confirmed in that they had girlfriends, just not the beautiful ones. When I asked Senzo (a final-year student who is placed by others in this group) how people perceived him, he responded by saying: That one is difficult because men today have different styles of dressing. For the people who dress like me, they see this way of dressing as good but others who dress up American, they perceive me as not Westernised but like a farm boy. Its when you look at me as from a farmuneducated. If you dress like me, you will see that thats not the case. A man is able to show his being a man in the way he dresses. For Senzo, his sense of dress had very much to do with his own identity. He chose to dress the way he did to demonstrate his manhood and his power to resist not only fashion but also Westernisation. He perceived fashion as another form of Western imperialism and something that must be fought against at all costs. Senzo lambasted those groups who dressed up in an American way, calling them amalulwane (bats) because they were running away from their cultures. For him, under no circumstances was a man supposed to draw attention to his bottom. Men who wore tight trousers which showed off their buttocks were giving a clear indication that they were moving away from their culture.
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Amakholwa
As discussed earlier, the word amakholwa means believers. Participants identified this group as a group that was highly preoccupied with Christianity and also with seriousness. This group generally was perceived to wear formal clothing most of the time and, because of their Christian convictions, to take life very seriously, even reflecting their seriousness through dress. Men belonging to this group were also seen to be heterosexual. Most South African churches have been very outspoken against homosexuality, labelling it as an abomination against God. Owing to overtly negative attitudes from the church, South African gay men who remain in the church are forced to conceal their homosexual desires (Butler et al. 2003). Because of the influence of such thinking, men who belong to the amakholwa group were seen to be heterosexual and were respected by the other men for their conviction towards God. Seriousness, which was demonstrated through formal clothing, was assumed to be incompatible with homosexuality. Sihle noted that [Amakholwa] are perceived to be serious. People wont think they are serious when they are gay. They hide it [being gay]. They like to be respected. Sihles statement presents three issues related to sexuality. First, gay men are not perceived to be serious by other men. Second, other men were aware that there were gay men in this group but that they hid it. In this situation, homosexuality is tolerable if it is not revealed or declared in public. Finally, Sihles comments suggest that a man is respected only in his assumed heterosexual state; once homosexuality is declared, such respect disappears.
Sportsmen
The sportsmen were seen to be a new group that was exclusively interested in sportswear. There were two men in my study who identified themselves as members of this group: Mdu, who identified as bhujwa but also wore sportswear, occasionally dressing in sport outfits and brands in order to attract women, and Sihle. During the interview Sihle demonstrated how this group dressed. From head to toe, Sihle was dressed in branded sports gear. He wore an Adidas cap, shirt, trousers and shoes. The only thing he fell short of showing me was his underwear, which he said was not Adidas. In commenting on his style of branded sportswear, Sihle said: It puts pressure to some guys who are also fashionable. Its not that Ill say to other guys look at what Im wearing. I can tell my friends but not everyone else. It becomes competition. Some guys think wearing brands and fashion attracts women. For me its about style. I always say to my [homies] that wearing brand names doesnt mean Ill get girls. It depends on the environment. If you go to rural areas, most people dont have money to buy clothes. In urban areas its where the style gets practised.
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This is another way in which manhood is equated with powerover women and over other men (Kimmel 2000; Pinar 2001). By competing with other men in terms of dress, men fight for validation through competition for women. Women provide a currency for the expression of these macho attitudes. As such, competition around dress helps men to test each other and each others sexualities, to see who the real men are. The sportsmen were assumed to be exclusively heterosexual and were therefore respected. This essentially resulted from three factors: first, the number (and beauty) of the women the men claimed to have; second, the amount of money that the men had to buy brand names; and third, that these men were perceived to be sophisticated as a result of their being educated. The fact that they were studying at university while wearing this type of clothing solidified this perception. By taking on these characteristics, these men could move up in the masculinity scale and could therefore be awarded the respect that true Zulu, masculine men should possess. As Mdu declared, I [am] 200 per cent heterosexual. No dessert, no starter, just the main course!
Isitabane/Izitabane
The word isitabane13 is a derogatory isiZulu word used to refer to gay men. Like most derogatory words, isitabane does not have a direct meaning but is associated with disgust and hatred for the queer. It carries a similar meaning to words like faggot, dyke or moffie. 14 The men interviewed identified gay men as people who liked to dress up like women. This, they said, was because of such mens desire for a feminine identity. Dress style for gay men was seen to be characterised by tight trousers (sometimes womens trousers), womens jewellery, shirts that revealed stomachs, and exotic shoes. None of the men interviewed wanted to be associated with gay men. In their attempts to police themselves, they all acknowledged that they always checked what they wore to make sure that they did not appear gay. They all revealed that there was an immense fear about being seen to be gay or actually becoming gay. The men believed that gayness could be seen not only through dress but also through speech, softness, body, femininity, the lack of a masculine physique, speaking with hand gestures and even masturbating. Kimmel (2000) notes that the construction of masculinity through such an array of qualities emanates from our fear, as men, of being unmasked. The fact that the seven participants were able to note this policing, particularly their own self-regulation in terms of dress and social interaction, underscores the fact that they were not ignorant of how masculinity is constructed: they took this construction as the norm in the creation of real men. Other than Sya, a third-year student who privately identified himself as gay, the men
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in the study defiantly referred to themselves as dressing up normally or like a real man and denied being gay. An issue that intrigued me during this study was the idea that gayness was more relevant to style than identity. The men argued that there had not been as many gay people in South Africa before the collapse of the apartheid regime as there now were in a democratic South Africa. The reason given for this increased coming out was that, now, having a gay identity was seen to be stylish in South Africa. The participants who identified as straight argued that being gay was about pretence and being stylish rather than about having an actual sexual preference. They suggested that everyone was coming out because so many other people were doing it; it was becoming a stylish trend. Like Kimmel (2000), I believe that such conclusions about sexuality are largely a result of the fear that the gay identity presents to heterosexual men. It is evident throughout this chapter that this is a prevalent fear in any situation where men are restricted and regulated in various forms to ensure that they do not deviate from the perceived norm.
Conclusion
In this chapter I have attempted to understand the relationship between dress and sexuality among young African men. The analysis demonstrates how an examination of dress and the categories related to it can offer new ways of understanding the construction of young African masculinities, particularly in rural settings in South Africa. The study suggests that social control and labelling can work through the policing of dress to maintain heteronormative social values. Dress is also connected to issues of class, power, religion and race in ways that foster homophobia. In decisions about dress, the most notable feature is the centrality of paranoia and fear towards the gay. Such fear was expressed both in the respondents words and in how they represented themselves through dress. This fear, I have argued, is sustained by the patriarchal social networks and definitions of manhood that currently form Zulu masculinities. Amongst men with a traditional image of masculine confidence, dress often communicates anxiety about not deviating from an assumed norm.
Notes
1 2 3 I will not be a faggot! This is not his real name. Camper-Ndwedwe is a rural area between the towns of Camperdown and Ndwedwe in KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa.
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4 5 6 7
UKZN Management Information Fact Site(UKZNStats). Accessed 10 October 2009, https://dmi.ukzn.ac.za/ukznstats/students_custom.asp UKZN Management Information Fact Site(UKZNStats). Accessed 10 October 2009, https://dmi.ukzn.ac.za/ukznstats/students_custom.asp Amasoka in IsiZulu refers to a belief that men need to pursue as many women as possible in order to demonstrate their masculinity. Becker focuses on the tendency of dominant groups to negatively name subordinate groups or those seen as deviant from the norm. The theory explains how the self-identity and behaviour of individuals may be determined or influenced by the terms used to describe or classify them.
8 9
The bourgeoisie. An outie is a man who is perceived to be normal. Outies can dress in any way they wish so long as they do not wear effeminate clothing or clothing that makes them look unattractive to women. Outies are generally seen as street smart.
10 Derogatory isiZulu word meaning one who is gay. 11 Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za These are men who named reality and defined what it meant to be a man. They represented the dominant forms of masculinity, with unquestioned heterosexuality. The word Ulova/Olova (singular/plural) is an isiZulu word meaning a person who is lazy. This word is, however, used by young men to refer to someone who is streetwise. It is interesting that the word is mostly viewed negatively in most communities, although the young men overturn it to imply something they deem positive. The same goes for O-outie and Amajita. The words might be perceived negatively in the community but the young men use them to depict real manhood. 12 Amaqaba refers to men who are perceived not to have style and who maintain traditional notions of manhood. The word iqaba usually refers to one who is uncivilised. Men in this group are seen as real men because they do not go to many lengths to beautify themselves, a characteristic thought to be mostly associated with women. Heterosexual masculinities in Zulu contexts, and indeed in many other patriarchal contexts around the world, are stereotyped as men who do not take great care to look presentable. Because Amaqaba tend to care less about how they dress, they are assumed to be unproblematically heterosexual as this is seen to be a characteristic of manhood. 13 Izitabane (singular: Isitabane) is a derogatory isiZulu term for gay men or faggots. 14 Moffie is a derogatory Afrikaans word, used to label, in a derogatory way, a man with female mannerisms as gay.
References
Bhana D, De Lange N & Mitchell C (2009) Male teachers talk about gender violence: Zulu men demand respect. Educational Review 61(1): 4962 Butler AH, Alpaslan AH, Strumpher J & Astbury G (2003) Gay and Lesbian youth experiences of homophobia in South African secondary schools. Journal of Gay and Lesbian issues in education 1(2): 328 Connell RW (1995) Masculinities. Cambridge: Polity Press
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Davis F (1989) Of maids uniforms and blue jeans: The drama of status ambivalences in clothing and fashion. Qualitative Sociology 12(4): 337355 Epstein D & Johnson R (1998) Schooling sexualities. Buckingham: Open University Press Giddens A (1991) Modernity and self-identity: Self and society in the late modern age. Cambridge: Polity Press Goodwatch R (2005) Sex therapy: Historical evolution, current practice, Part 1. Anzift 26(3): 155164 Hemson C(2001)Ukubekezela or Ukuzithemba: African lifesavers and masculinity. In M Morrell (Ed.)Changing men in southern Africa. Pietermaritzburg: University of Natal Press Jen, H (2004) Dressed in history: Retro style and the construction of authenticity in youth culture. Fashion Theory 8(4): 387403 Keupp H, Ahbe T, Gmr W, Hfer R, Mitzscherlich B, Kraus W & Straus F (1999) Identittskonstruktionen. Das Patchwork der Identitten in der Sptmoderne. Reinbek bei Hamburg: Rowohlt Kimmel S (2000) Masculinity as homophobia: Fear, shame, and silence in the construction of gender identity. In M Adams, LA Bell & P Griffith (Eds) Readings for diversity and social Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za justice: An anthology on racism, sexism, anti-semitism, heterosexism, classism, and ableism. New York: Routledge Mac an Ghaill M (1994) The making of men: Masculinities, sexuality and schooling. Buckingham: Open University Press. Magwaza T (2001) Private transgressions: The visual voice of Zulu women. Agenda 49: 2532 Mangcu X (2007) To the brink: The state of democracy in South Africa. Pietermaritzburg: University of KwaZulu-Natal Press Mason J (1996) Qualitative researching. London: Sage Morrell M (Ed.) (2001) Changing men in southern Africa. Pietermaritzburg: University of Natal Press Morrell R & Makhaye G (2006) Working not blaming: Masculinity work with young African men in KwaZulu-Natal. In F Leach & C Mitchell (Eds) Gender violence in and around schools: International perspectives. Chester: Trentham Print Design, Ltd. Pillay J (2004) The experiences of learners from informal settlements. South African Journal of Education 24(1): 59 Pinar WF (2001) The gender of racial politics and violence in America. New York: Peter Lang Silverman D (2000) Doing qualitative research: A practical handbook. London: Sage Shannon B (2003) Masculinity, dress and consumer culture in Britain, 18601910. Paper submitted for degree of Doctor of Philosophy, University of Kentucky, USA Tatum B (2000) The complexity of identity. In M Adams, LA Bell & P Griffith (Eds) Readings for diversity and social justice: An anthology on racism, sexism, anti-semitism, heterosexism, classism, and ableism. New York: Routledge Weber S & Mitchell C (2004) Not just any dress: Narratives of memory, body and identity (Eds) New York: Peter Lang
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16 Khangela amankengane:1 The role of dress amongst rural extension workers in KwaZulu-Natal
Bongiwe Mkhize
I teach the subject of Extension in the Department of Community Extension at Mangosuthu University of Technology (MUT), KwaZulu-Natal. The aim of the course is to train students who, once they have completed the course, will become development practitioners. As development practitioners they are likely to contribute towards sustained agricultural and economic development and food security in Africa. These students are equipped with agriculture and home economics skills. The subjects that I teach include Poultry Production, which focuses on broiler production and layer (egg-producing chickens) management, and the subject of Extension, which covers topics like programme planning and evaluation, management of extension organisations, and leadership development. Extension as a subject helps students to effectively communicate what they have learnt in the communities in which they have been involved. In working with development agents we are preparing students to go into rural communities and to educate and empower rural people to engage in self-help projects such as poultry production, vegetable farming, field crop production and other agro-processing industries. In the case of my own field of poultry management, this means that through their field experience, students learn how to do such things as feasibility studies, types of management and ownership of poultry businesses, as well as acquiring technical information which includes choosing a site for poultry, house design, equipment and general management, and the feeding of poultry (broilers and layers). I emphasised the word communicate above because it is so critical in this line of work. Invariably the initial challenge for my students is to be accepted by the farmer. For this reason, one of the important aspects of Extension that I emphasise is the students dress code. Whenever we go out with students for an educational excursion, during the briefing session beforehand I make a point of emphasising the dress code and what is considered to be acceptable behaviour. Giving the students information about the dress code is just one of the many things we do to prepare them, even though, to the best of my knowledge, there has been very little
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Figure 16.1 The author (far left) and students visiting a small scale poultry farmer at Adams Mission,
South of Durban.
written either for or about agricultural extension workers and their clothing, except in relation to safety requirements while using machinery. I therefore see it as my responsibility to prepare my students so that they are able to address the community needs as they arise. One of the challenges that they face is the prevalence of HIV and AIDS in rural communities, especially as many people in rural communities regard extension workers as experts who can give them important information, including information about HIV and AIDS.
Starting with myself

Part 1: Beware of dressing as a member of a political party
My own experiences of working as an extension worker taught me the importance of the dress code when involved in field work. One of the incidents that served as a turning point in my life happened when I worked in a particular area where two rival political partiesthe Inkatha Freedom Party (IFP) and the African National Congress (ANC)were dominant. At that time I was an innocent extension worker who believed that as a civil servant I was supposed to serve all people equally, without showing any partiality. I did a lot of work with IFP-affiliated members of the community because they were involved in a number of community development projects in the area. While working in this community, I was operating in my own society and culture; I was an insider. At the same time, I was also an outsider because of my undeclared political affiliation. Some of the community leaders who were working closely with me suggested that I should wear t-shirts that promoted the IFP in order to be warmly welcomed and, therefore, more effective in my extension work.
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At the back of my mind were the principles of extension and work ethics that I had been taught at the college where I had trained. One of the things that my lecturers had emphasised was that when I qualified I would be working in the communities and would not be in uniform. In other words, I should look like the local people and they should not be intimidated by my appearance. That was during the period when there were so many complaints from the nursing staff about the treatment they were receiving in the area. People had a negative attitude towards community health nurses because they associated their dress with the treatment they had received from hospital nurses. My lecturers had also emphasised that I would be working as a civil servant, therefore I would be expected to serve all people equally and not favour certain sections of the population or members of particular political parties. I worked for some time in this area without wearing anything that promoted any party. In this way I made a point of upholding the principles of good extension. After some time, I learnt that by not wearing the IFP uniform when going to work, I was being mistaken for a member of the then banned ANC (popularly known as uKhongolose in isiZulu). While I was working innocently with this community, doing extension work, some members of the community were spreading rumours about my being an ANC member. This was not a simple matter during those days, especially between 1986 and 1990 when some of the political organisations were banned in South Africa. Being affiliated to the wrong party could mean having your household destroyed or even death. A prominent member of the IFP, once he was convinced that I was an innocent extension worker, told me that people thought I was a member of the ANC because I did not wear the IFPs uniform during my meetings with them. This incident made me pay more attention to my dress and to the work environment. Now that I have left the governmentsector andhave joinedthe higher education sector, I see thisas an opportunityto share my work experience with students who will graduate and become extension workers themselves.
Part 2: Learning to wait

In another instance, in a different area from where those two parties dominated, I had to be introduced to the iNkosi (traditional leader, previously known as a Chief) of the area before starting my work. One of the senior members of an extension team accompanied me. I was dressed modestly in my long skirts, not in trousers. I was presentable and professional. We drove along the avenue lined with tall trees until we reached the gate of the iNkosis kraal. I had anticipated that the visit would be no more than a matter of minutes or, at the most an hour, but we stood at the gate for a long time until a little child came to us. She had been sent to find out who we were.
the role of dress amongst rural extension Workers in kWaZulu-natal
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We told her that we were from an extension organisation. The little girl returned to the kraal with our reply and after some time, came back and asked us how the iNkosi could help us. The senior field worker told the child that he was coming to introduce a new field worker in the area. She left again and after a few minutes returned to tell us that the iNkosi had invited us to come in. As we entered his hut, the male field worker made a sign of respect with his hands and praised the iNkosi. We were then instructed to sit down. I thought that once we had sat down the conversation would soon begin. Instead, the iNkosi looked at us without saying a word. He merely played with his fingers for a long time before he greeted us. The process of introductions took almost five hours. Although the process was a long one it was important to building good relations with the iNkosi of the area and it was from this experience and from the senior field worker that I learned the importance of patience and wisdom. I learned that if you show appropriate respect for the traditional leaders you develop a good reputation and this protects you from the more antagonistic people who live in these communities.
Notes from the field: Dressing for field trips with students
As part of teaching Extension at MUT, I organise educational excursions to the communities for my students. This allows students to integrate the theory they learn in class with practical experience from the real world of work. The need for such field trips is based on the notion of experiential learning, which emphasises the need for a direct encounter with the phenomena being studied as opposed to merely thinking about the encounter or only considering the possibility of doing something about it (Kolb 1984). Students interact with the communities and with people working in different organisations and also get an opportunity to participate in ongoing projects in these communities. Because the Department of Community Extension works closely with the communities and other organisations involved in community development, we also get invitations from extension workers who are already in the field to participate in certain activities (for example, farmers days, information days, agricultural shows and career days). This gives me a chance to emphasise the importance of the dress code to students, and for them to witness it when they get into the field. I also have an opportunity to stress the importance of behaviour during these events. The field trips to community functions give students a chance to witness how people dress and act on these occasions. In my ten years of experience as an extension worker, I have observed that people like to dress in their traditional attire when they attend important functions such as agricultural shows in their communities. Whenever we go to such functions with students I discourage them
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from wearing caps, t-shirts and any form of clothing that promotes any political organisation. Male students are encouraged to remove their hats when talking to adults. These community functions are usually attended by the potential employers of our students, so signs of appropriate respect and conduct play an important role. Because these functions are attended by the communitys traditional and political leaders, it is important for both students and lecturers to create a good impression with the way they dress. Figure 16.2 shows me dressed for a field trip with students to Umbumbulu, one of the rural areas in Kwazulu-Natal. We had been invited to attend Information Day, and I had to dress appropriately for the function, as it was attended by the officials from different government departments, non-governmental organisations involved in rural development, traditional leaders, political leaders and the community at large. As a married woman I had to cover my head in order to show respect to these people and to ensure that my students and I would be warmly accepted. In this way the institution ensures that the culture of respect is inculcated into the students, as we are not concerned only with giving students technical skills and knowledge. We are training them to become responsible and respectable citizens of southern Africa (DoE 1997). In this image you will notice the length of my skirt and that I wear a head covering. As a role model to my students and other young people, I always wear a long skirt which does not reveal any part of my body. Many of the rural people with whom we work tend to look at the way teachers behave, and associate their behaviour with the quality of graduates that the institution produces. If I wear something that covers my body and that respects my status as a married woman, I am more likely to be regarded as a good teacher and to receive a warm welcome from these communities.
Figure 16.2 The author (middle) and students in appropriate attire for the field.
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I wear my African attire, complete with a head scarf and bead bracelets, so that I appear more a part of the rural community. By effectively assimilating into the community we also show that the university is interested in the needs of the people. In many instances, tertiary education institutions have been criticised for being ivory towers. Often the staff members do not socialise with the local people, although their institutions are located in the areas where these people live, so that when they attend functions they come as strangers and not as an integrated part of these communities. Therefore, wearing clothes which are similar to those of the local women in the area helps to build good rapport with the local people.
On going into the field with students

Being an outsider means that you can either be warmly welcomed or rejected in some communities. If members of the community reject you they do not always voice their feelings. Instead, they talk about you behind your back, as the IFP supporters talked about me and their suspicions concerning my political affiliations during my first years of practice as an extension worker. If the people are doubtful of your identity and your intentions in being in the area, you can be on the receiving end of very negative attitudes, while remaining unaware of these attitudes. How a stranger dresses is one of the important ways in which they make judgements about that stranger. If you do not appear to be one of them, you might find it difficult to enter into the community and even to find the opportunity to state the intentions which have brought you to the area.
Figure 16.3 The author (on the left) and a colleague exchanging information with a member of the uMlazi
Farmers Association.
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The reason behind the reticence of these communities, especially rural communities, is that they are always watchful and protective of their territories, resources and cultural heritage. For instance, in KwaZulu-Natal, this protective instinct is evident when you look at the story of King Shaka who had his kraal built on top of the hill where the University of KwaZulu-Natal is situated today. This location allowed him to be on the lookout for strangers and outsiders who might invade his territory. He also watched, specifically, the area along the coastline for outsiders whom he referred to as amankengan (be on the look out for intruders). He therefore named his kraal Kwa-Khangela Amankengane (look with the eye of an eagle for invaders or wanderers). This reflects the fact that communities are always suspicious of any outsiders who are new to the area and for this reasonI always stress the importance of dress code in the curriculum of students who are being trained to become agricultural extension workers, teachers, social workers and other community workers. Of course I recognise that culture is not static but dynamic. Therefore awareness about the appropriateness of dress is used as an entry point to the community and not as an end in itself. Other development agencies also use extension agents when they want to introduce development projects in the community. In my view, when these projects are successful and accepted this indicates that the extension workers have succeeded in building good relations with the communities. Figure 16.3 shows me and my colleague, Sizakele Makhanya, with some students at a meeting with the Umlazi Farmers Association. The aim of this field trip was to expose the students to the real world of work. We wanted them to experience first-hand the way in which farmers plan their programmes as well as to realise
Figure 16.4 Women dancing in traditional dress to welcome the author and students.
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how heated it can become during these meetings. Because the meeting was in a township we had to dress like township people, in trousers and skirts that are not quite as long as the one that I wore when we went to Umbumbulu. On this occasion, I am not wearing a head scarf because the meeting was in a township area as opposed to a rural area. The beaded necklace that I am wearing in this picture made me feel more African, and therefore made it easier for me to relate to people and for them to relate to me. In my experience in working with urban and rural communities I have observed that although people might be living in urban townships they have very strong rural backgrounds and they still uphold the societal values of their rural origins. Beadwork has become the trademark of many rural communities. Beadwork is worn for different reasons and has different meanings. My reason for adorning myself with a beaded necklace and a beaded bracelet was to get closer to their hearts and their culture. Wearing such beadwork not only makes me feel good but also encourages people to come closer and shake hands with me without being suspicious of my intentions.
Leading by example in dress culture

Figure 16.5 shows a parade that displays the traditional dress for married women, as well as for young girls and boys. In a similar way, in my institution, cultural heritage day is celebrated. On this day different ethnic groups and races dress in their traditional dress and wear some of their traditional artefacts. Celebrating such occasions shows that the institution does not focus only on the academic development of students but also promotes appreciation and respect for different
Figure 16.5 The author (front left) dressed in traditional Zulu attire for a parade at
Mangosuthu University of Technology.
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cultures. Staff and students participate and display dress, taking part in traditional practices and eating different traditional foods. I have stressed the importance of dress and its importance to development practitioners. Rogers (1983) refers to these development practitioners as change agents. One of their main roles is to influence how their clients envisage new ways of doing things so that these clients might move in the direction that the change agency believes will be most productive. Change agents act as a link between technical experts and the general public (Rogers 1983). Rogers suggests that change is most effective if there is a balance between what he refers to as the agents heterophily (love of the different) and homophily (love of the same) with their clients. Homophily in this context refers to the degree to which individuals who interact with one another are similar in certain attributes such as beliefs, education, social status and so on. Heterophily refers to the differences between these individuals. Therefore, my reason for dressing either more or less like the community members who are at the functions that I am attending is to strike a balance between heterophily and homophily. According to Dellinger (2002), workers have different expectations about what the appropriate distinction should be between their personal and work identities, depending on what they do and the environment in which they work. Dellinger further notes that we all go through the process of learning the ropes at our work places. This process occurs during the first few months or years when a person is learning the workplace culture by figuring out the group norms that determine acceptable and unacceptable behaviour at work. In my case I had to learn the occupational culture as well as the societal culture, because although I was stationed in the office ,I was also working with communities who had their own expectations in terms of what it means to be a good extension worker. Simmons (1996) asserts that the way a person is dressed always makes a statement about who that person is. Because people have very definite ideas about how males and females should look and behave I also ensure that male students do not wear items of clothing that are culturally forbidden for men. For instance, in African culture, a man wearing a hat in the house is not acceptable. It is also customary for males to take their hats or caps off when they are greeting an elderly person. Over time I have observed some changes in the way that some male students dress. Suddenly it has become a common trend for men to wear earrings, and I therefore must ask both them and myself how this might impact on the way that such an extension worker is perceived. The way in which a field worker dresses may be perceived as unacceptable in the community in which they are working. This could potentially put the life of a field worker at risk. Students must therefore be encouraged to have a heightened awareness of any risks that might occur in both professional situations which involve close social interaction between people as well as in private settings (Craig, Cordon & Thornton 2000).
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Issues of race, culture and gender may also have a significant impact on social researchers safety, particularly in violently divided societies. As a result of my experience as a community development worker, I also strongly emphasise that the safety of a field worker can be at risk if they do not understand the culture of the people, as well as the dynamics of the area. For instance, prior to the 1994 elections in South Africa, there were many no go areas as a result of political differences amongst the people. At that time it was important for every field worker to get enough information about the area and to go with other people of good reputation and not alone. By people of good reputation I mean people who were known as trustworthy community development workers who had no politically biased interest in the area. Certainly, in most cases, keeping my dress neutral and being true to my identity as a development worker who serves all people equally seemed to work for me and my colleagues. This experience of working in a politically divided society taught me that appropriate dress, as well as knowledge about the political aspects of the society, protect the worker from any physical harm that might arise as a result of the community members perceptions of the field worker.
Extension, dress and cultural practices

I have witnessed the importance of understanding the culture of the people with whom I work. Culture is the totality of knowledge, beliefs, values, norms, attitudes, gender-relations, parenting, governance and other factors (Botha 2006). Culture includes values such as religion, ethics, norms, myths, attitudes; practices such as traditions, gender roles; and institutional practices in areas such as education, primary health care systems, community based natural resources management, village water committees and religious institutions (Seppl & Vainio-Mattila 2000). Although culture is clearly not only about traditional dress, dress is used to identify a number of things about a person. The dress provides a window through which we might look into a culture because it tells us what ideas, concepts and categories are fundamental to this particular culture (Arthur 1999). Dress is also a coded system of non-verbal communication that furthers human interaction in space and time (Eicher 1995). For this reason there are several cultural lessons that I encourage my students to think about.
Lesson 1: Dress, empowerment and identity

I have learnt that no single meaning can be attached to any attire. Dress may sometimes signify unity or allegiance, sometimes separation and the distinctiveness of an individual, or it can indicate the status of the person (Suttner 2009). Dress
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has been used as a means to empowerment for many decades in many struggles. For instance, in South African resistance history, there is a distinct protocol which appearsto have determined the dress code for political leaders, and also for professional persons and other educated people (Suttner 2009). I have also witnessed the power of dress in our political struggle in South Africa where t-shirts have played a significant role in communicating the sentiments of many political groups, both in townships and in rural areas. For instance, the Delmas Four were forbidden from wearing ANC colours at their trial and yet never the less did so as a form of protest. At one stage, the wearing of t-shirts was even banned in many community meetings because some of the messages on them divided rather than unified people. The images or messages that were written on these t-shirts had become a big issue. At the same time, womens clubs in rural and urban areas have used dress to empower themselves and to show that they are united in fighting against poverty. Other groups of women use t-shirts, which have the name of their club or organisation printed either at the back or front, as their uniforms.
Lesson 2: Dress as a symbol of economic status

There is a traditional Zulu wedding song which refers to a woman complaining about people forcing her to fall in love with a man who has only one shirt. He washes it, hangs it up and waits for it to dry. The man is nicknamed uYembe Linye (a man who wears the same shirt every day). Women are and have always been encouraged to get married to a rich man, and not to be deceived by a mans looks. This is also expressed in a traditional wedding song which says that Ubuhle bendoda zinkomo zayo, zungalibali ntombazane (the handsome man is a man with cattlebefore adding, dont forget, my girl). This is a gendered song which indicates that women are always dependent upon a man. The song further suggests that women must always look for a rich man in order to be economically well off. Taking heed of this, when I go into the field, I dress in a simple manner and do not show off. This helps to facilitate my interaction with members of the community because they then perceive me as a simple person who is not given to extravagant dress. This is very important as many of the people with whom I work in the field are not well off.
Lesson 3: Dress and rurality

Clearly, rural extension workers, by the very nature of their work, spend much of their time in rural areas. Those clothes which are associated with urban influences can often be associated with low morals and being out of touch with the cultural values of the society. If, as a field worker, I appear in a mini-skirt, the other women
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of the area might regard me as a threat to them because I might take their men. Thus, a female field worker might find herself alienated from other women by virtue of her style of dress. It is important to note that the negative attitude towards women wearing trousers is influenced not only by the cultural norms of the society but also by other factors such as religious affiliations and family values that often have a profound effect. In certain areas, both urban and rural, there has been a gradual change in attitudes toward women who wear trousers.2 This may be partly attributable to the way in which different cultures have come together in South Africa, as well as to an increase in the level of education available to women. In my experience in working with communities in KwaZulu-Natal, in some sections of the population, especially remote rural areas, a woman wearing trousers used to be associated with low morals as she was thought to be exposing her body parts so as to be more attractive to men. The argument is that trousers expose the curves of a woman, thus causing men to covet her. For this reason some communities view the field worker who wears trousers as someone who fails to uphold the values and norms of the society.
Lesson 4: Dress, politics and community development

During my time as an extension worker in South Africa, I sometimes found it very difficult to differentiate between community development and politics. This is partly because development projects are administered mostly by politicians and this can affect the equal distribution of resources to people. In South Africa, because dress has often been used to define political affiliations, it is essential that an extension worker wears neutral attire. Cultural practices, political affiliations and gender differentiations also have implications for change agents, because all development practitioners are in some way intervening in the processes of social transformation and are involved in the critical business of allocating resources (Mukhopadhyay 1995) If the development worker has an allegiance to a specific political party this might influence the way in which resources are allocated during the development process. The development worker might also reveal their allegiance by wearing that organisations t-shirts, caps, bracelets, beads and so on. Therefore, students training to become community development workers should clearly understand the factors that influence development. In order to be effective development workers, students should understand the importance of knowing about the gender, political and sociocultural factors of the communities in which they are to work. Being ignorant about such matters, as well as being careless about their dress, could put the lives of field
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workers at risk or result in physical harm. It is important that field workers do not assume that because the community members all belong to the same ethnic group, they belong to the same political party. First impressions are created through dress and it is important for extension workers to be aware of this as they could trigger either a positive or a negative response from the communities (Kefgan & Touch-Specht 1986). I have learned that although I might feel confident about my role as an extension worker in the community, other people will have their own perceptions about me and in most cases their judgement will be based on my manner of dress. To me, this means that even though academic qualifications and skills are important in extension work there should also be an acute understanding that peoples perceptions about extension workers are equally important.
Conclusion and implications

In my experiences as both an extension worker and a lecturer in the area of Extension, it is clear that extension workers have an important contribution to make towards sustainable rural development. However, their effectiveness can either be facilitated or limited by the way in which rural people perceive them. Dress remains a critical feature of everyday life and, also, of professional life. While there are unacceptable clothes for both males and females, dress for female rural extension workers, not unlike dress for women teachers and women in other professions, is still a hotly contested issue. Although there is now an emerging body of literature on dressing as academics (Steenbergen 2004; Glenn 2004) or dressing as teachers in schools (Weber & Mitchell 1995; Mitchell & Weber 1999), expectations about the appropriateness of dress and appearance continue to be more pronounced for women. This is true in rural extension work as well. However, while it is important to respect culture it is also important to take into consideration that even culture is not static. Some of the imbalances in power relations between males and females, created by cultural beliefs, need to be challenged as time goes by. I always tell my students that the ultimate aim should be to transform the society in a positive way and that they should be able to take action against practices that perpetuate gender inequalities in the society. Dress is the area where we wear our identity and, sometimes, our politics. I realise that there is still a long road to travel before gender inequalities will become less pervasive but hope that going public through explicit dialogue about dress with my rural extension worker students is a first step in this direction.
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Notes
1 2 This translates as Be on the lookout for intruders. However, the recent attacks on women wearing trousers (for example, those against Zandile Mpanza in July 2007 in Umlazi Township) indicate that some people still believe that women should not wear trousers. Another attack, in February 2008, on a woman travelling from her Soweto home who was stripped and sexually abused as a punishment for her indecent dress indicates that some people attach extremely negative meanings to dress such as mini-skirts, trousers and other adornments worn by women. Vincent (2009) refers to these two incidents as pivotal moments in a contestation of gender power relations in South Africas democratic order.
References
Arthur B (1999) Religion, dress and the body. New York: Berg Publishers Botha NGW (2006) Gender Justice and Gender. Department of Arts and Culture. Cape Town. Craig G, Cordon A & Thornton P (2000) Social Research Update: Safety in social research. Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za Department of Sociology Issue 20, University of Surrey. Accessed 11 August 2009,http:// www.sru.soc.surrey.ac.uk/SRU29.html Dellinger K (2002) Wearing gender and sexuality on your sleeve: Dress norms and the importance of occupational and organizational culture at work. Gender Issues20: 1325 Department of Education (1997) Programme for HigherEducation Transformation: Government Gazette No 18207, 15 August. Pretoria: DoE Eicher JB (1995) Dress and ethnicity change across space and time. Oxford: Berg Publishers Glenn LN (2004) Basic black: A basic primer for seasoned academic women. In S Weber & C Mitchell (Eds) Not just any dress: Narratives of memory, body and identity: New York: Peter Lang Kefgan M & Touch-Specht (1986) Individuality in clothing selection and personal appearance: A guide for consumers (4th edition). New York: Macmillan Publishers Kolb D (1984) Experiential learning: Experience as the source of learning and development. New Jersey: Prentice Hall Mitchell C & Weber S (1999) Reinventing ourselves as teachers: Beyond nostalgia. London: Falmer Press Mukhopadhayay M (1995) Gender Relations, Development Practice and Culture. Gender and Development 3(1): pp 1318 Rogers EM (1983) Diffusions of innovations (3rd edition). New York: The Free Press Publishers Seppl S & Vainio-Mattila A (2000) Navigating culture: A road map to culture and development. Paper for the Ministry for Foreign Affairs Simmons BJ (1996) Teachers should dress for success. Clearing House 69: 14 Steenbergen C (2004) In front of the closet. (Ad)dressing the academic. In S Weber & C Mitchell (Eds) Not just any dress: Narratives of memory, body and identity. New York: Peter Lang Suttner R (2009) Periodisation, Cultural Construction and Representation of ANC Masculinities through Dress, Gesture and Indian Nationalist Influence. Historia 54: 5191 Weber S & Mitchell C (1995) Thats funny, you dont look like a teacher!: Interrogating images of identity in popular culture. London: Falmer Press
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17 Wearing our hearts on our sleeves: The T-shirt and the South African activist agenda
Relebohile Moletsane and Peliwe Lolwana
We both love t-shirts. Between us we own over 400 T-shirts that we have collected over the years from different social, economic and political spaces in South Africa and internationally. Peliwe has even designed some of the many T-shirts she wears. We wear them for different (and sometimes similar) reasons but always to communicate our individual choices and identities (Martin 2004); to display our humour and that of others; to show our admiration for certain national and international icons (for example, Nelson Mandela, AS Chetty, Barak Obama and others); to show our support for various campaigns as well as our contestations of the status quo; and sometimes simply as a practical (and largely inexpensive) item of clothing for particular situations and spaces. We often wear them to express our independence and our individual identities and personalities within the context of particular conventions and norms. We are not unique in this love for and use of T-shirts. From the anti-apartheid resistance years through to contemporary struggles against the prevalence of HIV, sexual violence and other social issues, the T-shirt has remained a constant and powerful medium for expression and activism in South Africa and beyond. How and why has the T-shirt come to be part of so many wardrobes and how and why has it come to have so many social, cultural and political meanings for both the wearer and the observer? Many people would agree that to a great extent how we dress defines the self and, therefore, contributes largely to our perceived identity. Clothing is the layer in which people present themselves to the public every day. Clothes can reveal a persons state of mind each day and on each occasion. Even the most dressed-down person may have carefully orchestrated their attire to project a specific image. In this chapter we exclude the designer T-shirts (such as Levis, Nike and others) often worn by young people (albeit not exclusively) as an item of fashion, and focus instead on the T-shirts that bear slogans and images that communicate socio-political issues and call for interventions that could address these. This is what we refer to as the activist T-shirt. Thus, this chapter asks to
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what extent individuals and groups wear their causes. What does clothing and, in particular, the T-shirt communicate about the wearer, about her or his life, identity, worries and concerns? What do the various slogans and symbols on the T-shirt communicate? How do they position the individuals and groups who wear them and how do they describe or articulate their identities in different social and political contexts in South Africa? Christi van der Westhuizen provides a useful perspective in relation to some of these questions: In a context of heightened political contestation, party campaigns in the run up to South Africas fourth democratic election on 22 April 2009 featured attempts to mobilize identities with discourses of intolerance. This happened primarily on the basis of ethnicity, political affiliation, gender and sexuality. The intersection of ethnicity/gender/sexuality was neatly encapsulated in the 100% Zulu Boy T-shirt, referring to ANC president Jacob Zuma, that cropped up at the time of his trial on charges of rape. Discourses are here understood as political messages aimed at constructing identities which will mobilize subjects (Van der Westhuizen 2009: n.p.) We are interested here in exploring the intersections that Van der Westhuizen refers to above. For example, how are race, class, sex, gender, ethnicity and sexual orientation together and separately informed by and, in turn, inform the discourses on the different T-shirts that individuals and groups choose to wear for various occasions? This chapter analyses the slogans and messages on the T-shirt and explores the different ways in which the T-shirt, in particular, has been used as a medium for expression and activism in democratic South Africa. So, this chapter asks: What messages do T-shirt slogans communicate and what actions do they attempt to solicit from wearers and observers? We discuss what McSharry (2009) calls the various embodied narratives that emerge from a study of dress and gender and, in particular, an exploration of the T-shirt and its social, cultural and political uses. Furthermore, we examine the extent to which, in the context of South Africas developing democracy, the T-shirt both visually highlights issues of oppression and liberation and suggests ways of attempting to address these. Similarly, the T-shirt calls attention to identity construction and performance and suggests ways of understanding, if not ways of actually dealing with, related issues We take our cue from Pietra Rivolis book, The Travels of a T-shirt in the Global Economy, in which she says that the story of even this very simple product [the T-shirt] can illuminate, if not settle a number of ongoing debates (Rivoli 2005: 211). We focus on a reading of several activist T-shirts which we wear on different occasions and for different reasons and, in doing so, explore
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the ways in which, through such a study, current socio-political issues such as HIV, gender-based violence, racism and illiteracy, among other issues, could be illuminated.
The T-shirt as an activist tool in South Africa

Phyllis Martin, in her Afterword to Jean Allmans book Fashioning Africa: Power and the Politics of Dress, affirms that Clothing matters and dress is political (Martin 2004: 227). In South Africa, T-shirts, particularly those bearing educational, political or social slogans and messages, have featured prominently in public protests and demonstrations as part of this countrys transition towards a new society. They were worn during the anti-apartheid struggle and during the political campaigns leading up to the first democratic elections as well as during subsequent election campaigns. More recently, during the fourth democratic elections in April 2009, supporters of various political parties wore T-shirts bearing the colours and names of these parties as well as slogans soliciting votes for them. One example of this was the 100% Zulu boy T-shirt worn by ANC supporters to rally support for the party but more importantly for the presidential candidate, Jacob Zuma. Van der Westhuizen contends that the political messages that materialised on this and other T-shirts during the election were intended to construct identities, particularly Zulu identities and, using these, to mobilise support not only for the ANC but for Zuluness (2009). By implication, if you did not support and vote for the ANC then you did not support Jacob Zuma and Zuluness. By way of illustration, in contemporary South Africa, four other examples of the T-shirt being used as an activist platform are worth noting. First, the Saartjie Baartman Centre for Women and Children, in its Clothesline Campaign, initiated a project that involves women and children either painting or writing their experiences of violence on T-shirts. In a sort of hanging out societys dirty laundry approach, the T-shirts are then hung and displayed on a clothesline for public view. 1 This is aimed at raising awareness about violence, particularly domestic violence, and at working towards preventing it from happening to more women and children. More importantly, the campaign makes public the voices of those directly affected by such violence. Second, we can never forget the Laugh it Off T-shirts of Justin Nurse who, in 2005, won a constitutional court case against South African Breweries (SAB)one of the biggest and most powerful companies in the country. The case centred around a T-shirt which displayed a message that substituted the words Americas lusty, lively beer, Carling Black Label, enjoyed by men around the world with a new slogan that read Black Labour White Guilt, Africas lusty lively exploitation since 1652, no
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regard given worldwide.2 Using satire, the slogan aimed to educate some sections of our society about South African history and, particularly, about the arrival of Jan van Riebeeck in the Cape, and to refocus the attention of others on the subject. Implying that South Africas racial problems had started in 1652, this particular campaign worked at raising awareness and at initiating debate about ongoing racial prejudice and class exploitation and the interrelationship between themtopics that are often difficult to talk about in South Africa. Incidentally, the court case, however unintentionally, also worked to raise awareness. Third, the Treatment Action Campaign (TAC) which, according to its website, aims to promote greater access to treatment for all HIV-positive South Africans, through lobbying and public awareness and education campaigns is another example of such T-shirt activism.3 Members and supporters of TAC use the T-shirt as a powerful communication tool to inform the public as well as to call for action and response by the government to the HIV crisis in South Africa. For example, through its explicit and very visible HIV-positive T-shirt (see Figure 1 below), TAC has informed society publicly and very loudly about the plight of HIV-positive people, particularly in the context of poor access to treatment and/or the lack of such treatment in South Africa. These T-shirts lobby for the provision of treatment and other services for infected and affected people. TAC members often wear T-shirts proclaiming: HIV positive not only to inform and lobby government and other stakeholders on behalf of HIV-positive people, but also to reduce the stigma against HIV-positive individuals and groups. 4
Figure 17.1 TAC HIV-positive T-shirt
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Fourth, the loveLife campaign uses branding and branded messages on billboards and print media as well as on T-shirts. We read on their website that the loveLife campaign is an integrated strategya targeted multi-media campaign, including television, radio, print and outdoor media encouraging open discussion about HIV and AIDS, sexual responsibility and healthy living.5 This campaign has used T-shirts as a branding and communicating tool among the youth. To do this, it combines traditional marketing techniques with the best principles of public health education, to create a lifestyle brand which young people will associate with healthy positive living. loveLife has a 12- to 17-year-old target group, so the loveLife brand is positioned as part of popular youth culture.6 Peculiar to this youth culture is the use of slang and, in particular, township slang, so this is also used as a tool for targeting mostly young people and keeping alive their interest in the various campaigns. To illustrate, the T-shirt slogans (and related campaigns) include ke moja! (I am fine)a campaign against drug abuse launched in Johannesburg in 2008, Love life, get attitude and 2010, Love to be there! to promote healthy attitudes and behaviour aimed at trying to help prevent HIV infection among the youth. Phyllis Martin notes that dress is symbolically powerful, made all the more so by its monetary, emotive, moral, and aesthetic implications [and that] power resides in unexpected domains (2004: 30). Through the politically emotive and moral uses of the T-shirt in particular, the wearers as well as their observers might be stimulated to think about and understand the various socio-political issues that affect them. However, as Portwood-Stacer asserts: it is crucial that the public interest generated by the entry of political movements into popular culture be mobilised toward material political work. So, while T-shirts may be good for thinking, the key is to turn that thinking into action (2008: 19). Only then can the status quo be challenged and solutions to serious social problems developed. The sections below examine the ways in which individuals and groups have used the T-shirt bearing political, social, educational and other consciousness-raising slogans and paintings to communicate personal and group identity, to protest against and educate about various socio-political problems and issues facing individuals and groups, as well as to demand intervention and/or action against them.
What does the T-shirt communicate?

What are some of the issues or causes that both individuals and groups have addressed through the T-shirts they wear in various socio-political spaces in South Africa? How are these messages communicated via the T-shirt and the wearing thereof? First, even though all clothing can be said to distinguish between and
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among individuals and groups, T-shirts are particularly pertinent in exploring different identities in relation to issues like ethnicity, race and gender and, more particularly, the interrelationships between them. In relation to identity, Martin asserts that any piece of dress is a matter of individual choice, a readily accessible statement about identity, a practical and immediate means of expression within the grasp of many (2004: 227), including the working class. For example, we have often bought T-shirts that depict our identities as women, as Africans, and as workers. However, our experiences as serious T-shirt activists suggest that any one T-shirt tends to communicate more than one identity and often includes a statement of protest that affects other individuals and groups. So, for example, rather than stating the obvious fact that one is a woman, and an African woman, the message on the T-shirt may indicate that as that woman, one is protesting against a particular social problem, or demanding a certain intervention, and so on. To illustrate: the T-shirt bearing the slogan, HIV/AIDS: African Women Call for Action (see Figure 17.2) not only draws attention to the plight of African women in the context of the pandemic but also signifies the agency which these women have in acting on their own behalf. They are protesting and demonstrating against the injustice of lack of access to medication and other resources, and calling to account those in power (politicians, pharmaceutical companies and other stakeholders), as well as advocating towards finding sustainable solutions. The messages also reflect the intersections among a number of identity markers such as gender, race and social class, and how these in turn have an impact on health, education, standard of living and so on. For example, the relationships between and among the factors of poverty, sexual violence, culture and the prevalence of HIV have been explored in many studies in South Africa and the sub-Saharan region (see, for example, Morrell et al 2001; Mbali 2009). The messages on the T-shirts we wear often reflect these intersections and offer ways of dealing with them.
Figure 17.2 Gender, race and HIV (image provided by the authors)
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Many of the T-shirts we own that communicate messages about race and racial identity also integrate anti-racism messages into these slogans. For example, a T-shirt distributed at the 2001 anti-racism conference in Durban had the following slogan: Honour our Differences, Respect our Diversity, accompanied by paintings of women from different ethnic and racial groups. The paintings and slogan drew attention to and celebrated racial diversity and called on both the wearers and the audience (those who might read these messages) to do the same. By implication, the slogans on these T-shirts were also a protest against racism and against those who might show disrespect to or discriminate against others because of their racial background. Many of the T-shirts we wear were specially made on the occasion of protest marches, or come from socio-political campaigns that seek to highlight certain challenges facing individuals and communities, including, among others, HIV and AIDS, gender inequality and sexism, racism, and gender-based violence (see Figure 17.3). Like other protest T-shirts, this category not only identifies the problem (for example, Racism is not an opinion, its a Crime) but also suggests alternatives and ameliorative strategies (such as, for example, Understand Africa).
Figure 17.3 Protesting gender-based and sexual violence
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A third category of the T-shirt bears educational messages intended to educate the public about historical events and their significance. An excellent example is this one: He who does not learn from Rwanda, is doomed to repeat it in DARFUR! Other T-shirts in this category are also used to educate people about their rights, including the rights associated with land ownership, the right to vote, and other human rights, as well as to inform them about the processes and procedures involved in claiming such rights. T-shirt slogans such as Health in the hands of the people protest against the poor access to health care suffered by working-class and poor families and informs them about their own agency in attempting to change the situation. The slogan The land is ours tries to mobilise people who were dispossessed of their land by the apartheid regime to lodge claims, and Open the doors of learning, in the context of a literacy campaign, promotes the value of education. These slogans are among the many that seek to educate, mobilise and empower people to act for themselves as well as on behalf of others.
The lighter side of the T-shirt

While many of the issues addressed through the activist T-shirt are serious and often require a serious attitude, our experiences suggest that this piece of clothing can also involve an element of fun and humour, even when addressing such serious issues. The lighter side of T-shirts includes tourist or travel T-shirts which people tend to buy either as memorabilia for themselves, such as I tracked the gorillas and I went toand I have a T-shirt to prove it, or as consolation prizes for those left at home, such as My grandma went to the Kruger National Park and all I got was this lousy T-shirt. This category also includes T-shirt messages that say things about others or the self which are generally considered funny. To illustrate, a very muscular, trim and obviously fit but bald man in a shopping mall in Durban was spotted wearing a T-shirt with the slogan, With a body like this, who needs hair? The humorous T-shirt is by far the most popular. It elicits smiles from strangers and encourages conversation. With its element of fun it aims to entertain both the wearer and the observer. For example, one popular T-shirt contains the message, Every day of my life I am forced to add another name to the list of people who piss me off! Every time Relebohile wears this T-shirt in public, friends and strangers alike comment on it and in no time at all there is conversation about broader issues beyond the slogan on the T-shirt. However, the language on the T-shirt could make it inappropriate in some contexts, such as, for example, a formal meeting with employers, superiors, elders, or, as Bongiwe Mkhize in Chapter 16 in this volume warns, contexts where one is an outsider seeking acceptance and entry.
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Another group of T-shirts in this category uses humour and irony to tackle controversial issues. In this group, we find messages and slogans that tackle topical issues and, although they might be humorous, these messages and slogans can nevertheless be extremely sensitive or highly controversial and provocative. Other T-shirts display slogans that eschew humour altogether. These all form part of the protest waged by people who want to challenge or destabilise the status quo. It is this form of T-shirt message that could be included in Martins observation that dress in its public and visible form may be threatening to observers and even dangerous for wearers. As sensibilities about gender, sexuality, age, and status converge, the dressed[]body may be a site for contestation. Opinions on dress may differ widely between wearers and observers and incite all kinds of emotions as values, morality and religious beliefs permeate perceptions of what is appropriate, especially in times of social transformation. (Martin 2004: 229)
What is acceptable in terms of T-shirt messages and slogans may vary from individual to individual, from group to group and from one community to another. T-shirt messages that are extremely controversial in some places may be strongly supported in other communities. Examples of this ambivalence in the South African context are numerous. For example, during the 2009 elections, supporters of the Congress of the People (COPE), a new political party, identified by the T-shirts they wore, were allegedly harassed by members of the ruling African National Congress (ANC). (See Chapter 16 in this volume in which Bongiwe Mkhize discusses the dangers of wearing certain garments while doing fieldwork.) A second example is that it may be safer for a South African in this country to ridicule George W Bush than to ridicule a South African president. Peliwes T-shirt, which she bought after the former US president was first elected, is a case in point. Bearing the slogan A village in Texas has lost its idiot the T-shirt might mean nothing to the average South African but its play on the notion of a village idiot and the subversive notion of what is thought of as the mighty state of Texas as a village, could elicit anger from some of Bushs compatriots and humour from others. So, although wearing the garment in South Africa might draw little or no reaction from observers, wearing it in the US could elicit a very negative reaction from some of Bushs more ardent supporters and even place the wearer in danger. In the South African context, examples of T-shirts that fall into this category are numerous. For example, in 1986, a reference to President de Klerks introduction and implementation of Education Minister Adrian Vloks notorious racially determined quota system led, overnight, to a rash of T-shirts on the campus of the University of the Witwatersrand (known throughout the county as Wits) which bore the slogan de Klerk has lost his Wits. This subversive message could
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be understood only in the very limited context of understanding the pun on Wits and wits and on understanding the implications of De Klerks implementation of this quota system on student politics at Wits University in particular. For some, the T-shirt served to communicate protest against the quota system, while for others it may have represented an attack on the government of the day and its policies. These examples suggest that the power of the socio-political message on a T-shirt is dependent on its being understood within its particular context and the sociopolitical awareness of those who view the garment and the ideas it communicates.
Some concluding reflections

What difference does a study of T-shirts make in the context of South Africas developing democracy and the many socio-political struggles that continue to be fought? In this chapter, we have analysed T-shirt slogans and messages to examine some of the socio-political issues and causes on which the countrys activist agenda has focused, as well as the role of these T-shirts when worn in various socio-political spaces. The discussion has also illustrated how the use and wearing of T-shirts can be thought of as a powerful tool for challenging the status quo in families, organisations and society as a whole. The discussion suggests that T-shirts allow the wearers to push the boundaries in tackling difficult and controversial issues and to claim their individuality in contexts where others define what is proper and what is improper. T-shirts with such messages on them have the potential to allow the wearer to participate in discussions about controversial issues that would otherwise be difficult to talk about, and to allow the observer to hear or read what would otherwise be silenced in communities, such as rape, sexual abuse, HIV, incest and so on. However, we also suggest that because T-shirts carry contested messages they can present danger to their wearers because there will always be others who hold different positions about the issues concerned. This chapter has also illustrated how, through popular culture, serious political and social movements have communicated important messages and campaigns. For example, Portwood-Stacer concludes that: It is crucial that[] interest generated by the entry of political movements into popular culture be mobilised toward material political work (2008: 19). So, because T-shirts can display powerful symbols and messages, the value of studying them as material culture and as texts lies in several areas. First, studying T-shirts as material culture enables us to debate and understand not only some of the challenges our society faces but also the various identities they help us to construct and enact. Second, such inquiry also enables us to identify and develop a variety of strategies that could be used to address the challenges that face our society. Most importantly, because of the
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public discourses that often emerge among the T-shirt wearers and the audiences of the slogans, various duty bearers (for example, adults, government, men, teachers and others) may be forced to act towards ensuring the human rights of those under their charge. For us, the T-shirt has the potential to bring to the fore and to illuminate, if not settle, socio-political issues that are often hard to talk about and resolve, such as racism, gender-based violence, sexism, HIV-related stigma and others.
Notes
1 2 3 4 5 Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za 6 www.saartjiebaartmancentre.org.za Accessed 16 September 2009 http://www.mg.co.za/article/2005-05-27-laugh-it-off-wins-case-against-sab Accessed 16 September 2009 http://www.aidsbuzz.org/directory.html Accessed 18 September 2009 http://www.etu.org.za/toolbox/docs/aids/prevention.html Accessed 15 September 2009 http://www.aidsbuzz.org/directory.html Accessed 17 September 2009 www.ifashion.co.za/index.php Accessed 20 September 2009
References
Martin P (2004) Afterword. In J Allman (Ed.) Fashioning Africa: Power and politics of dress. Bloomington: Indiana University Press Mbali M (2009) Women in South African AIDS activism: Towards a feminist economic and political agenda to address the epidemic. The Scholar and Feminist Online 7 (2). Accessed 3 October 2009, http://www.barnard.edu/sfonline/africana/mbali_01.htm McSharry M (2009) Schooled bodies? Negotiating adolescent validation through press, peers and parents. Stoke on Trent: Trentham Books Morrell R, Unterhalter E, Moletsane L & Epstein D (2001) HIV/AIDS, Policies, schools and gender identities. Indicator South Africa 18(2): 5157 Portwood-Stacer L (2008) T-shirts are good for thinking: Branding, consumption, and radical political identity. Paper presented at the annual meeting of the international Communication Association, TBA, Montreal, Quebec, Canada (May 2008). Accessed 12 September 2009, www.allacademic.com/meta/p230999_index.html Rivoli P (2005) The travels of a T-shirt in the global economy: An economist examines the markets, power and politics of world trade. New York: John Wiley and Sons, Inc. Van der Westhuizen C (2009) 100% Zulu Boy: Jacob Zuma and the use of gender in the run-up to South Africas 2009 election. Accessed 30 July 2009, http://www.boell.org.za/ web/144-364.html
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18 The art of representation versus dressing to be invisible: Who am I dressing for in contemporary Rwanda?
liane Ubalijoro
In thIs chapter I explore the plurality of my identities as a Rwandan woman living in North America, trying to figure out what to wear every day. I will show through a discussion of dress how I would like people to view the Rwanda of today and the potential Rwanda of tomorrow. Rwanda has gone through numerous transitions, from being the location of the 1937 Hollywood film adaptation of King Solomons Mines to a place described on a 1994 Newsweek cover as Hell on Earth; from being seen as the residence of devilsa missionary, quoted on a Time magazine cover in 1994, said, There are no devils left in Hellthey are all in Rwandato the country portrayed in more recent documentaries, such as God Sleeps in Rwanda (2005) and Rwanda Rising (2007), which have looked at the countrys socio-economic progress since 1994. The countrys past is a combined legacy that all Rwandans carry with them wherever they go. This heritage has an impact upon all those moments when I am asked: Where are you from? Preparing myself for such moments and the reactions I receive to my answer, as different layers of who I am permeate and influence the responses, are part of why I feel that I dress for hope. This hope is expressed through my wearing traditional Rwandan dresscloth bought in Kigali markets and sewn by seamstresses who, working on ancient machines, are able to produce something I would like to call Kigali haute coutureand through other forms of dress acquired from family members, friends and entrepreneurial business women who roam West Africa in search of African style. I will also explore the despair I felt during the years I was trying to be invisible. I will look at dress and the legacy of Rwandas history through the symbols with which I grew up, and through oral history, imagery and anecdotes about daily life. The final section of this chapter will be a reflection on the following related questions: Where do I go from here? What did my mother teach me about dressing? What will be the body-image legacy that I leave my daughter?
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Represent (v) 1. to be a sign or equivalent of something

Background: Representing myself
Since the age of 15 Ive lived on my own. My parents went back to Rwanda at the end of my fathers active life as an ambassador while I stayed on in Paris to finish high school. In Paris, at my all-girls school, our uniform was defined according to colour guidelines. Skirts were dark blue or grey (and could be measured for length if Mother Superior felt you were showing too much leg), shirtsalways with a collarwere white or light blue. Sweaters were grey or dark blue. We were allowed a little freedom of expression and fun with our choice of shoes, as long as they were dark blue or black, though status required that we wear chic Carel ballerina flats. I made sure that I didnt buy navy-blue clothes for weekends and, in fact, for years afterwards I rarely bought navy-blue outfits at all, though I did still enjoy ballerina flats. Moving to Canada two years later, at the age of 17, I tried dressing casually on my first days on campus, but casual in Paris is not the same as casual in SainteAnne-de-Bellevue (close to Montreal), where I was studying at McGills Faculty of Agriculture and Environmental Sciences. I would show up for class wearing a blazer, jeans, a Cartier silk scarf and a white t-shirt. After several days of being asked if I was giving a seminar I realised I needed to tone it down, so I ditched the blazer and silk scarves and adopted the local uniform of loafers, jeans and t-shirts. Never again was I asked if I were giving a seminar. I made a lot of friends and enjoyed many years of university life as I completed a bachelors degree in agriculture, a masters degree in plant virology and a PhD in molecular genetics. When I started working in a biotech company as a research and development director in 2000, while I finished my PhDnights spent in the lab and weekends spent writingI traded my lab coat for business attire. I was an oddity: I was an African woman in the Montreal biotech industry. I stood out so much. I felt people were tripping over themselves whenever I walked into the room. In response I adopted camouflage colours, hoping, like a grasshopper, to blend in. I wanted to walk into a room without encountering any stares and go about my work unnoticed, unremarkable and neutral. When this didnt work, I revisited what I had learned about confidence from my Rwandan friend Jeanne, when I was in my teens: whatever happens, dress to the nines. So I started adding colour and jewellery and began wearing clothes that fitted better. These were often in very feminine styles, though without crossing the line of vulgarity. I found comfortable and elegant shoes made in Israel. I honed my skills by reading books on how to dress as a business woman: red and cobalt-blue were for power, white was for peace. I would wake up and ask myself what my aim was each day: Was I going to be negotiating a raise for my team, firing someone or presenting my one-year strategic plan to the CEO?
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If I wanted to inspire trust I would go all in white and add a dash of colour with jewellery. If I was negotiating, red would be all you saw on me. All this worked well until, to my husbands delight and my apprehension, within a month of our having made a commitment to start a family I discovered that I was pregnant. Maternity clothes now ruled my life. I found great pieces through a combination of high-powered, business-immersed women friends and my husbands female colleagues who were now enjoying their waists again, and I began wearing form-fitting jersey dresses and new fashions for chic mothers-to-be. When my daughter was born I didnt look forward to 12-hour working days so my shift to academia, wearing breastfeeding-friendly clothes, and the wonderful possibility of working on issues relevant to Africa and re-emerging into university life gave me a feeling of immense freedom. Back at McGill, I was once again at my old haunts, though this time I was on the other side of the learning divide. I developed a style that was part African chic, part university-professor-on-the-go. My friend Lindiwe from South Africa was my inspiration. She was working in Durban, South Africa, on her PhD in nutrition, encouraging HIV-positive women to find safe ways of breastfeeding their babies and avoid the disasters of formula feeding in waterscarce, rural Africa. Lindiwe would walk into a room one day, all in white, wearing wonderful, colourful beads which covered her whole neck and part of her arms, huge earrings dangling from her ears. Then I would run into her on another day and shed be dressed in bright orange, as delicious as a mango. This was so much more fun than power business dressing. This new style suited me well until, on a trip to Rwanda in 2007, I received a call informing me that President Paul Kagame was asking to meet with me. His interest in me had been piqued by a newspaper article that had been published locally and which mentioned my research on linking biodiversity preservation to innovation in Africa. This request required me to go back into my childhood and back to a wardrobe inherited from my mother so as to combine all the dress influences that had been imparted to me throughout my life. On my first meeting with the president in late July 2007, I wore a traditional African dress that had been left to me by my mother. This dress from West Africa, of a flowing style, was dark blue with turquoise embroidery. I wore it with a matching scarf and proceeded with the Minister of Science and Technology on my assigned journey, a two-hour trek, so that I could meet with President Kagame before my trip back to Canada. This was the beginning of a new phase in my life, one which was highlighted by the impressions my new dress style created. Later that year I was invited to become part of the presidents advisory council. My dress style continued to evolve and for these council meetings came to include traditional Rwandan dress, which is closer to a sari than the African style with which most Westerners are familiar. Two years ago I took the plunge and, after
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six months in micro braids, cut off all my relaxed, shoulder-length hair and sported a short afro. The initial phase was a shock to friends and family but now they are merely curious to see what new style I might mould my short tresses into: a longer, unruly afro, twists I have taught myself to do, or the intricate braids I get done either in Rwanda or by the wonderful hands of other African women of the diaspora who now live in Canada? I was then and still am the only Rwandan woman on the presidential advisory council who is not in the active service of the Rwandan government. Kaya, a brilliant, Harvard-connected consultant from Boston, is the other half of the female contingent of this council. As we sit, surrounded by business men from the US and Australia who are used to running billion-dollar companies, I stand outnot because I am a curious oddity but because I represent a new generation of Rwandans who are working at rebuilding our country. I sit at these meetings, always colourfully dressed with my hair braided, the spot of brightness in a sea of dark designer suits. I have adopted styles I select with the help of Mama Coco, my wonderful tailor in Rwanda, as well as new designs my sister-in-law sends me from Abidjan, Ivory Coast, the couture capital of Africa. I wear comfortable shoes and particularly like wearing sandals from Zanzibar with intricate beadwork and shells. Some of my new clothes are traditional igitenge cloths my mother used to wear; Mama Coco unpicks their seams and recreates them in inventive new styles, so that I carry pieces of my mother with me in all my meetings as we chart new paths to bring greater peace and long-term prosperity to Rwanda. Dressing like this has now become my sign, my symbol or perhaps the equivalent of carrying my reverence for Africas oneness with my every step. Through dress I am aspiring to be a person with ubuntu[...]open and available to others, affirming of others [with] a proper self-assurance that comes from knowing that [I belong] in a greater whole which is Africa, and which stretches me into a global citizen (Tutu 1999: 345).
Represent (v) 2. to act or speak for another: to act or speak on behalf of somebody or something
Navigating identities: How do I want people to view me, and Rwanda, through dress?
In her memoir Unbowed, Wangari Maathai (2007) writes about the athomi, those who, in 1940, had embraced Christianity in her Kenyan region of Nyeri: In general, local Kenyans who converted to Christianity were given preference within the British colonial administration and were often appointed chiefs and subchiefs in villages and townsThe athomi culture
the art of representation versus dressing to be invisible
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brought with it European ways and led to profound changes in the way Kikuyus dressed and adorned themselves, the kinds of food they ate, the songs they sang, and the dances they performed. Everything that represented the local culture was enthusiastically replacedClothes of animal skin were put aside in favour of cotton dresses for women and shirts, shorts, and trousers for men[...]. In traditional Kikuyu society, young men and women braided their hair; once married, they shaved their heads completely. When you became a muthomi (a person who reads), you no longer braided your hair or shaved your head. Men cut their hair short while women let theirs grow long to resemble that of Europeans. Women also tied scarves around their heads to approximate veils. Dancing and non-Christian festivities and initiation rites were discouraged or even demonized and banned by missionaries and converts. A nearly complete transformation of the local culture into one akin to that of Europe had taken place in the generation before I was born. (Maathai 2007: 25)
Wangari Maathai, an African female scientist with a PhD and the first environmentalist to win the Nobel Prize, describes in her memoir the path she took in reclaiming her African identity beyond this space in which she was born, from which so much had been stripped away. From attending a Catholic school in Kenya to university studies in the United States and Germany, back to Kenya where she obtained her PhD and became a professor at the University of Nairobis School of Veterinary Medicine, to her current role as environmental activist, her style of dress has evolved. Not only do her pictures show this evolution in both clothing style and hairstyle but this transformation is paralleled in the reclaiming of Wangari as her first name, abandoning the Christian name of Miriam and the later, Catholic name, Marie Josephine. There is a picture in her book, taken during her journey to the University of Munich, which shows her in a white laboratory coat, a lone black face in a sea of white women, all in identical scientific uniforms. I can relate to the path of growing up African, becoming a scientist in Western academic institutions, and reclaiming my identity through dress. Though her story is a Kenyan one, my own path, bridging Rwanda to my adopted Canada, mirrors her journey between cultures and the transformations that result, both inner and outer. To me, the history of Rwandan culture is one inextricably linked to dress and representation through self-expression and clothing. When I think of traditional Rwandan dress I think of urugori, the traditional headdress worn by women. This headdress, made of plant fibre and worn as a head band low on the forehead, was reserved for mothers. It symbolises for me the grace of motherhood, the strength and resilience shown by Rwandan women to raise the next generation and feed their hearts with hope. It is an image I have carried with me from the time I was a child
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to the present in which I am myself a mother. Can I be this agent of hope and grace for Rwandas next generation? A description of traditional beadwork and dress provided by the National Museum of Rwanda tells a story of Rwandan women from times past and reveals the narratives of culture and history woven into each piece. Maternity tiara (urugori) was only worn by married women who had become mothers. Urugori was made of a strap of bark of wood, removed from the knot of a branch of dried sorghum, from papyrus, or from maize and it had to measure 2 to 6 cm high, and it was worn during the special festivities, gatherings or during an important visit. A beaded tiara (igikubwe), a flat strap made of fibres of white raffia. The front was illuminated by one or many beads, and was worn on the lower forehead with the back high on the head.
A pair of rods (intambo) worn by women on the temples attached by some raffia fibres, and covered with tight beads. They were fineries for members of the high society. Sticks (amashyoro) were made of a pair of rods in wood, or in copper beads, worn on each temple. It was also finery for women and young girls from the high society. Rows of beads (inqi zo mundo): small and big beads threaded into a fibre string, alternating the colours (white, blue, white, red). They were worn by women around their waists. Braided ankle bracelets (ubutega): thin, round, made of intunda. Married women wore them on each leg: Rich members of the society often wore them in hundreds or even thousands. Brass bracelet or wire for the arms and legs (umuringo): this type of rigid finery was one of the most common ones. Men wore one or two on their arms and Hutu women wore many of them covering the upper hand up to the elbow (Institute of National Museums of Rwanda (a) n.d). Few Rwandans today keep these images in their awareness. Rwandas rich history has been covered up with conflict, tears and the blood of lost loved ones. As we reconnect with the beauty of traditional dress, however, the beauty of who we are, our truth, and our humanity is reignited. Traditional clothes in Rwanda, before
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commerce brought in fabrics from Europe and Asia, were made of processed plants or skin. Remembering the roots of traditional dress is a way of bringing our ancestors into our present life, getting in touch with their wisdom about processing skins and plant material. Traditional dress speaks to us, on behalf of our Rwandan ancestors, of our capacity for creativity, for innovation and for self-sustenance. Four qualities of bark were utilised and were classified as follows according to decreasing quality: umutaba, umuhororo, umurama and umugombe. After processing, colouring/decorating (kuziga) with black clay or red ochre (umwura), and tailoring, the garments were perfumed using sandalwood braziers. These traditional clothes were made of pounded ficus bark (Impuzu). Worn looser than styles made from skins, in approximately 1920 they were quickly replaced with cotton and were never to be seen after World War II (Institute of National Museums of Rwanda (b) n.d.). Various types of clothes were produced from animal skins. Inkanda loincloths for women, made from cowhide, were worn immediately after girls got married, as a plaited belt or cowhide that was wrapped around the upper part of the body. The ishabure, a short loincloth, made from a calfs or a goats skin, was worn by both sexes, and considered to be the most refined item in ancient central Rwandan dress. It was characterised by a waistline, elaborate stitching, and was enhanced with designs and strings made of thin strips in skin. Loincloths for girls, called umukane, were particularly splendid, prepared from the skin of an otter, with double-breasted star designs and with tassels of skin dangling from the belt. Capes, also made from animal skins, enveloped the upper body and one shoulder. The cape was sported with its fur on the inside, close to the body, and wrapped around the body in such a way that the right hand was allowed free movement. The skin used to make these capes was often goatskin because it was inexpensive for most people. More affluent people preferred a cape made of antelope skin, with the borders enhanced with the black and white colobus long hair. Priests performing the rites of the traditional cult, kubondwo, wore their capes with the fur facing outwards. These special capes were produced from wildcat and monkey skin (Institute of National Museums of Rwanda (b) n.d.). The umweko belt was worn by men and women alike. The cord favoured by married women to keep the loincloth in place was one of the most fashionable belts: it was a gift from a mother-in-law to her newly married daughter-in-law. In Central Rwanda, the belts were typified by the addition of tiny containers attached to them, into which the person wearing it could put various ingredients for charming (indibu). The most beautiful one was a double-plaited belt split into two and then held together by three superimposed twists; each of the remaining braids was inserted into several metallic rollers (igimba) (Institute of National Museums of Rwanda (b) n.d.).
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What strikes me most about these traditional fashions is the emphasis on highlighting the waist area to increase sex appeal and charm, though these belts were also used for practical purposes, such as the storage of collected traditional medicine. I am also appreciative of the expressions of affection expressed through the passing down of heirlooms. Because of the genocide, in Rwanda few heirlooms have been kept in the family. I wear my mothers red, white and gold ring on the middle finger of my right hand. This is my heirloom. I received it in a jewellery box when my brother, Achille, in late March 2006, flew back from Rwanda after my mothers funeral. It took almost a year for me to build up the courage to open the jewellery box. The fact that she died before she got to meet my daughter has left a hole that nothing will ever fill. My husband Nicola and I had planned to go to Rwanda when my daughter was approximately 18 months old. Thalia Malaka was only nine months old when my mother died. At the memorial mass we held to honour my mother, my pudgy, beautiful child Thalia was just starting to walk. It was bittersweet. Here my angel was walkingher middle name, Malaka, is the Swahili word for angeland my mother would never get to wear imishana to honour each stage of my daughters life, like this precious moment or any other moment of her life. Friends were coming up to me in the church to give me their condolences and all I could think to tell them was, Thalia can walk! I would let go of her and she would tentatively take a few steps. Sometimes, in my state of distraction, I missed catching her before she fell. I was grieved that I would never have the chance to see her try on my mothers clothes as I once had, nor watch as she tried on my mothers high heels. My daughter would never receive a proper lesson from my mother on how to wear igitenge Congo-style, with the cloth wrapped tightly around her hips to accentuate her waistline, or to hold the cloth in place while going to the market or going into the fields to harvest vegetables. My mother always wore jewellery whether she was going to the market, to a wedding, or was cooking a traditional meal of stewed isombe (cassava leaves). She tried hard to transmit this love to me before I went to university in 1989 at the age of 17. She ordered beautiful pieces of 18- and 24-carat jewellery from Dubai. Among these was a beautiful white, yellow and gold seta necklace with matching earrings and a braceletwhich she gave me in celebration of my passage from high school to university. These pieces were so beautiful that I asked her to keep them safe for me so I could wear them when I was home on vacation. How would I wear these pieces on a university campus? Ever since I was a little girl my mother had taken me aside and shown me her numerous pieces of jewellery and let me know they were all meant for me. Some were bought in Rwanda. Some came from Ethiopia, Egypt and Czechoslovakia. Every piece had a story. All were lost when our house was sacked in April 1994 during the genocide. So when Nicola proposed and he chose a set of
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three separate rings intertwinedthe red gold for love, the white gold for fidelity and the yellow gold for friendshipthis reminded me of my mothers gift to me of the same three-gold set I never got to wear. My parents lost most things material but, more importantly, they lost loved ones, many friends and some family in the hundred days it took for the genocide to occur. The ring I now wear is something my mother only bought later. I dont know the story behind it. Her jewellery box was never replenished to its earlier splendour and talking about jewellery after so much loss was a frivolity my mother and I never again allowed ourselves. And yet, this ring is now the symbol of things lost, cherished and still to come. However, connecting me more strongly than this ring to Rwandas history are my mothers lessons to me on how to wear our traditional dress, imishanana. Imishananas style has been strongly influenced by the traditional clothes described above but in contemporary Rwanda the materials used are now usually cotton, synthetics, or silks if wealth permits. Women will wear imishanana, a two-piece style worn as a long, flowing skirt, with a sash across one shoulder. This is what my mother taught me to wear elegantly. Materials for imishanana come in an assortment of colours and patterns. A popular form is a light-weight, see-through chiffon fabric, and the skirt is lined to make sure it is not too revealing (Woolley 2008). If you lack proper counsel on how to wear imishanana, a carefully put-together outfit could fall apart, leaving you with beautiful material at your feet and a sash across one shoulder. There is an art to wearing this flowing skirt that is worn with a sash. It is wrapped around the body several times, leaving pleats aligned along one hip, and flows from the waist down. The skirt, which has no buttons or zippers, is actually a rectangular piece of cloth secretly held together by a long piece of material which is threaded through the top of the skirt, tied and tucked away. After my mothers death, Chantal, a dear Rwandan friend who lives in Kigali, was instrumental in helping me perfect the art of wearing imishanana. Chantals care for me acts in place of and speaks to me of the caring my mother had for me while she was alive. As Chantal helps me dress she talks to me about my mother, of their friendship and of how proud my mother would be to see me honour her by continuing to dress in traditional clothes. Following independence in the sixties, Western-style clothes were encouraged by the government and had soon become the norm, especially for men. I have no recollection of wearing African-styled clothes as a child. Increasingly, however, fashion is emerging from Rwandas past, with more and more events highlighting local and African couture. Models in Rwandan fashion shows, as well as dancers, are sporting hairstyles reminiscent of traditional sculpted styles with ornamentation. Engagement ceremonies are also showing this renewal of interest in traditional dress for women as well as men. Yet the majority of Rwandans, as is the
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case in many African countries, find most of their clothes in used clothing stores. African markets are threatened by businesses that deal in used clothing that comes from the West. Access to cheap used clothing is a deterrent to traditional dress as well as strong competition for local textile industry growth and tailors (Roter 2009). I feel it is my duty to reclaim the artistry of African dress style and African-made clothes, not only to honour my roots but also to encourage local economies, local designers and local craftsmen to do the same.
Represent (v) 3. misrepresent yourself: untruthfully claim to be something: to describe yourself as something you are not
Why was I trying to be invisible for so long? Dress and the Genocide
When covering a story in any part of the world, the portrayal of the people living there is extremely important. There is a tendency in the press to portray Africa as a backward part of the world and, despite supposed good intentions, this actually keeps Africa from moving forward. In the case of the Rwandan Genocide, there has been a mix of comprehensive and insufficient coverage of what took place and of the people who were involved, though the latter definitely outweighs the former. The very beginning of a 1994 Time cover story, for example, quotes a missionary stating: there are no devils left in Hellthey are all in Rwanda (Gibbs). Why is a missionary, and not a Rwandan, being quoted? In fact, of the fourteen quotes used in the article, only three come from Rwandans. It is interesting to note that an article about the Rwandan Genocide bases the majority of its information on what was provided by non-Rwandan onlookers. More importantly, the allusion to the Devil completely ignores the true political and social causes of the genocide. The quote leads the reader to believe that either all Rwandans are evil or that the problem is beyond their control. This is just one example of how the media failed to accurately report the genocide and the events leading up to its occurrence. (Ryou 2007: 12) As I think back to the 1994 genocide, a time that is engraved in all Rwandans hearts, I realise that the pain never goes away. Years later, survivors, in some cases, were only able to recognise what was left of massacred loved ones from memories of the last clothes they had been wearing. This is the case with Denyse Umutoni, a survivor whose father knew they were going to be killed because they were Tutsi. Umutonis last memory of her family is of him asking everyone to dress in their Sunday besta way to hold onto their humanity in their darkest hour. She lost 180
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of her 200 extended family members. In 2004, on the 10th anniversary of the genocide, Umutoni organized the retrieval of 3000 bodies from a mass grave, which included the bodies of her parents (Canadian Bahai News Services 2007). She was able to recognise the bodies because of the clothes they wore. What we remember is the slaughter of loved ones. The scene that haunts me is the image of dishevelled bodies in stained clothes. Why is it that I cannot hold onto Umutonis fathers sense of holding onto his familys humanity in the direst moment of their lives? Here dress holds two images, one of dignity retained but misrepresented in what is left by the horror of loss: all the beauty of dress has been washed away by violence. For years, when I walked into a room and introduced myself to strangers, the mention of Rwanda would have more impact than anything I was wearing. Conversations would stop, apologies would come, and I would be left wondering how to respond to people who were apologising to me because of my identity as a Rwandan woman. With Rwanda rising from the ashes and economic growth in 2008 estimated at 8.5 per cent (World Bank 2009), smiles now greet me when people ask me about Rwanda. What I often hear is, The trouble is finished there, isnt it? The question is delivered with a smile. Since 1994, Rwanda has clothed my every introduction. Before that time, most people I met as I travelled and lived in Europe and North America had never heard of Rwanda. How I dressed was more a function of Western style dictated by occasion, though on rare visits home I would adorn myself in my mothers mishanana, wearing the sash wrapped around my waist in something closer to a Congolese style of dress. It seemed more hip at the time for a 17-year-old. An unmarried Rwandan woman in traditional dress was something that I rarely saw at that point in the late 1980s. This is very different from the new Rwanda, where traditional dress is playing an important role in bringing back indigenous culture. In her essay on the genocide and the media in Rwanda, Kathleen Ryou writes that showing a peoples culture is important because, in the case of Rwanda, it shows that they have progressed past petty tribal fighting. Culture is a sign of civilization because a certain set of beliefs, customs, and values come to define a group of people; culture gives people a distinct, unique identity (2007: 12). In her essay, Ryou put forward the argument that the way in which the media portrayed Rwanda dehumanised Rwandans. In another part of the paper, referring to how little the United Nations (UN) peacekeepers knew about Rwanda, Ryou quotes the UN officers who had been preparing to bring peace to Rwanda: We had very very little information, knowledge of the background to Rwandaits history, its culturewhat had taken place in the country since independence or even before independence, and especially even in the last couple of years. So we went in quite blind (Ghosts of Rwanda DVD 2004). Ryou notes that this quote is from Major Brent Beardsley, military assistant to General Dallaire. It is quite shocking that
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this was the level of attention that was given to a U.N. peacekeeping mission. How was peace supposed to have been achieved if the General himself did not even understand the full complexity of Rwandas history? (2007: 1). Ryous words, which emphasise the importance of cultures power to transcend conflict, reinforce for me the healing power of reclaiming traditional dress. The more prominently culture can be displayed, of which dress is one form, the more awareness can be brought to humane values. Perhaps if there had been greater recognition of the beauty of Rwandas culture, conflict could have been avoided. When interconnectedness is put aside and division grows into violent conflict, an appreciation of Rwandan culture could have provided a bridge across the space of unknowing and promoted peace. The first time I met General Romeo Dallaire, at Montreals prestigious Lower Canada College, he was giving a talk on child soldiers in Africa. I noticed his tie. It was a beautiful, colourful tie with a repetitive motif of stick figures holding hands. It made me think of children holding hands. It contrasted with all the images I had seen of him in military gear. What I didnt realise at the time was how connected I would feel to this general by the end of his talk. In his book he talks about an encounter with a three-year-old Rwandan boy at the end of the genocide. This child had the face of an angel and eyes of pure innocence. I had seen so many children hacked to pieces that this small, whole, bewildered boy was a vision of hope[...]. The little boy was crouched beside what was left of his mother, still sucking on his biscuit (Dallaire & Bearsley 2005: 23). This boy had been unable to talk but had slipped away and gone back into a hut full of dead bodies to sit beside his mother. Thinking of this boy, of the 300 000 children killed in 1994, I remember Romeo Dallaires words about how our capacity as humans to look into any childs eyes and see this child as our own is the only way dehumanisation can be stopped. I will never forget the message of his words. If we believe that all humans are human, then how are we going to prove it? It can only be proven through our actions (Dallaire & Bearsley 2005: 522). As I looked at his tie, while I sat in my white maternity shirt and dark slacks, I wondered about the contrasting images summoned up by the failure of the UN to intervene in Rwanda on the one hand, and the boyprobably in tattered clothesthat Dallaire encountered sucking on his biscuit, on the other, and how contradictory images of dress linked us all. Here I was wrestling with the image of hope that his tie and his words projected and the fear I felt, despite my wholesome maternity gear, which was a reaction to the failures that the UN military uniform had represented for me so far. How do we move beyond what images and dress describe to link to the narrative that connects us beyond dress to each others humanity? As I reflect on my own journey what I realise is that if my generation is to become an agent of peace-building for the Rwanda of tomorrow, the reclaiming of
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culture, turning away from attempts to be culturally invisible, and the reclaiming of our humanity are all essential steps. As I learn more about Rwandas past and its culture, I start putting together the puzzle of what has influenced how I have dressed myself for the world and how much inner peace I am able to carry into it as a reflection of my comfort with my own identity. I realise that without knowing it I had, through dress, untruthfully claimed to be something I was not, as a result of my own ignorance as to the power (or weakness) that comes with each choice of dress and what roles were superimposed upon me through dress. This kept me from the truth I desperately needed before I could claim my own identity and interconnectedness with the rest of humanity.
Represent (v) 4. to be equivalent of something: to be a sign or equivalent of something

Why I dress for hope: Fashion for the post-conflict woman

Being Rwandan means I am the child of a Post-Conflict Nation. When meeting others who have been torn from loved ones and cherished dreams as a result of conflict there is often a sense of being kindred spirits. However, bonding in a positive way with people from other post-conflict areas can be a challenge but when friends from Ivory Coast started telling me about the senseless events that were happening in their country, that bond of conflict and confusion linked us. Sharing experiences is crucial to fostering understanding. Being able to connect to Ivoirians beyond pain, through dress, is one way in which I have found hope. My first experience of this potential for bonding through clothes occurred when I met a woman friend who had lost family in the conflict in Ivory Coast. She lent me a Basin rich red and white outfit that I wore under my PhD graduation robe. I was smitten with Ivory Coast fashion at that time. Abidjan, Ivory Coasts capital, has long been a centre of African haute couture (Crowley 1974). My further initiation to Abidjan style came when I received some beautiful outfits crafted there from a sister-in-law who was working in Ivory Coast. I marvelled at the beauty of the pieces and thought how amazing it would be to walk into a department store in Canada and be able to buy these vibrant fashions. I learned that Ivory Coasts couture had re-emerged, in the midst of conflict and economic uncertainty, as an alternative for the local members of the elite who were able to fly to Paris for a shopping spree. Innovative designs and materials are bringing in a new era for Ivory Coasts economy. One example of this new sense of initiative in the region is provided by Felicite Mai, who sees the clothes she crafts from jute cocoa bean sacks as a tribute to her father, a tailor-turned-cocoa planter who gave his daughter her
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first sewing machine (Stein 2008: 1). Mai is now an award-winning designer who uses jute cocoa bean sacks in the making of her designs. Pathe Ouedraogo, one of the most famous African designers, is also based in Abidjan and now has stores in 12 African countries. From a very modest upbringing in Burkina Faso, Ouedraogo has had the privilege of dressing Nelson Mandela, who was introduced to his clothing line by South African singing legend and civil rights activist Miriam Makeba. Ouedraogo considers the clothing choices of African politicians to be a serious problem that must be tackled. With his successful PatheO line, he notes that except for Mr. Mandela and a few others, most African presidents adhere to Western suits for business (Onishi 2000).1 According to Ouedraogo, all African presidents should dress to highlight Africas traditional culture and values and to heal the continent from colonialisms still fresh effects (Onishi 2000). Ouedraogos ability to succeed in Ivory Coast and take his couture onto global stages (most recently in Canada at the 2008 Francophonie summit) as an immigrant is remarkable, especially given the conflicts that have arisen in the last decade because of xenophobic concepts of Ivority which have prevented a great proportion of immigrants from neighbouring countries from having a voice in politics. Ouedraogos success allows a glimpse into the possibilities for creative solutions, including those expressed through clothing and dress, to transcend conflict and bring about positive change in Africa. This is the type of change, were it to be scaled up, that could benefit regional peace-building efforts, be they in West Africa or in the East Central African Great Lakes region where Rwanda is located. Having seen the trajectory of these designers and their power of influence, as expressed through the clothing of presidents, I am more committed than ever to represent hope, through my dress and choice of clothes, for the emergence of a new Africa. This new Africa will be full of creativity and have reverence for the textures, vibrant colours and styles that can highlight our beauty and sense of self, moving beyond the dehumanisation that I felt in 1994 as images of Rwanda as Hell on Earth made me wonder if my country was truly hell on earth. As I walk into a room, often to give a talk or take part in a panel discussion on Africa and development, I will wear flamboyant African styles that speak to the seed of hope that all the people I have encountered and who have influenced how I dress have planted in me with their courage, their love and compassion. These African styles also speak to the spaces of pain I still carry, spaces that are in need of healing. They speak to the losses and to the heritage silently transmitted to me by my ancestors. They speak to what I continue to discover about myself and my country as well as to the truths I am yet to encounter. And they speak to my need to illuminate my blind spots of self-misrepresentation.
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Conclusion
Where do I go from here? What will my legacy to my daughter be? What did my mother teach me about dressing? As I watch my five-year-old daughter begin to decide what to wear and as I see her proudly wear the designs Mama Coco makes for her, I smile and know she already has in her something it has taken me decades to value. As I walk up the stairs with her to her classroom in Canada, she turns towards me and tells me, Mommy, you know, I am an African girl. Today, I am not to be confused with my jeans-and-t-shirt-wearing, graduate student self of the past. Rather, I am embraced for the vivid colours and patterns of my dress, my jewellery from Gahaya Links (made by the gifted hands of Rwandan female artisans), and the elaborate braids in my hair. The sturdiness of my comfortable but stylish shoes completes my look. In remembrance of all who have passed on I feel compelled to honour their memories through brilliant colour, warmth and elegance as I adorn my body in clothes and accessories. As I stand before others, I want the message of my clothes to be this: I embrace my roots and have embraced a vision of a brighter future for Rwanda. I embrace the diversity and richness of African styles. I embrace a vision of a prosperous Rwanda in a prosperous and peaceful world where our diversity and our artistry are reflected in the way we dress.
Notes
1 Onishi N (2000) Abidjan Journal, Tailor Takes Scornful Measure of Africas Leaders. Accessed July 2009, http://www.nytimes.com/2000/11/13/world/abidjan-journal-tailortakes-scornful-measure-of-africa-s-leaders.html?pagewanted=1
References
Crowley DJ (1974) The West African art market revisited. African Arts 7(4): 5459 Dallaire R & Bearsley B (2005) Shake hands with the devil: The failure of humanity in Rwanda. Toronto: Vintage Canada Ghosts of Rwanda (2004) DVD directed by Greg Barker, a FRONTLINE co-production with the BBC and Silverbridge Productions Limited God Sleeps in Rwanda (2005) DVD Directed by Kimberlee Acquaro, Stacy Sherman, an HBO Documentary Films/a Women Make Movies production Institute of National Museums of Rwanda (a) (n.d). Room VI Jewellery. Accessed July 2009, http://www.museum.gov.rw/2_museums/butare/pages_html/room_6/text_jewelry.htm Institute of National Museums of Rwanda (b) (n.d). Room VI Clothing. Accessed July 2009, http://www.museum.gov.rw/2_museums/butare/pages_html/room_6/page_clothing.htm
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Maathai W (2007) Unbowed, a memoir. Toronto: Anchor Books Roter G (2009) Perspectives from todays youth. Report presented at the Conference on the Challenges of Development Today, Practitioners Perspectives on Where to Move Forward. (McGill University, Montral, 2324 March 2009) Accessed 15 July 2009, http://www. mcgill.ca/files/cdas/Challenges.Development.Today.pdf Rwanda Rising (2007) DVD directed by CB Hackworth, GoodWorks Productions Ryou K (2007) At fault: How the media portrayed the Rwandan genocide. Accessed July 2009, http://www.stanford.edu/group/commwiki/cgi-bin/mediawiki/index.php?title=Rwanda Stein S (2008) Cocoa couture: Ivory Coast designer works sackcloth style. Jezebel. Accessed 15 July 2009, http://jezebel.com/5023939/cocoa-couture-ivory-coast-designer-works-sackcloth-style Tutu D (1999) No future without forgiveness. New York: Image, Random House Woolley MG (2008) Mishanana, Traditional Rwandan Elegance. Accessed 23 July 2009, http:// womens-dresses-skirts.suite101.com/article.cfm/mishanana#ixzz0LYHHhGR2 World Bank (2009) Rwanda Country Brief. Accessed 23 July 2009, http://web.worldbank.org/ WBSITE/EXTERNAL/COUNTRIES/AFRICAEXT/RWANDAEXTN/0,,menuPK:368714~p agePK:141132~piPK:141107~theSitePK:368651,00.html Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za
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19 Rewriting the script: Drag, dress and the body politic

Crawl Evans and Robert J Balfour
The smell of old damp carpet and hot lights fills the tiny spaceand wafting in from the dressing-room door comes a gentle breeze, carrying with it the stale smell of shoes just removed, cheap perfume and thickly applied make-up. There is a rustle of dresses and mincing queen;1 the stylists, hair artists and emotional supporters are all cramped into the dressing room. Slowly into the dimly lit passages pass two of the women participating, on their way to smoke. I stand further along, observing. Hi honey, you participating? No! Well, I suppose you dont have the balls. (I am struck by this comment. I thought the idea was that one would do ones best to rid oneself of those!) At this point a participant saunters past the pair standing there and then past me. Just out of earshot, one of the two turns to the other: Not with that big arse. (Raucous laughter follows.) Suddenly I am what I am, sung by Shirley Bassey, pours out of the speakers... whistling and clappingand the Master of Ceremonies voice rises above the din, Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight we welcome you to the annual Miss Gay Pride.
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This year we have a stunning line up of all who are all competing for the coveted Miss Gay Pride 20. 2 (Thundering applause and Ms Bassey, back with us, belting it out: I beat my own drum) When first thinking about writing on the topic of beauty pageants in South Africa, it seemed that the best way to approach this would be to see the pageant within a context that is wider than its particular gender identity-framing context. This chapter introduces a description of the pageant and three moments in South African socio-political life, offering an analysis of each through the lenses of both feminist and queer theory. The chapter argues, despite the differences in spectacle offered by our three examples, that the discourses that shape identity politics draw from patriarchal values, which, even if corrupted, remain powerful in the creation or policing of norms. We suggest that this confirms the assertion made by Halliday (2001) that despite the promise of modernity and globalisation the connections between these and the racist and sexist discourses of the past remain powerful. The lived experience of globalisation draws on conceptions of power and inequality derived from earlier periodsthe cold war and, before that, colonialism. Indeed the whole discourse of[...]globalisation reflects the continued impact of these times, since that very discourse is in large measure phrased in a vocabulary and conceptual system derived from earlier conflicts. (Halliday 2001: 21) Emerging queer scholarship in South Africa has begun to explore the various forms of analysis needed for a more relevant critique that deconstructs the normalising discourse of neo-conservative politics,3 from both within and outside its ranks (De Waal & Manion 2006; Epprecht 2004; Reddy, Sandfort & Rispel 2009). This scholarship has also begun to unravel the many forms of sexuality at play in contemporary cultural practices. In so doing, it addresses how these sexualities are informed by a residual colonial discourse (Victorian morality) and the politics of Empire; the later period of apartheid with its Calvinist National Christian ideology; and the more contemporary forms in the post-apartheid milieuthe period from 1994 4 onwards. There remains an imperative for a more nuanced understanding within the current body politic (understood throughout this chapter as the collective body, or the community) following a trajectory that deepens existing practices (discourse) by
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going beyond the euphoria of the post-struggle period.5 Certainly, there is a need for scholarship that goes beyond the euphoric idealisation of the beginning of democracy of the Mandela era, and the nostalgia evident in the language of the rainbow nation and ubuntu-ism. In this, the second decade of democracy, a certain scepticism has emerged. This is in part due to a realisation that the promises of new-era politicians have not been realised: populist notions of the welfare state concerning the expected improvements in housing, health and social services are no longer seen as imminent; this despite a transition from Mbeki-style intellectualism to Zuma popularism. Unsurprisingly too, critics of the state, whether queer activists or civil society commentators, have come to argue that not much has changed, or that change has not been systematic; nor has it addressed deeper systemic problems (such as poverty alleviation and rural sustainability, for example). Identity politics and the scholarship on identity in South Africa continue to deal with race as its primary focus, although gender sometimes emerges in a number of initiatives (for example, in the widely publicised loveLife campaign) and related research. The confluence of politics, religion and morality in the present political milieu suggests a turning back to the supposedly lost values situated in the not-so-distant past. Values entrenched in the old (apartheid) South Africa, which was viewed as so abhorrent that the period of transition to democracy produced the most liberal constitution in the world, are seeping back into the discourse of political and social life.6 Three instances of this will be examined here and they perhaps suggest that in order to understand the spectacle of drag it is necessary to understand how society regulates the relations (dress) that ensure heteronormative homogeneity. These are: The woman who wears trousers: Trial and prejudice Zumas rape trial truths: It takes two to kanga Man or woman: Caster Semenya and the desire to drag
The woman who wears trousers: Trial and prejudice

We reconstruct the event in our own words: As she sauntered past the group of men [the drivers] at the taxi rank,7 she had no idea that it would result in her public humiliation. They turned to her and rebuked her for wearing pants (trousers). A real woman does not wear pants. Without much effort they grabbed her and removed them, beating her at the same time. So sure were they of their right to reprimand her according to a cultural imperative that allows for men to govern the bodies of women that their arrogance did not even allow for them to deny their act when faced with possible prosecution. Its not in our culture! they insisted.
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At what point did Western-style clothing become acceptable and part of the norm in traditional culture? How was it determined that wearing trousers is anti-tradition? It is certainly acceptable to make use of other material objects of Western dress like shoes, jackets, skirts and other apparel but, it would appear here, that Western dress is allowed only when it has been culturally sanctioned8, to maintain the social pecking order of heterogemony.9 A feature of Victorian culture10 was to prohibit the exposure of the female form; to contain it. As Payne points out, dress indicated its wearers social position and moral stature (Payne 2001: 2). Brown, a well known painter of the Victorian period, comments in relation to a painting that a ladys only business in life as yet is to dress and look beautiful for our benefit (quoted in Payne 2001: 2). To be Woman is to look beautiful, and to do this according to the dictates of her Man, thus satisfying his desire. This conservatism is still present within the South African cultural context described above, where, even postcolonially, the wearing of trousers by women is taboo in some communities. Regulated by the collective male gaze, the woman is both the necessary subject in this social order and is ultimately responsible for the maintenance of social order through compliance: it is women themselves, after all, who maintain the very order that constrains them. The patriarchal social order has maintained what bell hooks refers to as the imperial overseeing position (quoted in Butler 1993: 125). The symbols of this order are multiple but in the context of the policing experienced by the young woman wearing trousers, it is dress that has come to be the outer manifestation of this order. Thus the wearing of trousers becomes a deviation worthy of notice and of punishment. Laura Kipnis contends that these aesthetic conventions are essential to cultural politics: Aesthetics are crucial to who we are as selves and what we are as culture. Taste, delicacy, beauty, manners [and, we would add, dress] and social conventions[]constitute the aesthetic. But rather than some timeless, elevated, high-minded thing, aesthetics are historically specific, completely class bound, racialised, and often, in fact, vindictively cruel to who and what falls outside its quite capricious dictates: whether those problematic nonbinary genders or those problematic nonconforming bodies. (Kipnis 1996: 92 [emphasis added]) Jonathan Weeks contends that there have been remarkable changes in the organisation of gender over the past decade and that this is not simply an ideological shift, but also reflects a shift in the whole economic and social basis of gender (Weeks 2007: 141). The question has been asked in industrialised and recently industrialised countries: Was womens advance at the expense of men? There is a real sense of loss and[...]a genuine social crisis (2007: 141). What emerges
reWriting the script: Drag, Dress anD the boDy politic
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in South Africa, where hegemonic and patriarchal masculinity is under threat owing to the rapid modernisation and Westernisation in the wake of apartheid, is a nostalgia for the past that takes the form of a reinterpretation of (dress) norms which are then deployed to reinforce the patriarchal authority of men and the unquestioning compliance of women, spectacularly captured through the explicit acts of dressing, undressing and being undressed.
Zumas rape trial truths: It takes two to kanga

Outside the courtroom the crowd is growing in size. The images on our television screens are of a wave of women [all Zuma supporters] who are heaping scorn on the rape accuser, and publicly supporting Zuma. (Shelver 2006)
The narrative is one of subjugation. Much publicised and talked about, both the corruption and rape trials of President Zuma provided the body politic with a spectacle of a different kind (see Sesanti in Hadland, Louw, Sesanti & Wasserman 2008). The message of the rape trial is clear: a challenge to the existing order serves to underscore the right and power of men to regulate the behaviour of and the norms for women. The rape trial provided a window into the gender politics of South Africa and how the institution of patriarchy is jealously maintained and upheld by women themselves. This was manifest in the public support given to President Zuma at his rape trialthe women outside the court singing and swaying. In a strange inversion of roles the victim became the victimiser, and the actual victimiser was vindicated so vociferously that the woman at the centre of the trial had to leave the country for fear of reprisal. While the spectacular nature of the trial seems anomalous (one asks whether the women supporters of Zuma would condone acts of immorality in their own relationships) the wider gender politics illustrates a paradox: the coercion practised by men in relation to the compliance demanded of the woman wearing trousers is embodied and enacted by women in relation to other women. Of specific interest here is the kanga11 that was the focus of the rape trial. (Chapter 1 in this volume refers to this in relation to the denotative and connotative meanings of dress.) President Zuma claimed that because the woman came to him clad only in a kanga and a t-shirt she propositioned him not only verbally but through her act of dress; we reconstruct his response as: What normal man would refuse? For Zuma, after all, as a man could not refuse: to refuse would show a lack, a deficit in his store of masculinity. For the accuser, it was her dress that defined her
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gendered role as an apparent seducer (and thus helped to prescribe what happened to her) and, as in our earlier example, it was the womans dress that justified the sexual violation contained in the forced undressing by men of the trouser-clad woman.
Man or woman: Caster Semenya and the desire to drag

We reconstruct the event in our own words: When Caster Semenya burst onto the scene, her win at the 2009 Berlin athletics meeting was overshadowed by the furore around her gender. Gender testing had to be conducted on her in order to establish whether or not she was a man or a woman, or intersexed, or worse, a hermaphrodite. As the saga unfolded, the South African government and athletics officials expressed outrage, reasserting her status as a woman. Later it emerged that Athletics South Africa (ASA) knew of her status before her trip to Berlin, having duped her into gender testing here. The widely publicised scandal provided the public with a sensational and titillating smorgasbord of speculation. Some weeks into the media coverage of the issue and intrigues, Caster appeared on the cover of YOU magazine and we, as readers, were invited to gaze on Caster as we had never seen her before. The article proclaims her association with the great and good. Shes met Nelson Mandela, Jacob Zuma and practically every high-profile sports personality in South Africa. Even Oprah Winfrey wants a piece of hershes sent an invitation for Caster to appear on her show12 and of course so should we. Caster becomes a commodity. The defence of Caster by association makes her an object of spectacle, in the company of powerful men and equally powerful women. What becomes evident is that the celebrity status ascribed to Caster is not only because of her athletic prowess. The text is littered with the word wow, and we read about Caster clearly enjoying dressing up, slipping into dresses and having her lips slicked with gloss and her co-students confessing that Caster has always wanted to buy a pair of stilettos and have a manicure and pedicure. The revelations that YOU would invite us to savour include the observation that she doesnt have an ounce of fat on her body, and that she is also a devout Christian, silver cross dangling around her neck and at church every Sunday. Caster participates in all the rituals that make her a woman and yet there remains the lingering question and an unease that cannot be spoken.
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The readers of YOU are treated to Caster with her hair down, braided, and with her in dresses and trousers, always accompanied by make-up and high heels. The dress and related accessories (hair, make-up, eyes, lighting) enable Caster to conform to a conservative feminine script and her powerful body [is] subdued with trite accoutrements of femininity into a form that she has, by all accounts, rejected her whole life. (Van der Westhuizen 2009).13 Bauer, however, in her Counterpoint 14 piece in response to Van der Westhuizens Point would have us believe that Caster is at play, doing what an 18-year-old likes doing: Tracksuit Mondays, lipstick Tuesday, hair up on Wednesdays, hair down Thursdays, trainers, heels, hoodies, bling. Van der Westhuizen implores us to stick to the gender script, or else. The representation of Semenya as a woman just like any other seems to depend on her enactment of the role, her performance around hair, make-up, and enjoying the things that all girls are thought to enjoy, like shopping. That the reader will know the extent to which this performance is necessary is belied by the media scandal in which her gender identity is what had to be proved.
Not just a dress

Having explored three cases or exemplars in which dress is seen to function as both the necessary accessory of femininity and the means by which such femininity is regulated, this section examines dress, as well as the notion of dressing up (drag), in order to understand how drag as spectacle serves to reinforce but also subvert heteronormative identity politics. What becomes evident in an analysis of the three instances of dress discussed above is that by exercising control of dress, femininity is reinforced in order to maintain a particular gendered construct: women wear dresses, and need to be beautiful for and deferent to men. In drag, the control of that gendered construct shifts from the ambit of the male and passes to the drag queen who shapes identity, even if it is within an extreme and stylised form of femininity. Often, however, the script is the same as that imposed by men in relation to women, and the persona assumed through drag is more styliseda camp form of woman. Usher (1997) has pointed out that definitions of femininity are often materialised through dress, and dress, in turn, defines the limits of sex. It is sex (and femininity) that have come to be regulated and described in law and religion. Nowhere are such conventions challenged and undermined as significantly as when men adopt the dress and style of women, as in the drag pageant. Feminist theory, particularly that of second-wave feminisms (in their alliance with queer issues), allows for an analysis and explanation of the complexities of both doing gender and being gendered. The notion of performativity as understood by
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Judith Butler (2000) is of importance here because of the focus on performing gender and also constructing it at the same time. This chapter shows how heteronormativity not only determines the doing and being of gendered sexuality but does so within a narrowly defined and constructed compulsory heterosexuality. Queer theory explores the various ways of being and the doing of both sexuality and its concomitant identity. Many scholars, such as Bersani (1995) and Weeks (2007) have challenged the modernist assumption that gender is constructed through a process of socialisation whilst allowing for biological rigidity that scripts only male and female genitalia, confirming this notion of compulsory heterosexuality. The works of Leo Bersani Homos (1995) and Jeffrey Weekss Sexuality (2003) are of importance because both provide insights into the subversive nature of being gay and of striking a balance between private pleasures and public policies (Weeks 2003: 128). Most notably, Michel Foucault has challenged the notion of power as an all powerful thing with its own sphere of existence, arguing instead that power is relational, and making the claim that power[]does not exist (Foucault in Lagrange 2006: xvi). Bradley, who has developed Butlers work on performativity, insists on the fluidity of gender and sex categories (Bradley 2007: 20) and suggests that these exist only through repetition and embodied action/s. Bradley notes that Butlers position is limited because it remains within the realm of the individual and refuses to acknowledge other aspects of the doing of gender, such as the division of labour at work and in the home[]neglecting the ways in which social institutions are gendered (Bradley 2007: 76). By queering the idea of dress (as opposed to merely a notion of dressing up) and exploring the position(ing) of the body within its cultural web, we seek to understand from a gendered and cultural position in the South African context how dress is deployed. We show that dress comes to stand for an essentialised idea of gender within the binaries of patriarchy, religion, mainstream politics and colonial discourse. As Butler (2000) has asked: How do we read the agency of the subject when its demand for cultural and psychic and political survival makes itself known as style? This stylisation produces practices that can either reinforce or disrupt cultural performances of gender and ultimately inform our understanding of queer community as turbulent and disruptive. Drag pageants allow for opportunities to disrupt institutionalising cultural practices through eschewing the gender binary and to challenge the relations of power constituted in heteropatriarchy and neo-conservative politics. The feminisation of dress, and the camp form that it takes in drag, are essential for the maintenance of the woman as feminine, as heterosexual.
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The spectacle of the pageant

The following section focuses on the notion of the spectacle of/in pageants and the transgressive nature of the spectacle. The many synonyms for pageant (including spectacle, display, show, parade, play and procession) are rich in meaning, and as such offer us many ways of understanding gendered identity and dress as a part of what we refer to in this chapter as social drag. Using the lenses of both queer and feminist discourse, how might it be possible to find ways of understanding dress and body within the intricate web of hetero-patriarchy? Patriarchy is understood as still complicit in modernity, and is evident in South Africa and other societies. Just as feminism has altered conceptions of labour and rights, so patriarchy has been transformed in order to re-establish itself in the context of voiceless and threatened men. These men complain that, You cannot give woman equal rights. They are not like us, I cannot cook and clean, I am a man or, in another script, You cannot give them (queers) equal rights. It is not in our culture, it is unAfrican and wrong. This patriarchy is not a monolithic or totalising force but is changing and sometimes contradictory; like the drag queen, it has taken on another (dis)guise. Is it these contradictions that enable the reader to interrogate how we come to know and understand ourselves as the dressed subject and sexualised citizen. How do we continue to experience our bodies as sexed, as bodies of colour, bodies as gendered in a changing landscape (postcolonial, post-apartheid)? Perhaps an exploration of these questions through a reading of the pageant and the body as spectacle is appropriate. Pageant is the display, the parody, the spectacle of the forms that the body is designed to take so that it may satisfy the criteria of both what is considered beautiful (for self) and what pleases those who direct their desiring gaze upon it. In other words, it is the stylisation of the body for a cultural yearning that mourns the loss of innocence. To illustrate, two historical references provide us with some insight into the notion of what it means to be a spectacle. First, there is Saartjie Baartman (17891815), better known at that time as the Hottentot Venus, who was transported (in 1810) from the colony of South Africa and taken to France and the United Kingdom to be paraded, prodded and poked for amusement, at a time when bustles and corsets made an uncomfortable comparison between notions of white beauty and the spectacle of Baartmans posterior. She was forced to display herself in traditional dress, having to lift up her loincloth to expose her vagina and her buttocks. Upon her death, Baartmans remains were dissected, labelled and stored in the Museum of Natural History in France. European fashions changed and colonialism came and went. It was only after the intervention of President Nelson Mandela that Baartmans remains were transported back to South Africa and given a dignified burial in 2002.
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By contrast there is the era of the demi-monde15 before all was trussed up in a lasting display of mourning for the passing of the Victorian period. Hickman (2003) reveals the society of the demi-mondaines, the spectacle played out in the rides in Hyde Park, the latest fashionshats, lace, silkbeing worn, the use of opera boxes, men of rank calling and paying huge sums for company and perhaps for sexual favours. Though the demi-mondes rank in society is with the lowest hired prostitute (Hickman 2003: 154) she still remained the trendsetter and the desired form of beauty in English society. The purpose of the demi-monde (outside of society) was to perform compulsory femininity on behalf, so to speak, of the woman of good standing in society, for whom prudent devotion to religious salvation and notions of purity were of the utmost importance. In a class-based society such as England these boundaries were extremely well policed but transgression was always possible. Drag is spectacle in that it allows for opportunities to collude with conventional stylisation of the aesthetic of woman for the pageant yet also allows for a range of transgressions. The imperial spectacle of Victoria as sovereign in mourning (chaste and pure), Saartjie Baartman and the demi-mondaines of pre-Victorian England offer us some insight into the spectacle of self and other: in the exhibition of the beauty and dress of the demi-mondaines and in its antithesis (Baartman: the exotic and displayed other) Both are subjects of a male gaze. These spectacles are always located outside of the domestic sphere of influence, and within the body politic their symbolism is powerful, amusing and erotic: both feature as the subjects of a social voyeurism. However, these narratives (Baartman and the demi-mondaines) invite transgressions because both enable the fantasy and desire for sexual satisfaction. It is well documented, especially by Hickman (2003), that the central role of this woman as spectacle also served as the object of desire. The politics of desire disturbs an otherwise easy analysis of these narratives for it allows for the relational dynamics of power to be usurped in the most unexpected ways. Sophia Baddeley (quoted in Hickman 2003) wrote in the 18th century: My person is my ownand I will do with it what I pleaseI will not be debarred from seeing who I please, and doing with them what I please... Sophias memoirs show a world in which women and womens concerns are paramount; a world in which women have taken control of their own lives, at whatever the costshe could not give her freedoms upthey may have been uncertain ones, but were worth having none-the-lessnor will I be the wife of any man; for I can never submit to the control of a husband, or put in his power to say I have been imprudent in life. (Hickman 2003: 70)
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The power of women to regulate their own lives, let alone gender and related identity, has been at the centre of feminist activism for decades. The drag pageant draws together many of the questions and contests concerning gender and identity. With drag there arise the following considerations: What power do men possess as men when they dress as women? What power do women have when they dress as men? Why do men continue to insist (in the context of this chapter) on the power to determine how women should dress? The section that follows explores these questions in relation to how we construct and interpret gendered identity.
The drag observed: Strutting their stuff

The observations of a drag show, recounted here, recall the neat link between a socially condoned form of voyeurism and the act of dressing, or being undressed. These observations are framed within theoretical and experiential choices (as activist, as spectator). In observations of the drag queens (some prefer the term female impersonators) one can see the move from the male form to that of the female form, albeit an over the top move in most cases, and one which Bradley refers to as transvestite and transsexual men [being] notorious for adopting conservative feminine styles of dressing and bodily representation (perms, pearls and high heels) (2007: 75). Derridas observation that even the mere presence of a spectator violates an event is apposite here as he points to the disruptive, complicit and transgressive aspects of being a spectator (1976). When observing men in drag the audience participates in the illusion of gender by observing its enactment. Petersen (2007) observes that with the advent of feminism and gay liberation discourses there has emerged an industry devoted to the modification and the regulation of the body. The pageant transgresses in the most obvious waysso much so that the analysis of such events risks banality were it not for the fact that the gay pageant invokes a number of taboos. For example, not only is there a change in dress but also a change of body, and a change of engagement with the body and the body politic. For men, cosmetics were seen as potentially disguising disfigurement from disease or rejuvenating the appearance of older women and thus providing an unfair weapon in the armoury of unscrupulous women (Gimlin 2002: 23). With men cosmetically stylised and accentuated, the pageant plays with the male body in female guise. What is interesting is that the choice is consistently for the overly feminised figure: the shaved surface of the skinthe hairless surface of pre-pubescencethe styled and sprayed wig adorning the head and shaping the face, encasing the made-up eyes and to go lashes, the pouting lips and broad smile, the flash of white teeth, sashaying satin and sequins, bows and buttons,
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ruffles and tucks (of both genitals and dress), breasts pointing upwards, tight buttocks almost always accentuated. There is also the voice, lilting and provocative, yet contained and demure. The parody of the woman, particularly the heterosexual woman, is the spectacle. This is not to conclude that women are this spectacle: what is permitted in such contexts is both the play and destabilisation of precisely those beliefs that are core to a male prerogative to regulate female dress. The pageant is both power and play in relation to the male gaze. Because patriarchy insists that the female body is the externalisation of a womans self, the body is liable to exploitation, whether by the beauty industry or as object in countless other ways. And, as Petersen (2007) notes, this objectification is defined in Western cultures within particular limits: the older female body is negatively connoted because the emphasis is on youth, economic productivity, and success. What is also useful to note here is not only the feminisation of the body but also that in the pageant all gesture and dress is also a signifier of class: the tiaras, cosmetics and big hair parody the female as prize, as totemic figure in a patriarchal class and gender hierarchy. Here Bourdieus suggestion that ones social identity is defined and asserted through class (Bourdieu 1986: 170171) is most apposite: there are no poor drag queens. The arguments presented by both Van der Westhuizen and Bauer in the Mail & Guardian seem to imply that there is the possibility of choice in how to present the body but, in our view, this ignores the imposition of oppressive structures and the compliance demanded of type and stereotype. If dress is the enactment of biological difference, as well as of gender identity, then gesture, style, appearance and posture are also its enactment. The woman as labourer cannot be enacted in drag as it is the division of labour that is perhaps the most notable sign of change in all post-war societies. Labour continues also to be a site of contestation, very much embodied in the conflict between those now wearing trousers, when within a patriarchal gaze, and those who believe that they should not. Whilst the emphasis is on the highly stylised body, where do we find reference to its subversion? Why do drag queens, who have the possibility of choosing other scripts, return to this well-worn script? What of the situated practice of dress (Entwistle 2000: 75)? Perhaps it is because the script is so common, so known as almost to seem banal, that it invites parody, and parody enacted in drag is both the ultimate confirmation of the patriarchal gaze and its refusal, though in this case by men. Returning to the study of stereotypes discussed earlier, the demi-monde (sexual and prostitute), the exotic other (the gargantuan female, Baartman), the mourning sovereign (Victoria as mother of virtue) of a bygone era, come to be re-embodied by men in drag.
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I am what I am: Performativity and subversion

Drag queens16 who participate in drag shows and beauty pageants are the co-conspirators in this inquiry because within the pageant most men performing as women are homosexual men. In the context of Western and African patriarchy these are men who desire other men, and thus subvert an established and natural biological order. In this way they threaten not only the ideas concerning the need for the procreation of the species, the subversion of roles normatively ascribed to women and men, but they also defile the idea of the masculine by conflating it with the feminine in the pageant. On one hand, the performance of drag and the shifting of identity within the public sphere disrupt that space, supplanting it through the use of dress and spectacle. Thus, this negotiation for the space of self-affirmation is also space for collusion with a variety of other more dominant discourses. On the other hand, bodies that resist, that refuse to be contained, are also bodies that are marshalled and coerced to perform normative scripts. When dressed up, the performative nature of the pageant and the performing body allow for a renegotiation of the self within this complex web of relations. There is no subversion without collusion as long as the structures of oppression remain unchanged. If we were to alter the structures of oppression, or if it could be believed that these could be altered, of what value would the parody be? Can a Ms World Pageant, or a Ms Gay Pageant be contemplated in a non-sexist and non-homophobic society? How does one undo centuries of essentialising heterogemony manifest in extremes of binary masculinities and femininities? Dollimores book Sexual Dissidence (1991) is of importance here for understanding the interplay between the margins and the centre as well as the notion of perversion as a means of understanding how to reflect and attempt to bring about a systemic change. The creative tension between being and performative being is the rich ground from which new meanings and understandings emerge. There are, however, some assumptions upon which this argument rests. First, the idea of being is to be understood as being the self. Second, being, as understood by the term performative being, is that performance which is performed as function and mediation between self and other. Self refers here to the former and subject to the latter. Third, there is a connection between body, embodiment, and body politic as all have social worth, whether as individual, social or collective identities. Moving beyond identity politics, this reflection situates the position of the body and dress (drag) in the contemporary debates of identity and sexual politics. Furthermore, in the evolving critique of the normalising techniques of the social and political discourses of equality and inclusion that are deployed as a means to silence a more radical understanding of being queer in South Africa, there is a hope that activist stances will move beyond the political and social rhetorical posturing of
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heterogemony and the condescending moral voice of human rights discourse. While many have argued for a more radical understanding of the normalising discourse of identity construction, it is appropriate that localised stories should be used to afford some control of the politics of identity and its subsequent construction. By focusing on certain practices such as drag it is possible not only to celebrate the notion of gender subversion and of normative sexuality but also to better understand its operation. However, a greater opportunity exists here: the use of diversity is subversive, rather than simply the inclusion of the bizarre and exotic in the spectacle of more popular cultural tropes. The analysis of the drag show must be understood within the discursive patois of heteronormativity, religion and culture, and how these structures influence the notions of body and dress. To this end, dress serves both as a means of social control, collusion and coercion within the dominant heteronormative web, and as a means of resistance, defiance and celebration, an act of subversion. When women choose to wear trousers it would be hard to ascribe a subversive intention, even though many Zuma supporters did just that, and in doing so made explicit the sexist norms of patriarchy. When men choose to dress up as women for the purposes of spectacle, they, too, call into question those very norms, with sometimes equally violent reactions from other men.
Understanding the script

The analysis of drag and dress illustrates how control, desire and fantasy produce moments for normalising, but also disrupting, dominant discourses. The performing body is not simply under the control of some external power (patriarchy, heterogemony, heteronormativity), as the body achieves a degree of agency and power which the performance and spectacle reveals; in the drag pageant it evokes laughter at heterosexist norms, elicits a horror for these as shown in their parody, as well as a celebration of other possibilities for being. In a termed coined by Butler (1990) the essential woman engages in a transgressive act that seeks to resignify heterosexuality by transgression, through the parody of the female, rather than to displace heteronormativity as advocated by some theorists. The drag show and its performance of the conservative heterosexual woman through dress and compulsory body type is subversive in that it is not the spectacle that is of importance but rather the act of performing these compulsory heterosexual modes. To return to the opening vignette in this chapter, so sure were the two drag queens in the wings that the big arse would/could not win the pageant that the shock of her being crowned second princess, and their disappointment at not being included, must surely have unsettled even their sense of the norm.
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In a text where control, desire and fantasy are necessary in the body politics urge towards normalisation or assimilation into the mainstream (compulsory heterosexuality) there are many opportunities for rescripting the text. Whilst heteronormative patriarchy would like to script bodies and extend its gaze in these limited avenues of control, desire and fantasy, the drag beauty pageant-as-spectacle parades these scripts in subversive ways, for example, with the act of strapping the genitals tightly or letting them sway freely under the frocks. Shaking their booty, protruding and making explicit the territory of the anus, that area that generates and evokes horror yet is the locus of male desire, fantasy and sphincter control (see Bersanis Homos [1995]) is a move towards a gay specificity that defies normative identity scripting. Bersani argues passionately for a homosexuality as truly disruptive[]an outlaw existence (Bersani 1995: 76). Closer to home, Steven Cohen (South Africas most notorious performance artist, now living in Paris) remarks to neo-conservative bitches in queerdom and in a response to reactions to his poster at a gay pride march which read, Give us your children, what we cant fuck we eat: And I have nothing but scorn for you bitches on a cleansing sweep, shrieking You dont represent us! No, sweetie, I represent myself. You find that intolerable. And so you tell me not to represent myself but to represent you in a way you approve of. Lets leave it to the Christians to be intolerant, humourless and oppressive. Or should that be persecutory?[]The queer voice is a chorus which must include activists, drags, drugged dead-heads, freaks, perverts and fucked-shut sluts. You see, as for that Youre bringing us down routine... Sisters, you ARE down, now relax, or its gonna hurt. (De Waal & Manion 2006: 98) It is in the move of doing the subversive, using the metaphor of compulsory femininity in the spectacle of the drag pageant, that the nuances become political, and bodies and their dress start to loosen the ties of the corsets constricting discourse. The silences imposed on contemporary gay, lesbian, bisexual, transvestite and intersexed voices, whether through the cultural politic or through the compulsory scripts and policing of the borders of heteronormativity, must be challenged. Sadly, we often want to understand or configure ourselves within contemporary understandings of the body politic and forget that it is within the realms of this relationship to other and self that the normalising psycho-social narratives always define us. We must resist this urge to explain ourselves away into the silence. Bersani has repeatedly argued that there is none better at understanding ourselves in the silence of social discourse than ourselves, in all of our possibilities (1995). We must resist the essentialising definitions of who we are and of what will become of us. As Bersani further argues, it is our right to be in a position that will allow us to redefine our relationality (1995).
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Dragging reflections from the margins
This chapter reflects on embodied acts of dress and dressing up by examining the event of a drag pageant and how this might open up ways of understanding both gender and (homo)sexuality. As the ideas contained in this chapter began to develop a realisation that dress was doing and being sexuality and identity took on other meanings. The embodied practice of dress, particularly in the pageant, has relevance for how we understand dress and its social significance in various social scripts. It has relevance even for our dressing up every day, the choices of clothing, and the ideas about who we are and how we see ourselves, as well as how image and aesthetic influence us and how others perceive and read dress as another social text. This chapter describes three instances involving dress, drawn from the popular media in South Africa. The selection is deliberate because this chapter does not seek to essentialise queer politics and activism within a narrow understanding of dress or drag. Rather, what the chapter achieves is a narrative analysis of three socio-political acts, all of which invoke ideas of gender, culture, and sexuality in contestation. What remains common to our discussion is not that dress is an issue in each of the instances described but rather that dressing, undressing, and the power to marshal and define both, needs to be read as continuous or as occurring on a spectrum, even if it is true that there is no monolithic patriarchal discourse regulating how we see the body in each instance. Petersen has called for an understanding of the political economy of the body (2007: 47), taking further some ideas long associated with queer theory and feminist studies by suggesting that the gaze is not only culturally and socially informed but also economically constructed in ways that reinforce older constellations of power (the dress, the violation, the spectacle). Common to all three elements, Petersen argues, is the persistent attempt to commodify both the objects of the gaze and the gaze itself (2007: 139). Performance of this dress and the embodied experiences it evokes shed light on the socio-political and socio-economic aspects of identity politics, private and public eroticism invoked by the act/s of dressing up, drawing as these do on ideas of class, gender, and race, as well as the covert and overt practices of social and self control of gendered and sexualised heteronormative scripts. The scripting evident in popular cultural aesthetics offers both opportunities for compliance and defiance through the rupturing of both conceived and preconceived notions of self and other. This critique should not reify that which it identifies and explains (Pinar 1994: 66) but should seek change through a radical activism that defies these normative scripts. It is, so to speak, to be in a state of continual flux, for as one set of normative scripts are dissolved so others begin to sediment. Dress is not just dress and, no matter how we understand it, we can never deny that we are bound up within a complex web of interrelations that are both verbal and non-verbal,
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contributing to who we imagine we are. Dress and drag become the method for unpacking this loaded script. Dress and drag affords the reader and spectator opportunities to re-interrogate social practices, both in formal institutions such as schools, churches and social gatherings and in the dress and practices of various subcultures. The blurring of lines, the deconstructed binaries of sexuality and gender, allow us to understand method as continually discovering contexts in which a given theory leads to relevant insights as well in contexts in which it is misleading(Lennon et al. 1993: 40). The South African context contains strong impulses towards the creation of a non-sexist and non-racist society, and equally strong contradictions, as is evident in the attempts of patriarchal discourse and cultural groups to defy, or at least render inoperable, its constitutionally defined prerogatives. Within that context it remains critical to offer an analysis of the particular, in this case instances in which the dress is the incidental but also the actual spectacle of gender contestation, that speaks not to the particular but to the efforts to extend such reflections and their implications for identity politics and the body politic in South Africa.
Notes
1 2 3 A queen is an overtly feminine male homosexual. Year is omitted for the purposes of anonymity of the participants. Neo-conservative is to be understood within the South African context and in other contexts globally, where the trend in political thought retains the neo-conservative belief in the universality of human rights but produces policies that are profoundly conservative and allow for state intervention. The state retains its role as the entity that shall intervene and bring about social change for its citizenry. In so doing, the state maintains a humanist philosophical bias (social welfare state) in a supposedly liberal democracy where political power and change are to be brought about by social action and involvement. In South Africa the recent debates and moves politically to revisit the abortion and civil union legislation, in our opinion, is a move to curb a more radical and critical voice emerging from communities. It is a return to traditional values and cultural practice where modernity is viewed as a mistake, all under the guise of freedom and democracy. 4 5 6 7 This refers to a period in South African history after the first democratic elections held in South Africa in 1994. For the purposes of this chapter, this period is 1994 to 2004. Rossouw M (September 2009) Pastor Ray: ANC at prayer? Faith group plans to challenge constitution. Mail & Guardian. These are spaces where minibus taxis congregate to transport passengers to and from various locations. Taxis are the most common form of public transport, along with trains and buses, in South Africa. 8 See the chapter by Thabo Msibi in this book.
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Heterogemony refers the totalising manner in which heteronormativity maintains its hegemony with relation to otherall other ways of being/sexualitythat do not conform to compulsory heteronormativity. It is the collapsing of two words together hetero- (sexual) and (he) gemony.
10 South Africa was part of the British Empire. 11 This is a woven piece of cloth that is worn around the waist, folded or knotted on the side much like a saronga traditional form of dress in South Africa. 12 Beyers Y (2009) Wow, look at me now! Exclusive: Athletics star Caster Semenya as youve never seen her beforetransformed by YOU from powergirl to glamour girl. YOU, #144 10 September 2009. 13 Van der Westhuizen C (2009) Dressing up, dressing down: Caster Semenya is all glammed-up on the cover of You. Harassment or harmless teenage fun? Point. Mail & Guardian 17 September 2009. 14 Bauer C (2009) Dressing up, Dressing down: Caster Semenya is all glammed-up on the cover of You. Harassment or harmless teenage fun? Counterpoint. Mail & Guardian 17 September 2009. 15 The English courtesans were highly fashionable women who lived their lives by being Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za courted and supported financially by the rich aristocracy and politicians. They were the epitome of fashion, were linguistically proficient, and were musicians and hostesses who also at times provided for the sexual needs of their clientele.
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These are men who dress up as women either for pleasure, for pageants or for drag shows which take the form of impersonating celebrities such as Shirley Bassey.
References
Bersani L (1995) Homos. Massachusetts: Harvard University Press Bourdieu P (1986) Distinction: A social critique of the judgement of taste. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul Bradley H (2007) Gender. Cambridge: Polity Press Butler J (1990) Gender Trouble. New York & London: Routledge Butler J (1993) Bodies that matter: On the discursive limits of sex. New York: Routledge Butler J (2000) Agencies of style for a liminal subject. In P Gilroy, L Grossberg & A McRobbie (Eds) Without guarantees: In honour of Stuart Hall. New York: Verso De Waal S & A Manion (Eds) (2006) Pride: Protest and celebration. Johannesburg: Jacana Media (Pty) Ltd Derrida J (1976) Of grammatology. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press Dollimore J (1991) Sexual dissidence: Augustine to Wilde, Freud to Foucault. New York: Oxford University Press Entwistle J (2000) The fashioned body: Fashion, dress and modern social theory. Cambridge: Polity Press Epprecht M (2004) HUNGOCHANI: The history of dissident sexuality in Southern Africa. Montreal: McGill-Queens University Press Gimlin DL (2002) Body work: Beauty and self-image in American culture. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press
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Hadland A, E Louw, S Sesanti & H Wasserman (Eds) (2008) Power, politics and identity in South African media: Selected seminar papers. Cape Town: HSRC Press Halliday F (2001) The world at 2000. Hampshire: Palgrave Hickman K (2003) Courtesans. London: HarperCollins Publishers Ltd Kipnis L (1996) Bound and gagged: Pornography and the politics of fantasy in America. New York: Grove Press Lagrange J (Ed.) (2006) Psychiatric power: Lectures at the College de France 19731974. Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan Lennon S, LD Burns, J Hamilton & HB Lackner (Eds) (1993) Social science aspects of dress: New directions. Monument: International Textile and Apparel Association, Inc Payne C (2001) Victorian dress. Paper presented at the Locating the Victorians Conference, London (1215 July 2001). Petersen A (2007) The body in question: A socio-cultural approach. London & New York: Routledge Pinar W (1994) Autobiography, politics and sexuality: Essays in curriculum theory 19721992 (Vol. 2). New York: Peter Lang Reddy V, T Sandfort & L Rispel (Eds) (2009) From social silence to social science: Same-Sex Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za sexuality, HIV and AIDS and gender in South Africa. Cape Town: HSRC Press Shelver C (2006) Jacob Zuma rape trial: What now? Accessed 19 September 2009, http:// www.mg.co.za/article/2006-02-26-jacob-zuma-rape-trial-what-now Usher J (1997) Fantasies of femininity: Reframing the boundaries of sex. New Jersey: Rutgers University Press Weeks J (2003) Sexuality. (2nd edition). London: Routledge Weeks J (2007) The world we have won: The remaking of erotic and intimate life. Oxford: Routledge
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20 Sari stories: Fragmentary images of Indian woman

Nyna Amin and Devarakshanam (Betty) Govinden
Images of IndIan women1 in a variety of dress modes abound in newspapers, magazines, books and films. There are images of Indian women in traditional saris in modern forms (such as, for example, the sari suit and mermaid-style saris) and in Westernised fashions that may or may not have connections to Indian wear. Images of what Indian women wear are not neutral; they communicate notions of identity, and of cultural values and gender roles independent of the wearers notions. In this chapter we interrogate the discourse produced by images of Indian women who wear saris. What sense is made of their identity, gender and culture? Which images endure and why do they endure? The sari, a rectangular piece of fabric approximately five and a half metres by one metre, is one component of a three-piece ensemble which includes an undergarment, the petticoat, and a choli (blouse). It is available in a variety of materialscotton, silk, chiffon and nylonand is worn by being pleated and wrapped around the body in countless ways. It is regarded as the national dress for women in India. Yet Indian dress is not homogeneous; on just the Indian subcontinent it occurs on a wide spectrum from traditional to progressive. There are some regional dresses that are seen to be traditional and exotic while the sari and shalwar kameez2 are seen to be progressive. The sari is also not restricted to females (see Figure 20.3) or to persons with links to India, and the question might well be asked: Who has the right to wear a sari? (See also Chapter 7 by Kopano Ratele.) In the wearing of the sari the workings of binary logic can be seen in the way in which the sari both veils and reveals, adorns and disrupts, and signifies contemporary chic or reactionary conservatism. In this chapter we look at the sari not in its material form but as a nodal point of constitutive discourse and discursive articulation about Indian women, and around which culture, identity, and gender acquire meaning. The imbrications of dress in the politicisation of individuals is not new and has been explored by Roces and Edwards (2007) in relation to the interdependence between Western and Filipino dress. Their analysis concludes that a relationship of
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reciprocity existed which led to the emergence of hybrid forms of dress. By contrast, Allman focuses on Africa and its diaspora to explore the ways in which power is represented, constituted, articulated, and contested through dress (2004: 1). Dress, she finds, is one of the ways of uniting the diaspora with the continent from which it has come, and creating solidarity across intercontinental spaces. In the stories we present, we focus not on identity formation, diasporic relationships and symbiotic relationships, but instead on the sari as it can be analysed as a core sign around which the meaning of Indian woman is organised and condensed in ways that serve to exclude other meanings. Sari discourses constitute the woman of the stories, establishing a master narrative of who she is and is not and who she can be and cannot be. It is, essentially, an exploration of the ways in which discourses operate to interpellate social identities. The sari, as a particular articulation of Indianness, has been lauded, extolled, caricatured, stereotyped and vilified. In some respects, particularly in the description of the other, the sari is seen as a marker of identity, of authenticity, conformity and tradition, whilst in others as a site of rebellion and the expression of individuality. For an observer or a wearer it inscribes and prescribes a reading of the body as text. It is apparent to us that the sari is the battleground for attempts to fix a universal interpretation of Indian women, or at least, to hegemonise a meaning. We begin by interrogating the battle to fix the meaning ascribed to being an Indian woman by deploying Laclau and Mouffes (1985) discourse analysis strategies. Following Laclau and Mouffes perspective about the incomplete nature of the social, the discourse about Indian women in saris is regarded as fragmentary, unfinished and partial. Fullness and completeness are resisted and cannot be achieved because some constructions are always outside discourse. The lack of completeness is, according to Laclau, the production of tangentially empty signifiers[]signifiers with no necessary attachment to any precise content (2000: 185 [original italics]). Thus ideas, meanings and interpretations about saris are not static; they are dynamic, erected and resurrected in and through discourse, characterised always by impermanence and wavering. Signs can have many meanings that are established relationally and rationally through normative, regulatory and historical practices. As a sign the sari is an example of a master signifier that attempts to exclude surplus meanings. However, fixed meanings are vulnerable to disruption by other ways of fixing the sign. Consequently, there is always an ongoing tussle about meanings and definitions in setting up the terrain for hegemony about Indian womens identity. In exploring the non-belligerent conflict to stabilise meaning, we analyse stories relayed by a single participant. The stories reflect the manifold discourses and situations that she experiences. Viewing the stories as texts that produce reality and truth as a function of language, we set into play a poststructuralist analysis
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informed by discourse theory about the battle in and through discourse. We conclude the interrogation with personal reflections.
Memory reconstructions: Producing sari stories

The stories that are related here are fragments from memory about saris. The stories are recollections, bits and pieces of conversations and observations based on personal experiences. The stories do not have a beginning, a middle or an end. They are, following Jrgensen (2007) and Boje (2001; 2007), ante-narrative accounts. Ante-narratives precede narratives. They are living stories that are not finished, not whole, and[]still alive in the now and here (Jrgensen & Boje 2008). These stories are open to interpretation and are not held hostage to truth-telling and the presentation of real reality. They are fractions, memory particles presented unsystematically, without unity. In another moment and space these stories would be communicated differently, alternatively, with or without embellishments. Here we have accepted the stories as momentary glimpses that unveil a terrain whose polysemic character is revealed when inserted into social discourse. The participant, whom we have named Mira, traces her roots to the arrival of indentured labourers in South Africa in 1860. Indians were particularly useful at a time when slavery was abolished: they provided the labour to maintain the infrastructure of trade and the ex pansion of Britain in Africa. They brought with them, among other things, their religion, cuisine and forms of dress, which have added to the variety of South African culture. Through the decades the sari has, for a considerable number of Indian women living in South Africa, remained an important form of dress, particularly at weddings, funerals, religious functions and as the norm for married women. Mira was purposely chosen for the richness of her personal experiences of being a woman and an Indian, and because of the stories, in which the sari was a central element, which she could share. A South African with a Christian upbringing and a doctoral-level education, she considers herself an insider, an Indian woman. An academic, writer, literary critic, feminist, mother, wife, and lay pastor, she has spent years educating girls and boys, and interacting with Indian women, and, visiting India on numerous occasions, she has also experienced being the diasporic outsider. Her stories are not meant to be authentic in an ontological sense; instead they are her memories, capturing discourses about women who wear saris. Ontology of narratives in this instance, following Laclau, are not neutral; they derive their meaning in discourse, by means of hegemonic logic (2000: 44). It is through the analysis of discourse that we see a reality being constructed or resisted. Butler reminds us, too, that the Real means nothing other than the constitutive
sari stories
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limit of the subject (2000: 152). The subject is, in effect, a reality portrayed by its construction whilst simultaneously eliminating competing constructions.
Memory fragments: Stories about saris

Six stories are central to the analytical interrogation that follows. Each story is headed by a phrase from the story as an organising device and to separate the analysis for each of them. The stories and analyses are followed by a synthetical, Gestaltist discussion. This discussion describes the context of the discourse, followed by our identifying the discourse, its meanings and silences, its taken-forgranted meanings, and the struggle to fix meaning. The final part of this chapter explains how Indian women are discursively constructed. Ultimately, the aim is aligned to uncover(ing) the general hegemonic relationships in society, and conditions for the transformation of society (Andersen 2003: 55).
She has to wear saris to school3

I used to meet her at her school whenever I went on Practice Teaching. Before I went to meet my students I would stop at the principals office. Saras Naidoo was the principal of New Haven Primary School. The school, formerly an Indian school, now had a large percentage of African learners. My student-teachers told me that they had a problem with language teaching at the school, as the learners were discouraged from speaking in their mother tongue, Zulu. Saras was always dressed in a sari. She wore cotton blouses and chiffon saris in beautiful patterns and looked comfortable in them as she went about her business. She told me that she never came to school in anything but a sari. She said that she has to wear saris to school in order to command authority. At Assembly, she said, the students always raised their heels [sic] to catch a glimpse of her and to see what she was wearing. This memory, a fragment of a visit to a school to provide supervision for teachersto-be, describes the ritual followed by visitors to the school. Mira calls on the principal to both announce her presence and to pay respect to the office of authority. In this instance, the head of school is an Indian woman who wears a sari. The school had previously been classified as a school for Indians as prescribed
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by apartheid racial categorisation, underpinned by the assumption of racial homogeneity. In recent years the school, in keeping with political changes in the country, has deracialised by admitting African children. The discourse is about the sari as an object that inspires obedience and respect for authority. It is an investment not in Indian identity but in an identity of authority. The head of the school uses the sari to shape the discourse around management and leadership whilst simultaneously closing gendered, cultural and religious discourses. This is Sarass battleto displace the orthodox view of sariwearing women as meek, submissive and subjugated with an image of confidence, authority and power. The sari in combination with her pronouncements and acts represents the modern version of the Indian woman. She desires to be recognised as a figure of authority. In other words, she engages in subjectivation, signifying the space in which the individual gives itself to itself (Andersen 2003: viii [original emphasis]). Subjectivation is important for creating a durable meaning. She has to make an impression on students who do not share her cultural, linguistic and social world-views. This can be done while continuing the process of othering, however unintentionally. All students, she suspects, have coalesced ideas of what being an Indian woman is. Furthermore, the construction of her self is based on assumptions of culture, language ability, and leadership qualities. We must remember, too, that she is talking to another Indian woman who has her own understanding, unarticulated to Saras, about the sari. From Miras description we know that she links it to the material form in terms of aesthetic value and comfort. Sarass articulations and Miras silences are the terrain of the conflict. Saras does not need evidence of Miras thoughts, because the unuttered are the centres of social discourse. Her task is to move the marginal construction of the modern Indian woman to the centre and conjure up the possibilities excluded by hegemonic discourse.
She was dressed in one of her nylon saris

I stood at the side of the coffin to pay my last respects. Caroline Thomas was a dear old parishioner who was loved by all. She looked peaceful in the coffin, resting from her earthly labours. She had raised a large family. Through all the changing scenes of her life she was composed and dignified and she was often described as one of the pillars of the church. I noticed that she was dressed in one of her nylon saris. I was quietly surprised. I had known Caroline Thomas to mainly wear silk sarisbeautiful ones in simple and elegant designs. I wondered at my noticing this little detail, and suppressed the thought quickly. A woman had died. That is what mattered.
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This memory is about observations made at a funeral. An old woman is dead. And, as she lay in the coffin, a detail strikes Mira, a mourner at the funeral. She notes that for her final journey Caroline was dressed in an ordinary nylon sari instead of the beautiful silks she wore during her lifetime. The discourse here is shaped by death in combination with life history. What kinds of saris should the dead wear? Should there be a continuation of what was worn in life or should there be a shift to signify the disruption of life? And, is the decision made by the living on behalf of the dead driven by an economic logic or a social logic? Does it matter? From a social logic perspective, Carolines achievements as a Christian and Indian woman are exemplary. She has served the church, laboured to bring up her children within the faith, and she has led a graceful life. Miras logic therefore, is socially driven; the reward for exemplary life must be reflected in death. There should be coherence. But what is the silenced discourse? It is driven by economic logic. A costly sari is wasted on the dead. The dead can be dispossessed of their possessions for them to re-emerge as possessions of another. The silk sari will be worn again but not by the ownerand yet it will be owned. This is the discourse that is suppressed. It is not prudent to speak about inheritance and who benefits from the passing of a woman. In death Caroline has no rights and, at a funeral, the discourse of silence is hegemonic as articulation about the sari will disrupt and disturb the sedimented psychologies of the bereaved. The battle in Miras mind about what matters is colonised by the dominant discourse that one should not focus on materiality at a funeral but rather on grieving and giving thanks for and celebrating the life of the dear departed. A woman has died and she was constituted as pious and angelic. That is what matteredthe concluding thought of the recollection of Carolines funeralsignifies a self-regulating and self-disciplining mechanism to silence non-spiritual discourses and the privileging of a moral discoursivity. 4
He always liked to see Indian women in traditional dress

When Naomi Chitambaran from Chennai visited me I took her around town. She was keen to meet people working in the field of social justice and poverty. Her ecumenical work in India took her into the heart of the problems here. I arranged that she visit the University to meet one of the pastors who worked part-time in the Theology Department. I wore my workday-skirt and t-shirt, while Naomi wore a blue sari. Pastor Henry, wearing a t-shirt with a Manchester United insignia on it, met us graciously and took us to his office. He said how happy he was to meet
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Naomi as he had heard of her work, and started the conversation by saying that he always liked to see Indian women in traditional dress. In this fragment, a visitor from India is taken on a tour of the town. Included in the itinerary is a visit to the Theology Department of a local university. Dressed in a sari the visitor is accompanied by her South African hostess who is dressed in Western garb. At the university they meet a pastor dressed in a Manchester United t-shirt. All are of Indian extractionNaomi is an Indian national, Mira and Henry are from the diaspora. The discourse is constructed around conceptions of traditionality from an Indian male perspective. Here traditional in relation to Indian woman marks off and separates Naomi and Mira in a binary antagonism. Naomi is the traditional woman, Mira the untraditional. As a pastor and a man, Henrys construction of what counts as Indian woman is privileged. The sari-clad woman is the exotic and, perhaps, erotic object of the gaze of a man. Women must present themselves as traditional. Henrys discourse effectively strips Naomi of her political identity and inserts a traditional, cultural, subjugated, passive construction. Naomis work is overshadowed and consumed by the sari she wears. She is constructed by tangibles of dress, not by how she thinks. It is the sublimation of the intellectual person and the resurrection of the meek, submissive wife, mother, sister, daughter and girl. And in the same instant, Mira is cast to the margin; she is not part of the discourse about Indian women. Her othering is the disruption that must not be admitted. Real Indian women, in Henrys view, wear saris. This is a construction that both Naomi and Mira unconsciously battle against so as to disrupt and resist it.
She wore an orange Kanjeevarum sari

Meena stepped past the airport security and gathered her bags. She then walked to a waiting seat and pulled out her copy of the Mail & Guardian. She was a composed picture in a grey slacks [trouser] suit and narrow pearl necklace. I recall that I had seen her the previous week at a book launch at the Indian Consulate, when she wore an orange Kanjeevarum sari. I approached her to say hello, and I soon discovered that she was on her way to a board meeting in Johannesburg. In this scene at an airport, Mira recognises an Indian woman she saw the week before at the Indian Consulate. A book with an Indian theme was being launched at the consulate and Meena had presented herself in an orange Kanjeevarum sari. In contrast, at the airport Meena was dressed in Western clothing, carrying a
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well-known newspaper that is largely about national politics. From the exchange of conversation, Mira learns that Meena is on her way to a board meeting. In contrast to the previous story about the gaze of an Indian man on Indian women, here it is about the gaze of an Indian woman on an Indian woman. Both are South Africans. The discourse here emanates from the cultural/professional binary. The discourse includes two conceptions of Indian women underpinned by political correctness: the traditional female, who knows how to dress appropriately for cultural purposes and the career woman who dresses professionally for the workplace. The trouser suit, on the one hand, provides a counterpoint to the prevailing idea that Indian women are stay-at-home wives and mothers whilst the sari, on the other hand, is a reminder of a more enduring image of who Meena is. No matter how rarely the sari is worn it is a reminder that Meena is essentially an Indian woman. Meena knows when to be an Indian woman and when to be a modern version of a woman. This knowing, we surmise, does not emerge from her own sensibilities but is dictated by protocols of business and culture, by a sense of dressing in socially approved ways. It is only by contrast with what was worn at the consulate that a meaning emerges about contemporary Indian women, at war with conservative images shaped by dress. The trouser suit unfixes the conservative image whist the sari provides a stable point of reference.
We want to show them we are Indian

When a group of women from my church visited Chennai a few years ago they were excited at the prospect of visiting incredible India. Images of the exotic East and many hours of shopping were eagerly anticipated. During the preparatory time, one of the members suggested that the women wear African garb for the opening of the Madras Church Synod, which was part of the itinerary, to show them we are from Africa. When I arrived at the opening of the synod I saw our women dressed to the nines in colourful Afro skirts, beaded headgear and bracelets. Durbans beachfront had obviously been raided! One of the ladies, who recounted the reception later, seemed taken aback when our hosts asked her if she was African. By the end of our time together, the women decided to wear their best saris, and step out to the synod meeting. There was much laughter and bustling about as they helped another with the pleats or the pin.
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We want to show them we are Indian, one said, to general approval from the rest of the bevy. In this story a group of South African Indian women arrive in India to attend the opening of a church synod. Prior to their arrival they had made a decision to wear African-style clothing to underscore their African background. The clothes they wore resulted in the women being seen as not Indian. To rectify the misconception, the women decide to wear saris to show their hosts that they are Indian women. Here Indian women from Africa experience an inside/outside or the same/ difference dialectic. Though their cultural heritage makes them Indian insiders, their status as African nationals relegates them to the outside. The wearing of Afro skirts, beads and headgear contradicts and erases their Indian ancestry and positions them strongly as outsiders. To show that they are Indian they have to wear saris. The discourse around Indian women is shaped by associating ideas of authenticity, nationality and dress as a compounded conception for women of the diaspora. There is no opportunity within an African-expressed sense of dress to claim Indian identity. Being Indian can only be achieved in the presence of a sari. Thus the women from Africa have to show them visually by wearing saris, for it is in the wearing of saris that solidarity between the Indian diaspora and the subcontinent can be achieved, echoing Allmans (2002) similar finding in his research into the politics of dress and diasporic unity with the motherland (2004). The wearing of the sari can unite a dispersed population whilst an expression of difference maintains separation. The sari, in effect, is the common ground that erases differences and highlights similarities. Yet wearing the sari makes them no less African and no more Indian.
Our parish priest, who is a woman, wears a dog collar

Our parish priest, who is a woman, wears a dog collar. When she wears a sari she sometimes matches it with a choli especially tailored with a dog collar. When she visited Chennai once, her Indian counterparts were quite excited at this innovation as the women priests there have no distinguishing garb when they are not wearing their clerical vestments. She became quite a scene of attraction among the women whenever she appeared in this attire. Interestingly, the enthusiasm was not altogether positive. One of the visiting clergy from the UK remarked, Dont let the priests see you in one of those in England.
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This story describes how a woman priest of Indian descent living in South Africa is able to wear a sari and concurrently signal her status as priest. Her creative solution is admired by women in India who see the possibility of including a dog collar in the design of the choli. By contrast, the enthusiasm of women priests in India is tempered by an understanding of how it might be rejected by male priests in Britain. There are two discourses present: the Indian/ecclesiastical solution and the European problematising of the solution by asserting the hegemonic European norm. The Indian/ecclesiastical discourse is shaped by recognising that the inclusion of the dog collar allows two identities to be displayed: being priest and being Indian woman. The European problematisation arises from a double otheringnon-European women and female priest Indian women who appropriate a tangible sign of priesthood for inclusion in their traditional wear subvert both gender and patriarchal/colonial norms. There is, indeed, a mismatch between the actions of the parish priest and European discourse that decides what is appropriate or inappropriate dress for [women] priests. The discourse is shaped by ignoring cultural connections to dress and re-establishing the centrality of Western male liturgical protocols of dress. It is the actions of the other that disrupts and destabilises control of age-old practices and positions inhabited by European men.
Sari stories: Disrupting and destabilising discourses of Indian woman

These sari stories provide a socio-political platform from which to understand the intricate processes of meaning-making. The sari, in particular, has been a nodal point in each story and Indian women derive their meaning from particular vantage points in relation to the nodal point. The analysis suggests that the conception of Indian woman is destabilised in relation to who wears a sari, where she wears a sari, what kind of sari is worn, and when the sari is worn. Let us explain. It matters whether a woman who regards herself as Indian, either from the diaspora or India proper, wears a sari. Those from India emerge in discourse as more authentic than their diasporic sisters. As a national dress it is not surprising that women in India do not consider the sari as a costume to be worn only for some functions. It is one of the accepted forms of dress in the workplace. The modern/ traditional divide is erased by a constant in the form of the sari. Women of the diaspora, however, battle to stretch the meaning of authentic Indian to include transnational expressions and adaptations. They have to wear a sari to prove their association and membership with Indian identity and as Hall (1990) indicates, this is reflective of a return to origins:
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Diasporic identities are those which are constantly producing and reproducing themselves anew, through transformation and difference. It is because this New World is constituted for us as place, a narrative of displacement that gives rise so profoundly to a certain imaginary plenitude, recreating the endless desire to return to the lost origins. (Hall 1990: 235236). For women like Meena, the traditional ideal is in conflict with the modern version because the workplace and cultural spaces demand that she dresses in accordance with different norms. The boardroom is not constituted as a space to express Indian identity; it has its own business-driven agenda. Conversely, in a cultural space, Meenas professional identity is rendered invisible. The modern and the traditional, it seems, cannot co-exist. Saras, however, is the antithesis of Meena. As the principal of a school she is in a position to exercise her power in a way that allows her to project Indian woman as a confident, poised and able leader. She is able to harness her cultural identity to consolidate her status in school and in doing so she demonstrates the possibilities of fusing two antithetical positions. In the case of Caroline, the discourse of Indian woman is shaped by social logic against a silenced economic logic. The life of an Indian woman is constituted as sacrifice. In death she is made to sacrifice her material possessions for a utilitarian goal. The nylon sari she is clothed in betrays the dominant meaning of sacrifice ascribed to Indian woman. The sari has symbolic meaning. For the principal who chose to wear a sari, clothing is not only a means of identifying [herself] as a teacher, but it is also a pedagogical strategy in itself, a means of commanding respect and order, of establishing a serious working atmosphere, and of exerting control (Weber & Mitchell 2004: 252). What is unusual about this story is the hegemonic idea of what constitutes professional dress. Normative ideation would preclude wearing a sari in a South African work context as the sari is associated with work in the home; more specifically, in the kitchen. Thus, in a work context, dressing in a sari is an opportunity to transgress norms, to subvert the construction of the saried wife/ mother. The formalisation of the sari enhances Sarass presence and she reveals a great deal about questions of body, identity, relationships, teaching strategies, and orientation to the world (Weber & Mitchell 2004: 253). Furthermore, her wearing a sari in the work context also brings out into the open the conflicts that have to be managed in discourse. The management of her professional body in the workplace is also a management of her cultural and gendered identity. In the vignette about the group of women travellers to India, identity or difference is performed through the clothes the women chose to wear at particular
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moments. Trying on the sartorial identity of the Other (Weber & Mitchell 2004: 266) was only momentarily attractive. The change from African dress to Indian dress was a change from difference to a shared identity, and in both instances there is selfconscious construction and presentation of an assumed self. It is evident here that the image our clothed bodies project precedes us, introduces us, and inserts us into the communication we have with others (Weber & Mitchell 2004: 262). Explicitly or implicitly, in discourses about the meaning of Indian woman, we see constitutive battles between modern and conventional, sacrifice and waste, traditional and professional, similar and different, uniting and separating, and European and Indian versions and conceptions. As the context and actors assume positions and relations to one another, new meanings are acquired that either challenge, contradict, erase, or entrench old conventions, ensuing in a battle to fix the meaning of Indian woman. There are fossilised notions of what it means to be an Indian woman that endure. These are fossilised notions that the women resist, transgress and change. There cannot be a fixed meaning. There are only fragments and images that float in discourse. And some discourses about saris, Indian women and identity are more powerful than others.
Critical reflections: More sari stories

As women of Indian descent, living beyond the borders of the motherland, we are in a sense both inside (based on Indian ancestry) and outside (living in the diaspora) and we move between and beyond these imposed categories as we contemplate both the troubling as well as the exhilarating aspects of saris and the saris connections to identity and culture. The vignettes above demonstrate that memory fragments are particularly potent because they are expressions of enduring discourses; within these vignettes the sari can be seen as a template for multiple and often competing ideological meanings. The sari, as with dress in general, may signify the dialectics of identity and act as a means of narrating identity. From our perspective, the sari straddles the divide between tradition and modernity. There are different types of saris that are appropriate for different occasions, on a broad continuum from informal to formal, workday to ceremonial. There are also different codes of dress for Indian women and the sari, rather than jeans, is often seen to be appropriate wear for weddings and funerals. Generally, wearing a sari is seen to be representing tradition and its use is extolled as a good indication of adherence to Indian culture. As educated and working women who function as marginal insiders we have found ourselves influenced by such a grand narrative and in some social settings have acquiesced to Indian mores. We know, too, that the burden of preserving tradition usually
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falls on the woman and the sari has become a visual image for such adherence and preservationone which we have transgressed cautiously. Most notably, our boldness is expressed by wearing Western style clothes to work. We do, however, acquiesce to traditional dictates by wearing socially approved clothes for cultural functions. But there are other instances where more radical forms of dissent are exemplified. For example, Kunzru (in Chandran n.d.5), an Indian author, advocates a transgressive position by suggesting that there should be no more sari stories. In his own book, My Revolutions, he steers clear of the sari-wearing heroine, and the immigrant hero. I said lets do it, lets not even have a hint of India in the book because I wanted to make a statement that I reserve the right to imagine anything I want, Kunzru told Reuters at an annual literary festival in Jaipur, India.[] They always want to put women in saris or young Sikh boys in turbans on the cover because they are directing it at the lowest common denominator, said Kunzru. (Chandran n.d.)
Kunzru sees the sari as a conduit of culture for a Western audience, and he suggests that its commodification and mythologising is being used to recreate a particular image of India that does not reflect its diverse and contradictory character. Consequently, he sidesteps the routine use of the sari as a stereotype of Indian culture.
Figure 20.1 Fatima Meer in a sari at the microphone during a Passive Resistance Campaign
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In South Africa, political activism as transgressive performance and resistant identity is also connected to wearing saris. Dr Gonam, for example, wore her Gandhi cap and sari during her participation in Passive Resistance protests at the turn of the 20th century, and the famous photograph of the womens march on Pretoria in 1956 during the Defiance Campaigns of the 1940s and 1950s shows Amina Cachalia in a sari. The sari is also used politically in other contexts. Gandhis wife, Kasturba, used hand-loomed, local Indian cotton or khadi saris (see Figure 20.2), as a means of both protesting against the colonial authorities and identifying with the impoverished classes. Italian-born Sonya Gandhi, leader of the ruling party and wife of assassinated president Rajiv Gandhi, wears the sari as part of her appropriation of and identification with Indian culture. It is interesting that this did not deter some of her detractors from asserting a few years ago that she, being a foreigner, could not qualify for the position of prime minister of India. This example demonstrates that dress is not sufficient for claiming identity: in this instance identity is imposed or withheld from the outside. Here in South Africa, the Indian diaspora communities view the sari as traditional ethnic dress. There is less variety and a widespread tendency to standardise and normativise the use of the sari. In India, however, there is greater variation in Indian dress, although the sari and the Punjabi outfit are increasingly being seen as representative of Indian dress. The sari, as one of the dominant images of representing India, shows how regional variations are suppressed in the development of nationalist tendencies and how selectivity is based on power.
Figure 20.2 Kasturbai Ghandi in a cotton sari with her husband Mahatma.
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Interestingly, we note that though the sari is regarded as traditional Indian wear it is not considered appropriate attire in the hippy nightclub venues in India and wearing one there is forbidden, as reported in a South African newspaper, The Post (25 February1 March 2009). It seems that the general association of the sari with a traditional lifestyle is at variance with the perceptions of the nightclub in India. In an Indian diasporic context such as South Africa prohibitions of this kind are likely to be construed as racist. While the sari denotes tradition, we think it is necessary to be aware that tradition is often synonymous with patriarchal dominance and oppression. The sari must also be seen within the context of the economy of patriarchy. Patriarchy performs physical, psychic and discursive violence against women; the same discursive practices that extol Indian women as bearers of culture are used to subjugate them. We must also exteriorise the violence immanent in the manufacture of saris. In many cases saris are made by children, many of them in bonded labour (where they are owned by their employers, often sold by their parents in exchange for loans). The children work at old wooden weaving looms for over 10 hours a day, every day of the week, under dire sweatshop conditions. They come mainly from the poor and working-class groups or lower castes and are paid a pittance for their work. The saris they help to make sell for large amounts in India and in other countries. There are many human rights organisations that have made visible this exploitation. In order to escape public scrutiny many hand-loom operations have moved to private homes, exacerbating the poor working conditions. In the awarding-winning film Kancheevarum, screened at the 30th Durban International Film Festival, the story of an adult sari weaver who cannot afford to buy a sari himself (or for his bride and later for his daughters wedding) is poignantly told. Despite this abominable manufacturing aspect, the sari has continued to be central to Indian wear. Over the years the style of wearing a sari has become modernised and, at times, it has approximated Western evening dress, thus providing an example of cultural border crossing, with the traditional sari in either India or elsewhere being adapted beyond its original cultural context. Such fusion may take different forms of expression. The sari has also been Africanised, as is evident in Frene Ginwalas use of saris with African patterns or ANC colours for the opening of parliament a few years ago. In that instance we surmise that an identity that reflected multiple inheritances was being sought. Depending on the context, such deviation from the norm may be met with approval or disdain, though in the particular instance of the woman priests adaptation of the dog collar, the objecting priest in question was protecting what he saw as a sacred (Western) vestment from contamination.
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Looking further back, it is obvious to us that our mothers ways of wearing a sari differed from those of our grandmothers, and the new younger fashions, in turn, are different from those of yesteryear. Contemporary trends make the sari look exotic and sensual, with sleeveless or strapless fitted cholis that are in sharp contrast to the old-fashioned ways of our grandmothers who wore saris with loose-fitting, high-necked, long-sleeved blouses. This modern reinvention of the sari is influenced by Bollywood cinematic culture. These present-day versions of wearing the sari represent a more sexualised, feminine image. However, they do not necessarily suggest greater freedom and autonomy from traditional cultural norms and values. The paradox is that modern ways of wearing a sari still represent traditional values of womanhood in a patriarchal society. The sari clearly represents different types of identities. As in Bhatts poem (2000), the mothers cotton sari represents her ordinary, workday identity, while her silks are reserved for her metamorphosis from domesticity: Plain and sturdy and cleanit smells Of soap and sandalwood. But still sometimes I wish she would wear silk But now its still dark as my mother adjusts her sari end she tucks it in Gujarati style and turns to leave for she must fill all the clay pitchers with waterall the large brass vessels are waiting for her. Old photographs of indentured women working in the tea fields on the north coast of Natal (now KwaZulu-Natal) show how the poor working-class labourers wore their saris, often hitched above their ankles to allow for greater freedom of movement. This clearly points to the class dimension of the sari, linked to spatial politics. Where food, shelter and dress are matters of survival the ideological uses of dress (and food and shelter) become superfluous. In Western contexts where traditional Western wear is the norm the sari may also signify postcolonial resistance or assertion of cultural identity. Two questions that might well be raised are: Is there a certain cultural opportunism at play in choosing to wear a sari? What/where are the spaces that a woman chooses to perform being Indian woman? In cosmopolitan spaces the use of traditional Indian wear as a means of defining and asserting racial or ethnic identity becomes highly relevant. It would be worth exploring, as with the discourses on the veil, how the sari represents several positions of liberation or bondage on a political continuum.
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Notes
1 2 3 4 Here we are referring to those individuals who trace their roots to the Indian subcontinent. A shalwar kameez is a trousers and tunic suit. The trousers (shalwar) are baggy in style, wide at the waist and narrow at the ankles. The kameez is a long tunic. The stories presented here have not been revised or edited. They are presented as produced by the participant. Laclau draws distinctions between discourse and discoursivity. Discoursivity signifies the fact that identities appear relationally (Andersen 2003: 50). In this instance, identity is subject to Christian moral discourse. 5 In Reuters, http://www.reuters.com/ article/artsNews/idUSTRE 50R60020090128. Accessed 22 March 2009
References
Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za Allman J (Ed.) (2004) Fashioning Africa: Power and the politics of dress. Bloomington: Indiana University Press Andersen N (2003) Discursive analytical strategies: Understanding Foucault, Koselleck, Laclau, Luhmann. Bristol, UK: The Policy Press Bhatt S (2000) My mothers way of wearing a sari. New Delhi: Penguin Books India Boje DM (2001) Narrative methods for organizational and communication research. London, Thousand Oaks, New Delhi: Sage Boje DM (2007) Storytelling organization. London: Sage Butler J (2000) Competing universalities. In J Butler, E Laclau & S iek. Contingency, hegemony, universality: Contemporary dialogues on the left. London: Verso Chandran R (n.d.) Reuters. Accessed 22 March 2009, http://www.reuters.com/article/ artsNews/idUSTRE50R60020090128 Hall S (1990) Cultural identity and diaspora. In J Rutherford (Ed.) Identity, community, culture, difference. London: Lawrence and Wishart Hall S (1996) Critical dialogues in cultural studies. London: Routledge Jrgensen KM (2007) Power without glory: A genealogy of a management decision. Copenhagen: Copenhagen Business School Press Jrgensen KM & Boje DM (2008) Deconstructing the narrative-story duality: Constructing a space for ethics. Paper presented at the conference: Derrida, Business, Ethics. Leicester University. (1416 May 2008) Laclau E (2000) Identity and hegemony: The role of universality in the constitution of political logics. In J Butler, E Laclau & S iek. Contingency, hegemony, universality: Contemporary dialogues on the left. London: Verso Laclau E & Mouffe C (1985) Hegemony and socialist strategy: Towards a radical democratic politics. London: Verso
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Roces M & Edwards L (Eds) (2007) The politics of dress in Asia and the Americas. Sussex: Sussex Academic Press Weber S & Mitchell C (Eds) (2004) Not just any dress: Narratives of memory, body and identity. New York: Peter Lang
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21 Personal adornment and creative process as micro-resistance

Marlene de Beer
A skin, or garment, indicates the modus, or way, in which one appears, or it can be a mask, or the personaa skin or garment under which you hide. I can appear as I am, or differently from what I am, in which case the garment begins to be a mask, the persona I want to show the world. On the other hand, a garment can also be the true expression of what one is, the way one manifests to human view. (Von Frantz 1993: 142) Like cLothing, aLL forms of jewellery 1 share an intimate association with the human body and serve as prominent signifiers of personal and social identity which have the potential to serve as methods for the expression of identity as part of our cultural practices. Deconstructing the meaning of traditional adornment of the human body could be utilised as a form of counter-culture or social commentary, to critically question certain historically biased and stereotypical social norms; in other words, because ideological processes such as capitalism and patriarchy construct and represent the world in a specific manner, culture is constantly being created, contested, negotiated and recreated (Van Eeden & Du Preez 2005: 3). In this chapter I intend to look briefly at the historical functions of jewellery while concentrating on the role of narrative jewellery in my own work as a South African jewellery designer. As an artist and designer I use the creative process as a form of autoethnography with which to explore existing social and cultural norms. Regarding my own research, I will discuss two series of brooches I recently produced for a peer-reviewed group exhibition, New Connections, by lecturers from the Department of Fine Arts and Jewellery Design at Durban University of Technology, at The KwaZulu-Natal Society of Arts gallery in Durban, South Africa. The exploration includes looking at the inherent messages of the two different series of brooches which function as a form of micro-resistance and critical inquiry into structures of oppression and representation, as part of an attempt to assist people to take control of their lives, and the stories about them (Lincoln & Denzin 2000: 1053).
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Personal perspective
My current work as an artist and designer is directly informed by the research I did towards my masters degree which consisted of an exploration of identity and included the production of a body of work consisting of jewellery and small sculptures as part of an autoethnographic demonstration of identity. The exploration was motivated by a need to examine my fragmented cultural and personal identity which inhibited my development as an artist and designer seeking authenticity in her work. As an Afrikaans-speaking white female, I grew up in a prescriptive Calvinistic and patriarchal culture that was part of a fragmented and dysfunctional society dominated by apartheid.2 Being part of a society and culture within a specific historical context often places restrictions on the development of individual identity, which is further affected by cultural stereotyping and generalisations. In my experience, an individual often becomes lost when grouped within a specific community or perceived uniformity of a family where they are expected to conform to prescriptive gender and cultural roles. Individual identity can be affected by the dominant discourses and power relations that exist within cultural and social contexts. A direct result of my masters research was that being a jewellery designer enabled me to draw on certain aspects of my cultural history, with the intention of contributing to emerging and contemporary South African jewellery as part of a culturally diverse society. Conducting research from an insider and implicated perspective facilitates an authentic representation of personal and cultural experiences within a specific context (Stoller 1997: 32). According to Settelmaier and Taylor, research can become a journey of personal development through the exploration of personal identity and as critical reflective practice leading to an enhanced awareness of ones personal and practical knowledge (2002: 2). The inherent messages of narrative jewellery could be used by the maker and wearer as a method through which to question social and cultural norms or even as an overt form of micro-resistance. Jewellery can easily be attached, removed and displayed in various ways on the body or on clothing, making it a perfect tool for questioning cultural power.
Traditional functions of jewellery

For various reasons jewellery has always formed part of human adornment. It has many traditional functions and has been employed as a way to communicate status and social identity (as in the familiar associations of wedding and engagement rings, military insignia and religious symbolism in Western culture). Other traditional functions include the use of jewellery as portable wealth and investment,
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or for spiritual purposes (through talismanic and amuletic jewellery), as well as for decorative enhancement of the human body in cultures all over the world and according to traditional social and cultural norms. Some of these traditional functions are being reinterpreted by contemporary artists in postmodernist societies as part of societal change and the reconceptualisation of the traditional meaning of jewellery. From a creative perspective, just as the rectangular canvas was freed from representation and became an arena for the exploration of a range of other themes, so has jewellery become a device for conceptual exploration and personal expression (Metcalf 1989: 4). As a medium for personal expression and social commentary jewellery has inherent restrictions because of its diminutive size, its intimate relation to the body, and its traditional historical functions. These restrictions can be transformed and used by the artist and the consumer as personal methods of questioning historically prescriptive roles, and as an expression of the meanings that form part of situating the self within the world. As Quickenden says, whilst jewellery remains an art of the small object, it does not preclude big meaning (2000: 7). The artist and wearer are able to dictate the amount of attention they wish to attract by manipulating the prominence of the item of jewellery, as dictated by size, material, placement on the body and intended message of the piece of jewellery. People often respond to jewelry because they can use it to alter their own self-image. Jewelry can change how a person is perceived: the wearer can employ the coded messages of different jewelry objects so she might appear radical or conservative, glamorous or frumpy, young or old. (This is also true of clothing.) Similarly, jewelry can change how the wearer feels about herself. The psychology of adornment is not well understood, but it is obvious that outward image and the inner image can be connected. (Metcalf 1989: 8) Various international contemporary jewellers have used the genre of narrative jewellery to relate personal stories and memories as a method of autobiographical inquiry. And more jewellers are starting to tackle social and even political comment through the medium of jewellery (Quickenden 2000: 4). Unlike clothing, jewellery tends to be passed down from one generation to the next and pieces become family heirlooms, without the usual connotation of being second-hand (something often associated with previously owned clothing). The older a piece of jewellery, the more sought-after and valuable it seems to be: its value is measured not only in economic terms but also in terms of its being an indicator of the historical narratives of genres as well as personal and cultural memories. The material and medium of construction of traditional jewellery contributes to its durability and economic value, sometimes ensuring centuries of use, but at the same time makes it more difficult to change conventional meanings
Personal adornment and creative Process as micro-resistance
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and associations. The traditional cameo brooch, which glorifies female beauty, was a popular item in the jewellery collection of Western women of the post-war generation. Role models such as parents, teachers and family members of the same sex play an important role in the development of a child. Many women have memories of dressing up in their mothers clothing as part of social learning, and in the process trying on social and gender roles through performance and roleplaying. Included in the process of dressing up in various forms of clothing is the act of trying on different pieces of jewellery found in the jewellery box as part of a formative process of constructing different meanings and social identities. Embodied experiences of the hegemonic portrayal of gender roles within a family, society and culture have a formative influence on the development of individual identity. A significant number of women in Western society find it difficult not to conform to conventional societal values and messages as symbolically represented by visual codes, and it is not uncommon for someone to define an object or person as the very symbol of my desire (Van Eeden & Du Preez 2005: 14). It would seem that, because of the seemingly inexhaustible popularity of the traditional diamond ring, receiving a large and expensive diamond engagement ring from a man is still the ideal object of many a womans desire. Ownership of an expensive diamond ring still serves as a powerful ideological and cultural representation and signifier of the desirability and status of the wearer, while the wearer of the ring becomes the ideal object and signifier of the power and status of the man. According to Quickenden, the impulses to adopt narrative in jewellery is diverse; significant elements of ones upbringing or background, events in ones personal life, political events or social conditions all contribute (2000: 7). As a method of exploring social identities, I use forms of jewellery, such as the cameo brooch, as multi-layered coded messages to explore value systems and models of cultural conditioning. According to Metcalf, personal ornamentation exerts a subtle control of the coded message the wearer imparts. What public relations is to large corporations, clothing, makeup, and jewellery are to the individual. On the body, decoration has a subtext (1989: 8). Because of its close interaction with the body and clothing, jewellery becomes an intimate and personal form of expression and it can be used as an individual expression of support, irony, defiance or protest, and as a form of micro-resistance with which to question prescriptive heteronormative roles. As an artist-jeweller and educator in the design field in South Africa, my approach to the creative art of making is multi-disciplinary and it includes the continually evolving process of learning. My method relies on continual reflection on the process and the reasons for making/creating wearable art in order to facilitate the construction of meaning and knowledge in the context of personal experiences and memories. This process includes self-reflection and interaction
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with my environment as part of the construction of meaning, with the intention of exploring and commenting on conventional belief systems. I experience the creative process as a phenomenological and autopoietic exploration of identity, with the understanding that identity is uniquely embedded within social, cultural and personal experiences. My approach to the concept of autopoiesis3 is non-linear and transdisciplinary, and it involves the dynamic construction of meaning by the individual in relation to the collective environment as a sense-making being inhabiting an environment (Thompson 2007: 165). For me this translates into the concept of creating an opportunity for a dynamic and intersubjective emergence of individuality, in which the individual attempts to achieve relative autonomy in the evolution of personal consciousness while remaining part of a society. Lucas tells us that autopoiesis is based on the way living systems address and engage with the domains in which they operate(2005: 1). From a phenomenological perspective, this enables the artist-jeweller and consumer to explore conventional social perceptions and to construct meaning as part of situating the self within the world. As MerleauPonty observed: The phenomenological world is not pure being, but the sense which is revealed where the paths of my various experiences intersect, and also where my own and other peoples intersect and engage each other like gears. It is thus inseparable from subjectivity and intersubjectivity, which find their unity when I either take up my past experiences in those of the present, or other peoples in my own. (Merleau-Ponty 1962: xvii) As an artist, the method of adopting a phenomenological and autopoietic approach in my work allows me the opportunity to respond to the complexity of changes within my social environment. In my work I include and draw on everyday objects that form part of a historical material culture as a method to explore and comment on the dynamic permeability of social boundaries.
Medals to Women Brooches

As a designer, I use traditional jewellery forms, such as the cameo jewel (in the form of a brooch or pendant) which has an association with historical and prescriptive feminine values, to question traditional gender roles. I subvert the concept of a cameo through a process which transforms it into a medal, which has such historical masculine connotations of honour and valour. My intention, as a female South African artist, is to explore personal experiences of the glorification and objectification of feminine value as identified with feminine appearance. This glorification is reflected in the traditional cameo jewel which, using fragile shell or
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sardonyx (a semi-precious stone) as developed by the ancient Romans and Greeks, usually includes a delicately carved profile of a beautiful woman. Western women have traditionally worn these items of jewellery, which were usually presented to them by men, as a part of a demonstration of gender identity and their feminine roles in society. One of her traditional roles being that of a wife, the upper-middleclass and refined woman wore her cameo as a badge of honour on her breast in recognition of her socially constructed value in the eyes of a patriarchal society. The placement of the jewel on a specific area of the body could also be regarded as significant as both cameos and medals are traditionally worn on the breast. The breast is usually associated with the heart and from a feminine perspective the association would be that of nurturing and mothering. The association of an iconic jewel/medal on the breast of a man would usually be a reflection on and recognition of masculine honour, prestige and accomplishment. From an anthropological perspective according to Fisher (1999) the status of women as approximate equals to men possibly changed in approximately 8000 B.C.E. due to the domestication of animals and crop planting which robbed women of their status as traditional harvesters and providers, when men turned from hunting to farming. According to Von Franz (1993) the representation of the mythological feminine goddess in the collective unconscious (psyche) of Western civilisation has been suppressed for thousands of years, reappearing in Christian mythology as the Virgin Mary, who was once more admitted, but only insofar as the Church Fathers approved, and if she behaved (Von Franz 1993: 25). The feminist writer and psychoanalyst Irigary, as cited by Sim (2001: 286), believes that the relative non-subjectivity of women in Western psychoanalysis and philosophical
Figure 21.1 Poppie and embroidered heart medals
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discourse, creates an opportunity for women to construct their own subjectivity; While the feminine is ignored and suppressed in the masculine symbolic order, it is available for women to liberate and reconstruct it in their own symbolic order. As a female jeweller/artist I attempt a symbolic re/construction of female identity through the creative process of making, which includes the choice of subject matter and selected manufacturing materials and techniques. With my Medals to Women series I draw on a traditional female profile, as associated with historical cameos, but add a subtle change. Instead of using the conventional medium of delicately engraved shell with which to create the female profile, I pierce (saw) the profile out of fairly durable metal (such as sterling silver) in an attempt to move away from the fragile and decorative connotations of the traditional material. In some of the medals, I substitute the profile with a heart-shaped icon, drawing on the association of Eros and its mythological association with the drive of life, love and creativity (OConnell & Airey 2007: 50). From a more personal perspective, I use personal and traditionally feminine methods such as sewing and the craft of embroidery as part of the manufacturing process. This includes the addition of materials such as embroidery cotton, safety pins and tape measuresassociated with sewing, embroidery and other traditionally feminine activitiesas part of an exploration of a phenomenological interaction with my environment. Safety pins have traditionally been used by women in dressing and caring for their children, and for fastening personal items of clothing. Safety pins as decoration have also been included in African beadwork and clothing or as fastening mechanisms, such as the pin sometimes used in a contemporary version of the Zulu love letter. Other forms of jewellery used to express social or community awareness and solidarity concerning issues such HIV and cancer often rely on a safety pin as a fastening mechanism. Fastening mechanisms such as fibulae (forms of a safety pin) have been used for centuries for fastening and securing personal items of clothing, such as the fibulae used by the ancient Etruscans and Celts. My decision to use an ordinary and inexpensive safety pin as opposed to constructing a more refined brooch pin from silver which would be more durable and valuable is deliberate. The act of opening, attaching and closing the traditional safety pin by the wearer of the cameo/medal could be interpreted as symbolic support for, and a ritualistic enactment of, feminine identity. The pin forms part of the symbolic act of securing and enclosing a private and intimate space as a demonstration of identity for the wearer. The addition of measuring tape, which is traditionally used in sewing and needlework, is also a deliberate choice as, apart from its obvious association with various traditionally feminine crafts, it also serves as a reminder of how feminine worth is often measured (judged) by society. The perfect female body, as an objectified icon in a patriarchal society, is often described and judged in metric
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measurements. The brooch (which is removable and could thus be worn on its own) is pinned (using a handmade silver pin) onto a ribbon consisting of durable webbing material which has traditionally formed part of iconic medals. The juxtapositioning of materials such as sections of measuring tape with webbing is deliberate and my intention is to create a tension and dialogue through the combination of materials, each with its own traditional and prescriptive gender associations. As part of an attempt to move away from a restrictive aesthetic identification of feminine value, I choose to reject the decorative and elaborate outline of the traditional cameo brooch, and to construct my medals using recognisable shapes that relate directly to iconic medals and heraldic crests. As a further metaphorical interpretation of the medal/brooch, I add written text to some of the medals as additional commentary on prescriptive labels and roles associated with the objectification and negation of feminine value. These are all labels I have experienced as a South African, Afrikaans-speaking white female who grew up in a patriarchal, Calvinistic society. Through the addition of words such as doll, poppie (small doll) and other more derogatory labels, the medals become signifiers through which the wearer can symbolically reclaim her power and identity. My Medals to Women brooches are intended to serve as wearable metaphors for the expression of memories and experiences, and they explore the symbolic roles and labels of gender within a patriarchal Western society. They do not serve only as decorative jewels but also act as miniature coded messages through which the wearer can express her solidarity with shifting cultural values and norms. With its relatively small size and multilayered meanings the brooch enables the wearer to comment on prescriptive heteronormative values in a covert manner, thus minimising the potential risks involved when questioning cultural convention.
Another perspective: Gendered meanings

After reading a review by John Skotnes of my exhibition and artist statement at the New Connections group exhibition in Durban (South Africa) I became aware of another possible meaning and interpretation of my brooches that I had not previously considered. From the perspective of a white South African male who was part of the same historical social and political era, the medals evoked a different sense of irony. Skotnes, being a male from a different cultural milieu, comments on the notion of constructed social and political identities and disempowering cultural myths: Her Medals to women, are described as powerful metaphors for the individual expression of support, irony, defiance or protest. Indeed they
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are. But they are still medals and I felt a bitter irony for the men of mine, and Marlenes generation. We men received medals for vain glorious [sic] deeds on borders within and without ourselves, hidden, politically incorrect, stifling a pain which may not be expressed. 4 She turns patriarchal notions of honour and valour on its head. (Skotnes 2009: 19) Narrative jewellery can be used as a method with which the individual, as part of an inclusive and diverse (in terms of culture, gender, social order or race) society can comment on and situate him or herself within the dominant social and political discourses, in an attempt to achieve relative autonomy. Commenting on the importance of the incremental contribution of individual acts as a method with which to comment on the futility of wars that are often caused by political arrogance and negation of the identity of others, Metcalf observes: Jewelry is not revolutionary but evolutionary. Throughout history, jewelry has defined ones place in society and the cosmos, it has provided security [and] it has added color and drama to the human form. And while jewelry is a small vehicle, it is also a pervasive one. It can help, hinder, or heal. I ask you to consider the healing power of jewelry. (Metcalf 1989: 9)
Street Name Brooches

The second series of brooches I produced for the New Connections exhibition are also considered to be a wearable form of social commentary. This series was produced in response to currently conceived postcolonial social transformation in my immediate environment. The emotional reaction of a large section of society to the change of certain street names in Durban demonstrates how the act of naming is the first act in putting down roots or establishing identity (Skotnes 2009: 19). In his review of my enamelled brooches based on street-name signs, Skotnes said, Her images stand as metonymy for an act of transition that all of us have willingly or unwillingly been forced to confront (Skotnes 2009: 19). I specifically elected to work with vitreous enamel5 because the outcome of the process is fairly unpredictable. The overfiring of the enamel was a deliberate effort to create a time-worn appearance in order to have the brooches mimic archaic memorabilia that have been unearthed, thus symbolising a previous historical era. The fragility of the medium further adds to the concept of evolutionary historical perceptions. The brooches could be worn as a representation of personal memories (according to individual or collective experiences), or as potential vehicles for social commentary within a specific era and social environment.
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Figure 21.2 Street Name enamelled brooches
As Sim comments: It has become somewhat of a commonplace to demonstrate how canons of value form and re-form in response to the social and political concerns of those with cultural power. To the less watchful eye, the changes often seem insignificantchanges at the perimeters, relative stability at the corebut even when the canonical texts remain the same, how and why they are valued certainly changes. So much so that they are hardly the same texts from one historical moment to the next. (Sim 2001: 156) Similarly, my enamelled Street Name brooches are symbolic reminders of the transient validity of memories in a diverse postcolonial society because they comment on the current ruling partys recent controversial change of street names in Durban. I use these brooches as a form of critical reflective practice to track the multi-layered meanings of societal and political changes in my environment and as a method though which to explore my identity within a dynamic society. The Street Name brooches allow the wearer the opportunity to lay claim to and demonstrate the validity of their cultural memories while remaining part of a diverse cultural environment and society.
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Concluding reflection
Commenting on autobiographical multi-paradigmatic research design spaces in culturally diverse societies, Taylor states that the autobiographical self is set in dialectical tension against the ethnographic other, with the researcher investigating critically his/her own cultural situatedness from the unique standpoint of a cultural insider and a border crosser, particularly the way in which his/her professional identity has been shaped historically by hegemonic cultural, social, political and economic imperatives. (Taylor 2008: 70) For me, the creative process and reflection on my practice provides me with a dynamic and symbolic method of re/constructing identity. Furthermore, as an artist and educator in the arts and design field in South Africa, my research and interaction with my students includes the exploration of personal and cultural identity as a method with which to express cultural diversity and individual identity within a diverse society, forming part of a neo-colonial global community (Olivier 2009). This provides artists and researchers with a method to explore their culturally embedded selves, to excavate and portray multi-hued accounts of their lived experiences as part of an effort with which to deconstruct the oppressive grip of cultural history, and to envisage with optimism, passion and commitment a culturally diverse and inclusive world (Taylor 2008: 7). As an artist I use the creative process as an authentic and intersubjective expression of individual identity. The references for my work consist of personal and cultural memories and objects which provide me with a symbolic method for making sense of and situating myself within, a multicultural and dynamic global society. This allows me the opportunity to interact with my environment and provides me with a form of relative individual autonomy as a participant in a fluctuating and diverse community.
Notes
1 2 Jewellery as opposed to jewelry is the recognised South African spelling. Afrikaners are a minority ethnic group in South Africa and their roots can be traced back to the 17th century. They were the first anti-colonial freedom fighters of the twentieth century to take on the might of the British Empire. In the second half of the twentieth century the Afrikaners, through their system of apartheid, became, in the term of Piet Cilli, editor of Die Burger, the polecat of the world. Faced with international condemnation and internal resistance, they did something rare: surrendering power rather than resorting to more extreme forms of suppression and a suicidal last stand (Giliomee 2003: xiii).
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Autopoiesis is based on the biological concept that conscious life starts with a selforganising and self-regulating system which differentiates itself from its environment, beginning with the single-cell organism. The process of differentiation (individuation) is directly related to an intersubjective relation with the collective environment. This is based on the work done by Thompson, Maturana and Varela as part of an attempt to close the explanatory gap between biological life and consciousness and to understand the emergence of living subjectivity from living being, where living being is understood as already possessed of an interiority that escapes the objectivist picture of nature (Thompson 2007: 236).
The South African Border War took place between 1966 and 1988 during the apartheid era, and conscription was compulsory for white males, as dictated by the ruling Nationalist government. From the sixties to the late eighties, the border war became a household term in South Africa. Hundreds of thousands of young white men were called up for military service, and many served in some or other capacity in Namibiathen South West Africaoften in the so-called operational area, often as combat troops. These young men were told that they were there to fight communism and that Swapo (the South West African Peoples Organisation), the enemy, had to be bested for peace and freedom to
come to the southern African subcontinent (Scholtz: 2006: 1). 5 Enamelling is a decorative technique that has been utilised for many centuries to enhance jewellery. (Byzantine cloisonn enamelling rose to new artistic heights between the 8th and 12th centuries). There are various techniques which involve the application of finely ground and sifted glass, containing pigment, to metal surfaces, after which it is fused to the metal at temperatures between 700 and 1 000 C (Palmer 1998: 80).
References
Fisher H (1999) The first sex: The natural talents of women and how they are changing the world. New York: Ballantine Publishing Group & Toronto: Random House Giliomee H (2004) The Afrikaners: Biography of a people. South Africa: Tafelberg Limited & Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press Lincoln Y & N Denzin (Eds) (2000) Handbook of qualitative research. (2nd edition). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Lucas C (2005) Autopoiesis and coevolution. Accessed 18 March 2009, http://www.calresco.org/ lucas/auto.htm Merleau-Ponty M (1962) Phenomenology of perception. London: Routledge and Keagan Paul Metcalf B (1989) On the nature of jewelry. Accessed 18 March 2009, http://www.brucemetcalf. com/pages/essays/nature_jewelry.html OConnell M & Airey R (2007) Signs and symbols: What they mean and how we use them. London: Anness Publishing Ltd. Olivier B (2009) What it means to be autonomous today. Accessed 14 August 2009, http:// www.thoughtleader.co.za/bertolivier/2009/08/13/ Palmer D (1998) New crafts: Enamelling. New York: Lorenz Books, Anness Publishing Inc. Quickenden K (2000) Virtual gallery of contemporary jewellery: narrative. Birmingham Institute of Art and Design, University of Central England [CD-ROM]
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Scholtz L (2006) The Namibian border war: An appraisal of the South African strategy. Accessed 27 August 2009, http://academic.sun.ac.za/mil/scientia_militaria/Internet%20Vol%20 34(1)/03Scholtz.pdf Settelmaier E & Taylor P (2002) Using autobiography to map an interpretive researchers sensitivities towards her subject(s). Paper presented at the annual conference of the Australation Science Education Research Association, Townsville, Queensland. (1114 July 2002). Accessed 14 August 2009, http://pctaylor.smec.edu.au/publications/asera2002/ autobiography/ASERA/auto Sim S (2001) The Routledge companion to postmodernism. London: Routledge & New York: Taylor & Francis Group Skotnes J (2009)Review in PD Pillay (ed.) New Connections. Durban: University of Technology, South Africa Stoller P (1997) Sensuous scholarship. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press Taylor PC (2008) Multi-paradigmatic research design spaces for cultural studies. Accessed 27 August 2009, www.springerlink.com/index/5r6r310677056286.pdf Thompson E (2007) Mind in life: Biology, phenomenology, and the sciences of mind. Cambridge, Massachusetts & London: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za Van Eeden J & Du Preez A (2005) South African visual culture. Pretoria, South Africa: Van Schaik Publishers Von Franz M-L (1993) The feminine in fairy tales. Boston: Shambala Publications Inc.
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21 Personal adornment and creative process as micro-resistance

Marlene de Beer
A skin, or garment, indicates the modus, or way, in which one appears, or it can be a mask, or the personaa skin or garment under which you hide. I can appear as I am, or differently from what I am, in which case the garment begins to be a mask, the persona I want to show the world. On the other hand, a garment can also be the true expression of what one is, the way one manifests to human view. (Von Frantz 1993: 142) Like cLothing, aLL forms of jewellery 1 share an intimate association with the human body and serve as prominent signifiers of personal and social identity which have the potential to serve as methods for the expression of identity as part of our cultural practices. Deconstructing the meaning of traditional adornment of the human body could be utilised as a form of counter-culture or social commentary, to critically question certain historically biased and stereotypical social norms; in other words, because ideological processes such as capitalism and patriarchy construct and represent the world in a specific manner, culture is constantly being created, contested, negotiated and recreated (Van Eeden & Du Preez 2005: 3). In this chapter I intend to look briefly at the historical functions of jewellery while concentrating on the role of narrative jewellery in my own work as a South African jewellery designer. As an artist and designer I use the creative process as a form of autoethnography with which to explore existing social and cultural norms. Regarding my own research, I will discuss two series of brooches I recently produced for a peer-reviewed group exhibition, New Connections, by lecturers from the Department of Fine Arts and Jewellery Design at Durban University of Technology, at The KwaZulu-Natal Society of Arts gallery in Durban, South Africa. The exploration includes looking at the inherent messages of the two different series of brooches which function as a form of micro-resistance and critical inquiry into structures of oppression and representation, as part of an attempt to assist people to take control of their lives, and the stories about them (Lincoln & Denzin 2000: 1053).
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Personal perspective
My current work as an artist and designer is directly informed by the research I did towards my masters degree which consisted of an exploration of identity and included the production of a body of work consisting of jewellery and small sculptures as part of an autoethnographic demonstration of identity. The exploration was motivated by a need to examine my fragmented cultural and personal identity which inhibited my development as an artist and designer seeking authenticity in her work. As an Afrikaans-speaking white female, I grew up in a prescriptive Calvinistic and patriarchal culture that was part of a fragmented and dysfunctional society dominated by apartheid.2 Being part of a society and culture within a specific historical context often places restrictions on the development of individual identity, which is further affected by cultural stereotyping and generalisations. In my experience, an individual often becomes lost when grouped within a specific community or perceived uniformity of a family where they are expected to conform to prescriptive gender and cultural roles. Individual identity can be affected by the dominant discourses and power relations that exist within cultural and social contexts. A direct result of my masters research was that being a jewellery designer enabled me to draw on certain aspects of my cultural history, with the intention of contributing to emerging and contemporary South African jewellery as part of a culturally diverse society. Conducting research from an insider and implicated perspective facilitates an authentic representation of personal and cultural experiences within a specific context (Stoller 1997: 32). According to Settelmaier and Taylor, research can become a journey of personal development through the exploration of personal identity and as critical reflective practice leading to an enhanced awareness of ones personal and practical knowledge (2002: 2). The inherent messages of narrative jewellery could be used by the maker and wearer as a method through which to question social and cultural norms or even as an overt form of micro-resistance. Jewellery can easily be attached, removed and displayed in various ways on the body or on clothing, making it a perfect tool for questioning cultural power.
Traditional functions of jewellery

For various reasons jewellery has always formed part of human adornment. It has many traditional functions and has been employed as a way to communicate status and social identity (as in the familiar associations of wedding and engagement rings, military insignia and religious symbolism in Western culture). Other traditional functions include the use of jewellery as portable wealth and investment,
342
or for spiritual purposes (through talismanic and amuletic jewellery), as well as for decorative enhancement of the human body in cultures all over the world and according to traditional social and cultural norms. Some of these traditional functions are being reinterpreted by contemporary artists in postmodernist societies as part of societal change and the reconceptualisation of the traditional meaning of jewellery. From a creative perspective, just as the rectangular canvas was freed from representation and became an arena for the exploration of a range of other themes, so has jewellery become a device for conceptual exploration and personal expression (Metcalf 1989: 4). As a medium for personal expression and social commentary jewellery has inherent restrictions because of its diminutive size, its intimate relation to the body, and its traditional historical functions. These restrictions can be transformed and used by the artist and the consumer as personal methods of questioning historically prescriptive roles, and as an expression of the meanings that form part of situating the self within the world. As Quickenden says, whilst jewellery remains an art of the small object, it does not preclude big meaning (2000: 7). The artist and wearer are able to dictate the amount of attention they wish to attract by manipulating the prominence of the item of jewellery, as dictated by size, material, placement on the body and intended message of the piece of jewellery. People often respond to jewelry because they can use it to alter their own self-image. Jewelry can change how a person is perceived: the wearer can employ the coded messages of different jewelry objects so she might appear radical or conservative, glamorous or frumpy, young or old. (This is also true of clothing.) Similarly, jewelry can change how the wearer feels about herself. The psychology of adornment is not well understood, but it is obvious that outward image and the inner image can be connected. (Metcalf 1989: 8) Various international contemporary jewellers have used the genre of narrative jewellery to relate personal stories and memories as a method of autobiographical inquiry. And more jewellers are starting to tackle social and even political comment through the medium of jewellery (Quickenden 2000: 4). Unlike clothing, jewellery tends to be passed down from one generation to the next and pieces become family heirlooms, without the usual connotation of being second-hand (something often associated with previously owned clothing). The older a piece of jewellery, the more sought-after and valuable it seems to be: its value is measured not only in economic terms but also in terms of its being an indicator of the historical narratives of genres as well as personal and cultural memories. The material and medium of construction of traditional jewellery contributes to its durability and economic value, sometimes ensuring centuries of use, but at the same time makes it more difficult to change conventional meanings
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and associations. The traditional cameo brooch, which glorifies female beauty, was a popular item in the jewellery collection of Western women of the post-war generation. Role models such as parents, teachers and family members of the same sex play an important role in the development of a child. Many women have memories of dressing up in their mothers clothing as part of social learning, and in the process trying on social and gender roles through performance and roleplaying. Included in the process of dressing up in various forms of clothing is the act of trying on different pieces of jewellery found in the jewellery box as part of a formative process of constructing different meanings and social identities. Embodied experiences of the hegemonic portrayal of gender roles within a family, society and culture have a formative influence on the development of individual identity. A significant number of women in Western society find it difficult not to conform to conventional societal values and messages as symbolically represented by visual codes, and it is not uncommon for someone to define an object or person as the very symbol of my desire (Van Eeden & Du Preez 2005: 14). It would seem that, because of the seemingly inexhaustible popularity of the traditional diamond ring, receiving a large and expensive diamond engagement ring from a man is still the ideal object of many a womans desire. Ownership of an expensive diamond ring still serves as a powerful ideological and cultural representation and signifier of the desirability and status of the wearer, while the wearer of the ring becomes the ideal object and signifier of the power and status of the man. According to Quickenden, the impulses to adopt narrative in jewellery is diverse; significant elements of ones upbringing or background, events in ones personal life, political events or social conditions all contribute (2000: 7). As a method of exploring social identities, I use forms of jewellery, such as the cameo brooch, as multi-layered coded messages to explore value systems and models of cultural conditioning. According to Metcalf, personal ornamentation exerts a subtle control of the coded message the wearer imparts. What public relations is to large corporations, clothing, makeup, and jewellery are to the individual. On the body, decoration has a subtext (1989: 8). Because of its close interaction with the body and clothing, jewellery becomes an intimate and personal form of expression and it can be used as an individual expression of support, irony, defiance or protest, and as a form of micro-resistance with which to question prescriptive heteronormative roles. As an artist-jeweller and educator in the design field in South Africa, my approach to the creative art of making is multi-disciplinary and it includes the continually evolving process of learning. My method relies on continual reflection on the process and the reasons for making/creating wearable art in order to facilitate the construction of meaning and knowledge in the context of personal experiences and memories. This process includes self-reflection and interaction
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with my environment as part of the construction of meaning, with the intention of exploring and commenting on conventional belief systems. I experience the creative process as a phenomenological and autopoietic exploration of identity, with the understanding that identity is uniquely embedded within social, cultural and personal experiences. My approach to the concept of autopoiesis3 is non-linear and transdisciplinary, and it involves the dynamic construction of meaning by the individual in relation to the collective environment as a sense-making being inhabiting an environment (Thompson 2007: 165). For me this translates into the concept of creating an opportunity for a dynamic and intersubjective emergence of individuality, in which the individual attempts to achieve relative autonomy in the evolution of personal consciousness while remaining part of a society. Lucas tells us that autopoiesis is based on the way living systems address and engage with the domains in which they operate(2005: 1). From a phenomenological perspective, this enables the artist-jeweller and consumer to explore conventional social perceptions and to construct meaning as part of situating the self within the world. As MerleauPonty observed: The phenomenological world is not pure being, but the sense which is revealed where the paths of my various experiences intersect, and also where my own and other peoples intersect and engage each other like gears. It is thus inseparable from subjectivity and intersubjectivity, which find their unity when I either take up my past experiences in those of the present, or other peoples in my own. (Merleau-Ponty 1962: xvii) As an artist, the method of adopting a phenomenological and autopoietic approach in my work allows me the opportunity to respond to the complexity of changes within my social environment. In my work I include and draw on everyday objects that form part of a historical material culture as a method to explore and comment on the dynamic permeability of social boundaries.
Medals to Women Brooches

As a designer, I use traditional jewellery forms, such as the cameo jewel (in the form of a brooch or pendant) which has an association with historical and prescriptive feminine values, to question traditional gender roles. I subvert the concept of a cameo through a process which transforms it into a medal, which has such historical masculine connotations of honour and valour. My intention, as a female South African artist, is to explore personal experiences of the glorification and objectification of feminine value as identified with feminine appearance. This glorification is reflected in the traditional cameo jewel which, using fragile shell or
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sardonyx (a semi-precious stone) as developed by the ancient Romans and Greeks, usually includes a delicately carved profile of a beautiful woman. Western women have traditionally worn these items of jewellery, which were usually presented to them by men, as a part of a demonstration of gender identity and their feminine roles in society. One of her traditional roles being that of a wife, the upper-middleclass and refined woman wore her cameo as a badge of honour on her breast in recognition of her socially constructed value in the eyes of a patriarchal society. The placement of the jewel on a specific area of the body could also be regarded as significant as both cameos and medals are traditionally worn on the breast. The breast is usually associated with the heart and from a feminine perspective the association would be that of nurturing and mothering. The association of an iconic jewel/medal on the breast of a man would usually be a reflection on and recognition of masculine honour, prestige and accomplishment. From an anthropological perspective according to Fisher (1999) the status of women as approximate equals to men possibly changed in approximately 8000 B.C.E. due to the domestication of animals and crop planting which robbed women of their status as traditional harvesters and providers, when men turned from hunting to farming. According to Von Franz (1993) the representation of the mythological feminine goddess in the collective unconscious (psyche) of Western civilisation has been suppressed for thousands of years, reappearing in Christian mythology as the Virgin Mary, who was once more admitted, but only insofar as the Church Fathers approved, and if she behaved (Von Franz 1993: 25). The feminist writer and psychoanalyst Irigary, as cited by Sim (2001: 286), believes that the relative non-subjectivity of women in Western psychoanalysis and philosophical
Figure 21.1 Poppie and embroidered heart medals
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discourse, creates an opportunity for women to construct their own subjectivity; While the feminine is ignored and suppressed in the masculine symbolic order, it is available for women to liberate and reconstruct it in their own symbolic order. As a female jeweller/artist I attempt a symbolic re/construction of female identity through the creative process of making, which includes the choice of subject matter and selected manufacturing materials and techniques. With my Medals to Women series I draw on a traditional female profile, as associated with historical cameos, but add a subtle change. Instead of using the conventional medium of delicately engraved shell with which to create the female profile, I pierce (saw) the profile out of fairly durable metal (such as sterling silver) in an attempt to move away from the fragile and decorative connotations of the traditional material. In some of the medals, I substitute the profile with a heart-shaped icon, drawing on the association of Eros and its mythological association with the drive of life, love and creativity (OConnell & Airey 2007: 50). From a more personal perspective, I use personal and traditionally feminine methods such as sewing and the craft of embroidery as part of the manufacturing process. This includes the addition of materials such as embroidery cotton, safety pins and tape measuresassociated with sewing, embroidery and other traditionally feminine activitiesas part of an exploration of a phenomenological interaction with my environment. Safety pins have traditionally been used by women in dressing and caring for their children, and for fastening personal items of clothing. Safety pins as decoration have also been included in African beadwork and clothing or as fastening mechanisms, such as the pin sometimes used in a contemporary version of the Zulu love letter. Other forms of jewellery used to express social or community awareness and solidarity concerning issues such HIV and cancer often rely on a safety pin as a fastening mechanism. Fastening mechanisms such as fibulae (forms of a safety pin) have been used for centuries for fastening and securing personal items of clothing, such as the fibulae used by the ancient Etruscans and Celts. My decision to use an ordinary and inexpensive safety pin as opposed to constructing a more refined brooch pin from silver which would be more durable and valuable is deliberate. The act of opening, attaching and closing the traditional safety pin by the wearer of the cameo/medal could be interpreted as symbolic support for, and a ritualistic enactment of, feminine identity. The pin forms part of the symbolic act of securing and enclosing a private and intimate space as a demonstration of identity for the wearer. The addition of measuring tape, which is traditionally used in sewing and needlework, is also a deliberate choice as, apart from its obvious association with various traditionally feminine crafts, it also serves as a reminder of how feminine worth is often measured (judged) by society. The perfect female body, as an objectified icon in a patriarchal society, is often described and judged in metric
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measurements. The brooch (which is removable and could thus be worn on its own) is pinned (using a handmade silver pin) onto a ribbon consisting of durable webbing material which has traditionally formed part of iconic medals. The juxtapositioning of materials such as sections of measuring tape with webbing is deliberate and my intention is to create a tension and dialogue through the combination of materials, each with its own traditional and prescriptive gender associations. As part of an attempt to move away from a restrictive aesthetic identification of feminine value, I choose to reject the decorative and elaborate outline of the traditional cameo brooch, and to construct my medals using recognisable shapes that relate directly to iconic medals and heraldic crests. As a further metaphorical interpretation of the medal/brooch, I add written text to some of the medals as additional commentary on prescriptive labels and roles associated with the objectification and negation of feminine value. These are all labels I have experienced as a South African, Afrikaans-speaking white female who grew up in a patriarchal, Calvinistic society. Through the addition of words such as doll, poppie (small doll) and other more derogatory labels, the medals become signifiers through which the wearer can symbolically reclaim her power and identity. My Medals to Women brooches are intended to serve as wearable metaphors for the expression of memories and experiences, and they explore the symbolic roles and labels of gender within a patriarchal Western society. They do not serve only as decorative jewels but also act as miniature coded messages through which the wearer can express her solidarity with shifting cultural values and norms. With its relatively small size and multilayered meanings the brooch enables the wearer to comment on prescriptive heteronormative values in a covert manner, thus minimising the potential risks involved when questioning cultural convention.
Another perspective: Gendered meanings

After reading a review by John Skotnes of my exhibition and artist statement at the New Connections group exhibition in Durban (South Africa) I became aware of another possible meaning and interpretation of my brooches that I had not previously considered. From the perspective of a white South African male who was part of the same historical social and political era, the medals evoked a different sense of irony. Skotnes, being a male from a different cultural milieu, comments on the notion of constructed social and political identities and disempowering cultural myths: Her Medals to women, are described as powerful metaphors for the individual expression of support, irony, defiance or protest. Indeed they
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are. But they are still medals and I felt a bitter irony for the men of mine, and Marlenes generation. We men received medals for vain glorious [sic] deeds on borders within and without ourselves, hidden, politically incorrect, stifling a pain which may not be expressed. 4 She turns patriarchal notions of honour and valour on its head. (Skotnes 2009: 19) Narrative jewellery can be used as a method with which the individual, as part of an inclusive and diverse (in terms of culture, gender, social order or race) society can comment on and situate him or herself within the dominant social and political discourses, in an attempt to achieve relative autonomy. Commenting on the importance of the incremental contribution of individual acts as a method with which to comment on the futility of wars that are often caused by political arrogance and negation of the identity of others, Metcalf observes: Jewelry is not revolutionary but evolutionary. Throughout history, jewelry has defined ones place in society and the cosmos, it has provided security [and] it has added color and drama to the human form. And while jewelry is a small vehicle, it is also a pervasive one. It can help, hinder, or heal. I ask you to consider the healing power of jewelry. (Metcalf 1989: 9)
Street Name Brooches

The second series of brooches I produced for the New Connections exhibition are also considered to be a wearable form of social commentary. This series was produced in response to currently conceived postcolonial social transformation in my immediate environment. The emotional reaction of a large section of society to the change of certain street names in Durban demonstrates how the act of naming is the first act in putting down roots or establishing identity (Skotnes 2009: 19). In his review of my enamelled brooches based on street-name signs, Skotnes said, Her images stand as metonymy for an act of transition that all of us have willingly or unwillingly been forced to confront (Skotnes 2009: 19). I specifically elected to work with vitreous enamel5 because the outcome of the process is fairly unpredictable. The overfiring of the enamel was a deliberate effort to create a time-worn appearance in order to have the brooches mimic archaic memorabilia that have been unearthed, thus symbolising a previous historical era. The fragility of the medium further adds to the concept of evolutionary historical perceptions. The brooches could be worn as a representation of personal memories (according to individual or collective experiences), or as potential vehicles for social commentary within a specific era and social environment.
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Figure 21.2 Street Name enamelled brooches
As Sim comments: It has become somewhat of a commonplace to demonstrate how canons of value form and re-form in response to the social and political concerns of those with cultural power. To the less watchful eye, the changes often seem insignificantchanges at the perimeters, relative stability at the corebut even when the canonical texts remain the same, how and why they are valued certainly changes. So much so that they are hardly the same texts from one historical moment to the next. (Sim 2001: 156) Similarly, my enamelled Street Name brooches are symbolic reminders of the transient validity of memories in a diverse postcolonial society because they comment on the current ruling partys recent controversial change of street names in Durban. I use these brooches as a form of critical reflective practice to track the multi-layered meanings of societal and political changes in my environment and as a method though which to explore my identity within a dynamic society. The Street Name brooches allow the wearer the opportunity to lay claim to and demonstrate the validity of their cultural memories while remaining part of a diverse cultural environment and society.
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Concluding reflection
Commenting on autobiographical multi-paradigmatic research design spaces in culturally diverse societies, Taylor states that the autobiographical self is set in dialectical tension against the ethnographic other, with the researcher investigating critically his/her own cultural situatedness from the unique standpoint of a cultural insider and a border crosser, particularly the way in which his/her professional identity has been shaped historically by hegemonic cultural, social, political and economic imperatives. (Taylor 2008: 70) For me, the creative process and reflection on my practice provides me with a dynamic and symbolic method of re/constructing identity. Furthermore, as an artist and educator in the arts and design field in South Africa, my research and interaction with my students includes the exploration of personal and cultural identity as a method with which to express cultural diversity and individual identity within a diverse society, forming part of a neo-colonial global community (Olivier 2009). This provides artists and researchers with a method to explore their culturally embedded selves, to excavate and portray multi-hued accounts of their lived experiences as part of an effort with which to deconstruct the oppressive grip of cultural history, and to envisage with optimism, passion and commitment a culturally diverse and inclusive world (Taylor 2008: 7). As an artist I use the creative process as an authentic and intersubjective expression of individual identity. The references for my work consist of personal and cultural memories and objects which provide me with a symbolic method for making sense of and situating myself within, a multicultural and dynamic global society. This allows me the opportunity to interact with my environment and provides me with a form of relative individual autonomy as a participant in a fluctuating and diverse community.
Notes
1 2 Jewellery as opposed to jewelry is the recognised South African spelling. Afrikaners are a minority ethnic group in South Africa and their roots can be traced back to the 17th century. They were the first anti-colonial freedom fighters of the twentieth century to take on the might of the British Empire. In the second half of the twentieth century the Afrikaners, through their system of apartheid, became, in the term of Piet Cilli, editor of Die Burger, the polecat of the world. Faced with international condemnation and internal resistance, they did something rare: surrendering power rather than resorting to more extreme forms of suppression and a suicidal last stand (Giliomee 2003: xiii).
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Autopoiesis is based on the biological concept that conscious life starts with a selforganising and self-regulating system which differentiates itself from its environment, beginning with the single-cell organism. The process of differentiation (individuation) is directly related to an intersubjective relation with the collective environment. This is based on the work done by Thompson, Maturana and Varela as part of an attempt to close the explanatory gap between biological life and consciousness and to understand the emergence of living subjectivity from living being, where living being is understood as already possessed of an interiority that escapes the objectivist picture of nature (Thompson 2007: 236).
The South African Border War took place between 1966 and 1988 during the apartheid era, and conscription was compulsory for white males, as dictated by the ruling Nationalist government. From the sixties to the late eighties, the border war became a household term in South Africa. Hundreds of thousands of young white men were called up for military service, and many served in some or other capacity in Namibiathen South West Africaoften in the so-called operational area, often as combat troops. These young men were told that they were there to fight communism and that Swapo (the South West African Peoples Organisation), the enemy, had to be bested for peace and freedom to
come to the southern African subcontinent (Scholtz: 2006: 1). 5 Enamelling is a decorative technique that has been utilised for many centuries to enhance jewellery. (Byzantine cloisonn enamelling rose to new artistic heights between the 8th and 12th centuries). There are various techniques which involve the application of finely ground and sifted glass, containing pigment, to metal surfaces, after which it is fused to the metal at temperatures between 700 and 1 000 C (Palmer 1998: 80).
References
Fisher H (1999) The first sex: The natural talents of women and how they are changing the world. New York: Ballantine Publishing Group & Toronto: Random House Giliomee H (2004) The Afrikaners: Biography of a people. South Africa: Tafelberg Limited & Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press Lincoln Y & N Denzin (Eds) (2000) Handbook of qualitative research. (2nd edition). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Lucas C (2005) Autopoiesis and coevolution. Accessed 18 March 2009, http://www.calresco.org/ lucas/auto.htm Merleau-Ponty M (1962) Phenomenology of perception. London: Routledge and Keagan Paul Metcalf B (1989) On the nature of jewelry. Accessed 18 March 2009, http://www.brucemetcalf. com/pages/essays/nature_jewelry.html OConnell M & Airey R (2007) Signs and symbols: What they mean and how we use them. London: Anness Publishing Ltd. Olivier B (2009) What it means to be autonomous today. Accessed 14 August 2009, http:// www.thoughtleader.co.za/bertolivier/2009/08/13/ Palmer D (1998) New crafts: Enamelling. New York: Lorenz Books, Anness Publishing Inc. Quickenden K (2000) Virtual gallery of contemporary jewellery: narrative. Birmingham Institute of Art and Design, University of Central England [CD-ROM]
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Scholtz L (2006) The Namibian border war: An appraisal of the South African strategy. Accessed 27 August 2009, http://academic.sun.ac.za/mil/scientia_militaria/Internet%20Vol%20 34(1)/03Scholtz.pdf Settelmaier E & Taylor P (2002) Using autobiography to map an interpretive researchers sensitivities towards her subject(s). Paper presented at the annual conference of the Australation Science Education Research Association, Townsville, Queensland. (1114 July 2002). Accessed 14 August 2009, http://pctaylor.smec.edu.au/publications/asera2002/ autobiography/ASERA/auto Sim S (2001) The Routledge companion to postmodernism. London: Routledge & New York: Taylor & Francis Group Skotnes J (2009)Review in PD Pillay (ed.) New Connections. Durban: University of Technology, South Africa Stoller P (1997) Sensuous scholarship. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press Taylor PC (2008) Multi-paradigmatic research design spaces for cultural studies. Accessed 27 August 2009, www.springerlink.com/index/5r6r310677056286.pdf Thompson E (2007) Mind in life: Biology, phenomenology, and the sciences of mind. Cambridge, Massachusetts & London: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za Van Eeden J & Du Preez A (2005) South African visual culture. Pretoria, South Africa: Van Schaik Publishers Von Franz M-L (1993) The feminine in fairy tales. Boston: Shambala Publications Inc.
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Picture credits
Dress, identity and method
Pages xii-1, top row from left Herero, circa 1900 Photo courtesy of www.campbell.ukzn.ac.za Portrait of a young man in contemporary clothes relaxing on the floor Photo courtesy of www.bigstockphoto.com Meeting of Peter Wright and Mothibi, 1835 Photo courtesy of www.campbell.ukzn.ac.za Kasturbai Ghandi in a cotton sari with her husband Mahatma. Photo courtesy of Greatstock/Corbis Free download from www.hsrcpress.ac.za Sowetan headline Headline redrawn by Firebrand Maclean family at Government House, King Williams Town, 1864 Photo courtesy of Cory Library / Africa Media Online A woman in traditional Herero dress in Maun, Botswana, April 1974. Photo courtesy of Jonathan C. Katzenellenbogen/ Getty Images Nwabisa Ngcukana at the mini skirt festival in Mapetla, Soweto. Photo courtesy of Picturenet/Vathiswa Ruselo Settler couple: Jeremiah and Eliza Goldswain Photo courtesy of Cory Library / Cory Library / Africa Media Online Mercury headline Headline redrawn by Firebrand from www. sowetanlive.co.za/2012/01/03/women-inminiskirt-attacked-at-taxi-rank Woman in headdress and neck accessories Photo courtesy of www.campbell.ukzn.ac.za Ayanda Makhuzeni, Gugulethu, Cape Town, 2007 Photo courtesy of Nontsikelelo Veleko Page 80, Figure 5.1 Nkhensani Manganyi, South African TV personality and owner of the clothing range, Stoned Cherrie, August 2003. Photo courtesy of Gallo Images/Beeld/ Robbie Schnieder Page 85, Figure 5.2 Trio 1, 2007 Photo courtesy of Nontsikelelo Veleko Page 88, Figure 5.3 Ayanda Makhuzeni, Gugulethu, Cape Town, 2007 Photo courtesy of Nontsikelelo Veleko
Accessorising democracy
Pages 92-93, from left 5 May 2006, Stellenbosch. Preview of Learn to Earn design for fashion show at Moyo, Spier. Learn to Earn was established in 1989 to equip unemployed persons with skills such as sewing or garment making. Model: Karen Visser. Photo courtesy of Gallo Images/Sarie/Inge Prins Nokia Cape Town Fashion Week, The Stoned Cherrie collection, 10-13 August 2005 Photo courtesy of Gallo Images/Die Burger Paparazzi/Andrew Brown Boy with gun Photo courtesy of Greatstock/Aurora Images Himba woman with headdress Photo courtesy of Greatstock/Afrika Collection Portrait of woman with tattoo Photo courtesy of Gallo Images/ Getty Images12 Man with Sotho hat and blanket Photo courtesy of www.campbell.ukzn.ac.za Trio 1, 2007 Photo courtesy of Nontsikelelo Veleko Page 134, Figure 8.1 A woman wearing a domestic workers uniform Photo courtesy of Gallo Images
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Page 155, Figure 9.2 A man wearing an example of machira dress Photo courtesy of www.campbell.ukzn.ac.za Page 164, Figure 10.1 Delegates look at dresses made from condoms at an exhibition ahead of the 15th International AIDS conference in Bangkok, Thailand, July 2004. Photo courtesy of Gallo Images/ AFP
Photo courtesy of Gallo Images/City Press/ Leon Sadiki The Hottentot Venus, Bushman woman, from LHistoire Naturelle des Mammiferes by Etienne Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire (1772-1844) and Frederic Cuvier (1773-1838), 1824 (colour litho) Two lesbian women appear in the Constitutional Court appealing to be married, 1 December 2005, South Africa. Photo courtesy of Gallo Images/Beeld/Robbie Schnieder Ncedeka Mbunye, 14, poses for a portrait while wearing a T-shirt indicating that she is HIV-positive in Cape Towns Khayelitsha township, 17 February 2010. Photo courtesy of The Bigger Picture/ Reuters Models dressed in clothing made from used cocoa sacks pose in a park in Abidjan, 5 April 2008. Fashion designer Felicite Mai uses the sacks to produce clothes, following a philosophy which she calls waboua - that everything is useful. Photo courtesy of The Bigger Picture/ Reuters Page 283, Figure 17.3 Protesting gender-based and sexual violence. Photo courtesy of Eric Miller Page 312, Figure 19.1 Thousands march through the streets of Johannesburgs northern suburbs, South Africa on 2 October 2010 as the annual Jburg Pride, the largest and oldest gay and lesbian event in Africa, turned 21. Photo courtesy of Gallo Images/Foto24/Lauren Mulligan Page 335, Figure 20.1 Fatima Meer in a sari at the microphone during a Passive Resistance Campaign. Photo courtesy of Cedric Nunn /Independent Contributors /Africa Media Online Page 336, Figure 20.2 Kasturbai Ghandi in a cotton sari with her husband Mahatma. Photo courtesy of Greatstock/Corbis
Dressing to learn/Learning to dress

Pages 178-179 allAfrica.com printout Redrawn by Firebrand from http://allafrica.com/ stories/printable/200809300832.html Successful matric dance article Redrawn by Firebrand from http://www. sowetanlive.co.za/goodlife/youthtube/2011/12/02/ a-successful-dance-matric-dance-competition Nombuso Mdluli, winner of the Sowetan Live Matric Dance Competition Photo courtesy of Sibusiso Msibi, 15 August 2011 Sowetan Assorted school uniforms Photo courtesy of Lizzy Nkosi
Dressing for social change

Pages 274-275, top row from left Gay and lesbian marriage debate at the Constitutional Court, 17 May 2005, South Africa Photo courtesy of Gallo Images/Rapport/Antoine De Ras Children of Manenberg and surrounding areas participating in the Air your dirty laundry project on 3 December 2010 in Cape Town, South Africa Photo courtesy of Gallo Images/Foto24/Yunus Mohamed Gay/lesbian parade Photo courtesy of Greatstock/EPA ANC supporters come to see ANC president Jacob Zuma, 14 January 2009, Soweto, South Africa.
Picture credits
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Contributors
Editors
Relebohile Moletsane is a professor and the JL Dube Chair of Rural Education in the Faculty of Education at the University of KwaZulu-Natal (SA). Claudia Mitchell is a James McGill Professor in the Faculty of Education, McGill University (Canada) and an Honorary Professor in the Faculty of Education, at the University of KwaZulu-Natal (SA). Ann Smith teaches Business Communication and Business Writing skills at the Wits Business School (SA) and is an Adjunct Professor at McGill University, Canada, where she lectures in literary theory.
Contributors
Nyna Amin is a Fulbright fellow and lecturer in the School of Education Studies at the University of KwaZulu-Natal (SA). Hourig Attarian is a Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council (SSHRC) post-doctoral fellow at the Centre for Oral History and Digital Storytelling, Concordia University (Canada). Robert Balfour is Dean of Education Sciences at North-West University and an honorary professor of Language Education at the University of KwaZulu-Natal. Marlene de Beer is a lecturer in the Department of Fine Art and Jewellery Design at the Durban University of Technology (SA). Naydene de Lange holds the newly established HIV and AIDS Education Research Chair at the Nelson Mandela Metropolitan University, Port Elizabeth (SA). Nolutho Diko works as a senior research specialist at the Human Sciences Research Council in the Centre for Education Quality Improvement (SA).
Crawl Evans is an MEd student in the School of Education at the University of

KwaZulu-Natal. Devarakshanam (Betty) Govinden is a senior research associate in the Faculty of Education, University of KwaZulu-Natal (SA).
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Mathabo Khau is currently a post-doctoral fellow under the HIV and AIDSResearch Chair within the Faculty of Education at the Nelson Mandela Metropolitan University (SA). Juliette Leeb-du Toit is a former senior lecturer and associate professor in Art History at the Centre for Visual Art at the University of KwaZulu-Natal, Pietermaritzburg (SA). Currently, she is an independent researcher and pending senior research associate. Desiree Lewis teaches at the University of the Western Cape (SA). Peliwe Lolwana is the Director of the Education Policy Unit (EPU) at the University of the Witwatersrand in South Africa. Marshall Maposa is a lecturer at the University of KwaZulu-Natal (SA) in the History Education Department.
Bongiwe Mkhize is a lecturer at Mangosuthu University of Technology (SA) in the Department of Community Extension. Pontso Moorosi is an associate professor of education leadership at the Institute of Education, University of Warwick (UK). Thabo Msibi lectures in the School of Education at the University of KwaZuluNatal (SA). Sithabile Ntombela is a senior lecturer in the School of Education at the University of KwaZulu-Natal (SA). Kathleen Pithouse is a senior lecturer in the School of Education and Development, Faculty of Education, University of KwaZulu-Natal (SA). Kopano Ratele is a professor in the Institute of Social and Health Sciences (ISHS) at the University of South Africa and a researcher at the MRC-UNISA Crime, Violence and Injury Lead Programme. Ran Tao completed her doctoral studies which focused on youth and sexuality in China in the age of HIV at McGill University, Canada. liane Ubalijoro is an adjunct professor of practice for public and private sector partnerships at McGill Universitys Institute for the Study of International Development. Linda van Laren is a senior lecturer in the Mathematics and Computer Science Cluster of the School of Education at the University of KwaZulu-Natal (SA).
contributors
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Index
A activist t-shirts 277, 279281 advertising of fashion 8384 Trojan condoms 168, 168170 aesthetics 77, 307 African fashion 74, 300301 African National Congress (ANC) 35, 260261 Africanness 21 African Renaissance 75, 7778 Africans and Western dress 117118 African presidents 301 and Indian dress 125 Kenya 291292 Rwanda 289290, 296297 South Africa 2021, 2324 and traditionalism 119120 see also Basotho blankets; intercultural dress; white women and African dress; women wearing trousers African traditional dress Basotho 97 Kenya 291292 Rwanda 290291, 292297 South Africa 2021, 2324 Zimbabwe 154155 see also Basotho blankets African traditionalism and masculinity 119120 and men in saris 119 and women wearing trousers 306307 Afrikaans people 2628, 351n2 Afro-chic design 7980, 81 agency change agency 266 and choice of dress 190 358 Was it something i Wore?
and fashion 73, 77, 83, 85 agricultural extension workers 259260 acceptance by the community 260261, 263265 dressing for field trips 262266 dressing in political party colours 260261 and economic status 269 and politics 260261, 270 suspicion of by communities 265 and traditional leaders 261262 and urban influences 296270 and women wearing trousers 269270 Aitchison J 3031 All Stars see Converse All Stars amabhujwa 249251 amajita 251252 amakholwa 254255 Ama Kip Kip t-shirts 80 amaqaba 252253, 257n12 American Board missionaries 154, 155, 156157 ANC (African National Congress) 35, 260-261 ANC/IFP conflict 260261 Anglo-Boer War 26, 27 animal skins 98, 154 anti-rational feminism 187188 apartheid 20, 29 Bantustans 3233 post-apartheid identification 82 post-apartheid South Africa 305306 resistance to and school uniforms 210, 213215 and school uniforms 210 womens opposition to 29 appropriation 23, 31
art 3, 84 jewellery 345350 performing arts 33 aspirational encodings 26 athomi 291292 authenticity 37n12 and artists 342 and fashion 74 authoritarianism and gender-based violence 200 autobiographical inquiry 4548 and biography 51 and jewellery 343, 351 see also self-narrative autoethnography 5758 and jewellery 342 reframing identity 68 autopoiesis 345, 352n3 B Baartman, Saartjie 312 Baddeley S 313 Bantustans 3233 Barnes R and Eicher JB 184185, 243 Basotho blankets 9799, 101, 105 and animal skins 98 and inner labia 103104 and marriage 96, 100103 and national identity 97, 99 and sex 102104 and social standing 99 symbolism of 99100 as traditional dress 97 treasured blankets 99 and virginity and lobola 100101 and visitors 104105 and women 96, 105107 beadwork 33 and Afrikaner dress 28 Rwanda 293
and Zulu dress 266 Becker H 248, 257n7 belonging and domestic workers 144 and fashion 8182 Bersani L 311, 318 Biko, Steve 78 biography 51 black South African dress encodings 2021, 2324 and missionisation 23 and traders 24 traditional dress 20, 24 blankets see Basotho blankets bloudruk 27 see also isishweshwe body language 199200 body, the as centre of social control 187 in drag shows 316 and dress and feminism 186188 and labelling 248256 and morality and teachers dress 188190 as product of culture 187 see also under performance body, the female and drag 315 and fashion 8384 and patriarchy 87, 187 and performance 8788 body, the male and drag 314315 and homophobia 247248 and Zulu masculinity 247248 Bordieu P 187 boys circumcision ritual and school uniform 220221 school uniforms 212, 216, 220221
index
359
Bradley H 311, 314 branded clothes 112116, 118 see also Converse All Stars bride price and virginity 100101 brooches 345350 business attire 289290 saris 330, 333 Butler J 311, 317 C cameo jewel 345346 capitalism and fashion 73, 84, 87, 88 celebrities 229, 231, 233, 239 change agents 266 Chapman 25, 32, 38n20 Che Guevara t-shirts 7879 chikisa skirt 155 children child labour and saris 337 childrens clothing 6162 violence against children 196 see also boys; girls; under school China see condoms, China chitenje cloth 156, 158, 158, 159, 159 choice of dress 190, 315 domestic workers 137, 140142 and t-shirts 277 Christianity and heteronormativity 63 Kenya 291292 Zimbabwe 149, 155157 church uniforms 157, 158 nuns 6364 and school uniforms 213214 circumcision ritual and school uniform 220221 civil unions, gay 66 civvies day (school) 238 Clothesline Campaign 279 Cloutier S 163
Cohen, S 318 Cole AL & Knowles JG 5051 colonialism 2225, 37n13 and the Basotho blanket 9899, 108 and the other 23, 25 coloureds and isishweshwe 27 colour of clothing 6162 commercialisation of sex in schools 204 Commission on Gender Equality (CGE) 222, 223n4 commodity consumption and fashion 7374, 8384 community development and politics 270 see also agricultural extension workers competition, matric dances 233236, 240 condoms condom dresses 162163, 164 in construction of symbolic meanings 163164 and HIV/AIDS 162163, 174 myths about, SA 174 condoms, China ads promoting sex or safe sex? 170 ancient Chinese 165 and Confucian doctrine 166 embarrassment about 171 female attitudes to 171, 172173 and immoral sex 170, 171 male attitudes to 172 post-Maoist China 167 pregnancy vs HIV protection 173 and state control of sexuality 167 Trojan advertisements 168, 168170 and women in Maoist ideology 167 connotation and denotation 153 consumerism and fashion 7374, 8384, 88 subversion of 88 context and text 4952
360
contraceptives ancient Chinese 165 contraceptive rings 167 see also condoms contradictions 125 Converse All Stars 110112, 112, 114, 115 and fashion 114115 and femininity 123 matching 123 and status 116 cosmetics 314 Craik J. Uniforms Exposed (2005) 83, 197198, 198, 199, 205 cross-cultural dressing see intercultural dress cultural appropriation 23, 31 cultural authority, challenges to 2635, 124 African 119120 Afrikaners 2628 and self-research 128 cultural beliefs 226, 227 cultural distinctiveness 2223, 36n8 cultural homogeneity 19 cultural identity 25 cultural policing 34, 244, 306307 culture 268, 298299 and the body 187 and reclaiming humanity 299300 D Dallaire, Gen. R 298299 Davis F 244 deconstructionism 152 defiance and the Kitchen Boy suit 136 and school uniforms 210, 213215 demi-monde 313 depersonalisation 137 deprivation 112113, 127, 128129 design, history and politics in 76
designer labels 112116, 118 see also Converse All Stars desire 313, 318 detachment and involvement 47 development workers see agricultural extension workers diamond rings 344 diaspora 48 diasporic identities 332333 Dickies trousers 114, 116 dignity 297298 discourse analysis 324, 325 Di Stephano C 187 distinctiveness 2223 division of labour 315 domestic workers 132133 low status of 132133, 142143 publics view of 142144 views of themselves 144145 Domestic Workers Act of 2002 132, 133, 145146 domestic workers uniforms 133134, 134 choice of 137, 140142 coverall pinafores 140, 141 and depersonalisation 137 and infantilisation 137, 140 as material culture 140142 overalls 140142 drag 310311 drag shows 314315 and control, desire and fantasy 317318 and femininity 310311, 314315, 316, 318 and heterogemony 316317, 321n9 and heteronormativity 317318 performativity and subversion 316317, 318 as spectacle 313 and the spectator 314 and transgression 314
index
361
dress in art 3, 33, 84 and the body and feminism 186188 and code 244 and cross-cultural contact 20 and identity 243244 as material culture 190192 and morality 188190 pedagogy of 205 and policing of identity 244, 306307 in politically divided community 267-268 as representation and narration 243 and safety of social researcher 267 and sexuality 243244 as social control 247 and social science research 1516 Dress and Morality (2003). A Ribeiro 189 dressmakers 226227, 232234 dress studies research 58 in Africa 150151 and autobiography 47 importance of 151 Drum magazine 7677 E Edgars 7980 education 133 sex education 181, 191 and status 142143 see also under schools; teachers Egypt, women wearing trousers 121 Eicher JB 26, 35, 38n21, 184185, 243 embodied struggle 8788 Entanglements. (2009). S Nuttall 75 epistemic frameworks 153, 154 equivalence and representation 300301 ethnic dress as anti-establishment 2931 as complicity 31
and fashion 24, 32, 35, 39, 79 the sari 336 ethnicity 20, 26, 31, 35, 38n22 exceptionalism, South African 77, 80 extramarital and premarital sex, China 166 F fashion 7275 advertising 8384 African 74, 80 and agency 73, 77, 83, 85 and belonging 8182 and capitalism 73, 84, 87, 88 as coercion 73 and commodity consumption 7374 and ethnic dress 24, 32, 35, 39, 79 and the female body 8384 and femininity 83, 84 and feminism 73, 8384 and freedom 7576, 124 Ivory Coast 300301 marketing of 76, 78, 79, 81, 83 and masculinity 114115 and matric dances 236237 photography 8386 and political symbols 7679, 81 polysemous qualities 8182 post-conflict, Rwanda 300301 and regulation of the gendered image 8386, 123124 semiotics of 74, 8182 and social cohesion 82 and urban progress 77 see also Converse All Stars female body see body, the female femininity and Caster Semenya 309310 and drag 310311, 314315, 316, 318 and fashion 83, 84 glorification of 345346
362
production of 120 and school uniforms 212 feminism and body and dress 186188 and fashion 73, 8384 and power and dress 190 and self-study 45, 46 Finkelstein J 81 Fleur journal 28 Foucault M 153, 187, 311 freedom of choice see choice of dress functionality 188 funeral dress, Ndau, Zimbabwe 148149 first half of 20th century 155156 pre-colonial 154155, 155 second half of 20th century 156159, 158, 159 G Gandhi, Mahatma 336 Gandhi, Sonya 336 Gay Association of South Africa (GASA) 65 gays and African traditionalism 118120 real manhood and heterosexuality 250251 and Zulu masculinity 242, 247, 255256 see also homophobia gaze, the 8586 gender gender testing 309 and material culture 190192 performing 310311 and power and dress 190192 roles and violence against children 196 and school uniforms 212213, 217218 gender-based violence 196, 200201 and authoritarianism 200 and school uniforms 196, 202204 gendered image and fashion 8384, 123124
genealogy 153 genocide, Rwanda 297300 George S 50 German print see isishweshwe girls little-girl clothes 6162 and school uniforms 198200, 202, 212, 216, 220, 238 sexualisation of schoolgirls 199200 wearing trousers 221 see also matric dance dress Girls Education Movement 222, 223n3 globalisation 305 Greer G 73 H hair African 290291, 292 Halliday F 305 Harding S 46 hats 124, 267 head coverings 124, 157, 263 urugori headdress 292293 heterogemony 307, 316317, 321n9 heteronormativity 4 and Christianity 63 and drag shows 317318 and wedding photos 65 heterophily 266-267 Hickman K 313 history and politics in design 7677 HIV/AIDS and African Women 282 and condoms 162163 and condoms, China 173 and loveLife campaign 281 risk groups, SA 174 and Treatment Action Campaign (TAC) 280 home-grown design 75
index
363
Homelands 3233 homophily 266-267 homophobia and African traditionalism 119 and the male body 247248 in schools 242 Zulu 242, 247, 255256 homosexual marriages 66 hooks b 48 hope and dress 288, 292293, 300301 humour 89, 284286 I identity 138 African traditional 119120 and choice 137 construction of 68, 83 cultural 25 diasporic 332333 and drag 315 and dress 243244 and fashion 75, 8182, 83, 85 and jewellery 343344, 345 misconstruing 135136 multiple 138 performance of 86, 8788 policing of 244, 306307 post-apartheid 82 and preference 125126 Rwandan 291297 and teaching 6869 and t-shirts 277, 282 and uniforms 136 see also femininity; masculinity; national identity; social identity IFP (Inkhatha Freedom Party) 35, 260-261 imishanana 296 Indian women 323 see also saris individuality 239, 240 infantilisation 137
Inkhatha Freedom Party (IFP) 35, 260-261 institutions 137 intentionality and reception 22 intercultural dress Afrikaans 2931 as anti-establishment 2931 as appropriation 3133 and coercion 25 and distinctiveness 22, 36n8 as idealised cooperation 3233 and identity 125126 intentionality and reception 22 and partsanship 21, 29, 30, 31, 34 see also Africans and Western dress; white women and African dress International Conference on HIV/AIDS, Toronto. 2006 163 isishweshwe 24, 25 affirmation of 34 and Afrikaners and coloureds 27 and Basotho women 126 discredited 3334, 35 and identity 126 and Jenny Aitchison 3031 i-tradition 74 Ivory Coast fashion 300301 izitabane 255256 J Japanese schoolgirls 199 jewellery and church uniform 157 diamond rings 344 and identity 343344, 345 for men 115 Rwanda 295296 traditional functions of 342345 K kanga 308, 321n11
364
Kenya and European dress 291292 King Shaka 265 Kipnis L 307 Kitchen Boy suit 136 knowledge construction and the knower 46 and autobiography 47 K-sheeting 33 Kunzru 335 L labelling 191 and the body 248256 labels see designer labels labour child labour and saris 337 division of 315 see also domestic workers Laclau E & Mouffe C 324, 325, 339n4 Laugh it Off t-shirts 279280 laundry, Beirut 4144 and aesthetics 43 and control 43 and privacy 42 Leach F 200 Leeb-Du Toit J 7 Lewis D 7 life history research 5051 lobola and virginity 100101 loveLife campaign 281 M Maathai, Wangari 291292 machira dress 154, 155 Magwaza T 243 Mai, Felicite 300301 Mandela, Nelson 33, 301 Mangosuthu University of Technology (MUT) 259 Marchessini D. Women in Trousers: a Rear View (2000) 185, 194n3
marginalisation of domestic workers 144 marketing of fashion 76, 78, 79, 81, 83 and colonisation 2324 marriage and Basotho blankets 96, 100103 photographs 6566 see also under wedding Martin P 279, 281, 282, 285 Marxism and fashion 73 masculinity and drag 316 and gendered dress codes 191 and material status 127 production of 120 and self-research 128 masculinity, African and designer labels 112113 and relationships 129 and teachers dress 242243 and traditionalism 119120 and women wearing trousers 121122 masculinity, Zulu 246247 and amabhujwa 249251 and amakholwa 254254 and amaqaba 252253 and the body 247248 and competition for women 253, 255 and gays 242, 247, 255256 hedgemonic 251 and izitabane 255256 and labelling 248256 and outies 251252 and patriarchy 252 real manhood and heterosexuality 250251 and self-policing 250, 255256 and sportsmen 254255 and voice and walking style 248 matching clothes 123125
index
365
material culture 138 and domestic workers uniforms 140142 gender, power, dress as 190192 and jewellery 345 and the matric dance dress 226227, 228 and t-shirts 286287 and women wearing trousers 190192 maternity clothes 290 matric dance 225226, 229, 235236 after party 236 arrival at 234235 and boys 231232, 238 competitions at 233236, 240 fashion parade following 236237 parental involvement 232 the partner 231232 same-sex partners 232 sexual activity 236, 239 matric dance dress and Asians 233 and celebrities 229, 231, 233, 239 design of 229231 the dressmaker 226227, 232234 expense of 231, 238 and individuality 239, 240 and material culture 226227, 228 parental involvement 233234, 240 and technology 239 uniqueness of 229231 and wedding ceremonies 234, 236, 239240 Maynard M 83 mazambia cloth 148, 158, 159 Medals to Women brooches 345348, 346 memory reconstructions 4748, 5254, 62 Metcalf B 343, 344, 349 mini-skirt protest 8687 misrepresentation of self 297300 missionaries, Zimbabwe 154, 155, 156157
missionisation 23 Mitchell C on dress as material culture 6 Mitchell C and S Weber Not Just Any Dress: Narratives of Memory, Body and Identity (2004) 45 and teachers dress 183 see also Weber S and C Mitchell modernity 77 and patriarchy 312 and tradition, fashion 74 and tradition, saris 334335 morality and rurality 269270 and teachers dress 188190 Mosaka T 85, 86 Motsemme N 72, 74, 7576 Mpanza Z 121 Mr Price 7980 Musangi J 72, 80 MUT (Mangosuthu University of Technology) 259 N narration and representation 243 narratives ontology of 325 see also self-narrative national identity and Basotho blankets 99100 Kenya 292 Rwanda 298, 300 Zulu 4, 279 Nationalist Party 28 needs and wants 112113, 126127, 128129 neo-conservative politics 305, 320n3 NEPAD (New Partnership for Africas Development) 7778 New Partnership for Africas Development (NEPAD) 7778
366
Ngcobo B 121 njobo dress 155, 156 non-verbal communication 135, 190 body language 199200 Not Just Any Dress: Narratives of Memory, Body and Identity (2004). S Weber and C Mitchell 45 nuns 6364 Nurse, Justin 279280 Nuttall S 7, 82 Entanglements (2009) 75 O objects as actors 175 occupational and societal culture 267 olova 251252, 257n11 ontology of narratives 325 Ouedraogo, Pathe 301 outies 251252 P pageants 312314 partisanship 21, 29, 30, 31, 34 and fashion 78 patriarchy 4, 38n16 enforcement by women 107, 307, 308 and the female body 87, 187 and modernity 312 post-apartheid South Africa 306307 and the sari 119, 337 in schools 217218 and women wearing trousers 307 in Zimbabwe 159160 and Zulu masculinity 252 and The Zuma rape trial 308309 see also Basotho blankets pedagogy of dress 205 performance of identity 86, 8788 transgressive and political activism 336
performativity and being and doing 311, 316 drag shows 316317 and subversion 316317 performing arts 33 performing gender 310311 personal adornment see jewellery personal identity see under identity personal vs political dichotomy 49 Petersen A 314, 315, 319 phenomenology 345 photographic essays 58 curatorial statements 5960 protocol 5859 reflections on 6768 and reflexivity 5859 reframing identity 68 and technology 6869 photography, fashion 8386 Pinky Pink 16n1 policing cultural 34, 244, 306307 of place and space in schools 204205 self-policing 250, 255256 of sexuality 244, 250, 255256 of womens dress 34 political activism performance and 336 t-shirts 277, 279281 political leadership and dress 190 African presidents 301 political symbols in design 7679, 81 political t-shirts 7879 political vs personal dichotomy 49 politics of desire 313 populism 306 post-apartheid South Africa 305306 identification 82 patriarchy 306307 post-rational feminism 188
index
367
power and control 151 as material culture 190192 and school uniforms 198 pregnancy and condom use, China 166, 173 schoolgirls 220221 premarital and extramarital sex, China 166 professional attire 289290 and saris 330, 333 prom see matric dance Proudly South African campaign 7778 Prown JD 226, 227, 228 Q Quakers 151, 157 R racial classification 1920, 36n6, 36n7 racial homogeneity 19 rational feminism 187 reception and intentionality 22 reflexivity 47 and biography 51 and photographic essays 5859 self-reflexivity 48, 5051 relationships, caring 129 representation as equivalence 300301 misrepresentation of self 297300 and narration 243 of others 291297 of self 289291 and social control 247 resistance see defiance Ribeiro A Dress and Morality (2003) 189 Rorkes Drift Arts and Craft centre 30 rurality and morality 269270 Rwanda 288 genocide 297300
hope and dress 288, 292293, 300301 post-conflict fashion 300301 traditional dress 290291, 292297 Ryou K 297, 298 S Saartjie Baartman Centre for Women and Children 279 safety of social researcher 267 safety pins 347 same-sex partners civil unions 66 at matric dances 232 saris 323324, 324 child labour 337 and contemporary and conservative images 330, 332, 334335, 338 to convey authority 327 and destabilising discourses on Indian women 332334 and diasporic identities 332333 and Indian identity 323324, 331, 336337 men in 119, 336 and patriarchy 119, 337 political use of 336 as professional dress 330, 333 symbolic meaning 333334 and traditional and political identity 329 and tradition and modernity 334335 and tradition and patriarchy 337 and women priests 332 SASA (South African Schools Act) 216, 217, 218 schools commercialisation of sex in 204 conforming and resistance 213214 corporal punishment 216217 homophobia in 242 legitimising patriarchy 217218
368
policing place and space 204205 see also school uniforms school uniforms 196198, 205, 211 and apartheid 210 for boys 212, 216, 220221 and church uniforms 213214 and circumcision rites 220221 and class, status and access 198, 204 debates around 197 and discipline and pride 210212 and discipline and punishment 216217 and expectations 217221 and femininity 212 and gender 212213, 217218 and gender-based violence 196, 202204 for girls 198200, 202, 212, 216, 220, 238 girls wearing trousers 221 neatness 213 and pantyhose 215 placing obligations on wearers 210 policy 222223 and power 198 and pregnancy 220 private and public face of 198199 and resistance 210, 213215 and sexualisation 199200 style and class 214216 and surveillance 198, 209211 self-analysis 47 self, construction of 22 self-definition 23, 26 self-image 8182 self-interrogation 22 and biography 51 see also reflexivity self, misrepresentation of 297300 self-narrative 4546 context and text 4952 and healing trauma 54 and knowledge construction 4647
womens generational narratives 4445, 49 self-policing 250, 255256 self-reflexivity 48, 5051 self, reinvention of 86 self-study 4546 and masculinity 128 and perception of others 69 and social research contexts 128 and teaching 57 see also reflexivity self, the in drag 316 representation of 289291 Semenya, Caster 309310 semiotics 165 of fashion 74, 8182 sewing 347 dressmakers 226227, 232234 sex and the Basotho blanket 102104 commercialisation of in schools 204 and matric dances 236, 239 stigma, China 166 sex education 181, 191 sexual entitlement and restraint, Basotho 102104, 106 sexual harassment Egypt, women wearing trousers 121 and womens dress 3, 182 and women wearing trousers 121122, 182 sexualisation of girls 199200 sexuality and Confucian doctrine 166 and dress 243244 and Maoist ideology 166167 policing of 244, 250, 255256 shame in 108, 166 state control of 167 see also femininity; masculinity shalwar kameez 323, 339n2
index
369
shame and sexuality 108, 166 shweshwe see isishweshwe single women derogatory treatment of 182 pregnant in China 166 Siopis, Penny 16n1 Sizoo E Womens Lifeworlds: Womens Narratives on Shaping Their Realities (1997) 49 sneakers see Converse All Stars social cohesion and fashion 82 social constructionism 152 social control and representation 247 social identity and dress 244 and fashion 82, 83 social research contexts 127128 safety of social researcher 267 social science research 1516 social standing and the Basotho blanket 99 and Converse All Stars 116 and development workers 269 domestic workers 132133, 142143 and masculinity 127 and school uniforms 198, 204 societal and occupational culture 267 South African exceptionalism 77, 80 South African Schools Act (SASA) 216, 217, 218 spectacle 7, 309, 312314, 315, 317318 demi-monde as 313 drag as 313 Saartjie Baartman as 312 and the spectator 314 see also pageants sportsmen and Zulu masculinity 254255 state, the 306, 320n3 control of sexuality 167 status see social standing
Stein-Lessing, Dr Maria 28 stigma premarital and extramarital sex, China 166 St. Matthews High School 208210 Stoned Cherrie fashion house 32, 7677, 78, 80, 89n5 storying of self 45 street fashion 83, 84 Street Name brooches 349350, 350 student teachers 242 subjectivation 327 subjectivities changing 47 and creativity 347 and narratives 4950 and phenomenology 345 subversion of consumerism, fashion 88 and performativity, drag shows 316317, 318 Sun Goddess fashion house 32 surveillance and school uniforms 198, 209211 symbolic interactionism 138 symbolic order 347 T TAC (Treatment Action Campaign) t-shirts 280, 280 Taylor PC 342, 351 teachers dress dress codes 189190 and masculinity 242243 and morality 188190 and normative image 184 teaching and identity 6869 and self-study 57 student teachers 242
370
technology and matric dances 239 and photographic essays 6869 text and context 4952 Thats Funny, You Dont Look Like a Teacher (2004). S Weber and C Mitchell 184 tourism 21 traders 24, 25 traditional dress and modernity 334335 and patriarchy 337 and political identity 329 South Africa 2021, 2324 transgression in drag shows 314 Transkei 32 Treatment Action Campaign (TAC) t-shirts 280, 280 Trojan condom advertisements 168, 168170 t-shirts as activist tool 277, 279281 and choices and identities 277 and humour 284286 and identity 277, 282 as material culture 286287 messages communicated by 281284 and political identity 268-269 Tyner K & Ogle JP 186, 188 U ubuntu 291 UCCZ (United Church of Christ in Zimbabwe) 157, 158 Umutoni D 297298 uniforms 134, 198 see also church uniforms; domestic workers uniforms; school uniforms Uniforms Exposed (2005). J Craik 83, 197198, 198, 199, 205
uniqueness 229231 United Church of Christ in Zimbabwe (UCCZ) 157, 158 University of KwaZulu-Natal 245 urbanisation 77 and morality 269270 urugori headdress 292293 V Van der Westhuizen C 278, 310 Veleko, Nontsikelelo 8486, 85, 87, 88 Victorian culture 108, 307 violence against children and gender roles 196 virginity and bride price 100 visual participatory methodologies 201 voice and masculinity 248 Von Franz M-L 346 Voortrekkers 24, 2728, 28 vulnerability and self-study 45 W walking style and masculinity 248 wants and needs 112113, 126127, 128129 Was it Something I Wore? Writing and Research workshop (2009) 68 Weber S and C Mitchell 163 and dress evoking social issues 205 and dress stories 192, 203 Not Just Any Dress: Narratives of Memory, Body and Identity (2004) 45 on teachers dress 184, 205 Thats Funny, You Dont Look Like a Teacher (2004) 184 see also Mitchell C and S Weber wedding photos 6566 weddings and civil unions 66 and matric dances 234, 236, 239240 Weeks J 307, 311
index
371
whiteness 1920, 36n4 white South African women 21 white women and African dress 2122 and appropriation 3133 ethnic dress as anti-establishment 2931 as idealised cooperation 3233 and isishweshwe 27 and opposition to apartheid 29 and partisanship 21, 29, 30, 31, 34 and Voortrekkers 27, 28 see also Africans and Western dress; intercultural dress wives and Basotho blankets 96 as blankets 96, 102, 103 as possessions 101, 104, 106 women and Basotho blankets 96, 101, 104, 105107 as custodians of mourning 157, 159 enforcing patriarchy 107, 307, 308 Indian 332334 in Maoist ideology 167 non-subjectivity of 346347 opposition to apartheid 29 personal vs public dichotomy 49 priests 332 single, derogatory treatment of 182 see also femininity Women in Trousers: a Rear View (2000). D. Marchessini 185, 194n3 womens dress policing of 34 and sexual harassment 3, 182 see also under dress Womens Lifeworlds: Womens Narratives on Shaping Their Realities (1997). E Sizoo 49 women teachers, normative images of 184 women teachers wearing trousers 181183
and derogatory treatment 182 and gendered power 191192 and masculinity 121122 and material culture 190192 and morality 189190 and sex education 181 and sexual harassment 182 women wearing trousers 121122, 307 agricultural extension workers 269270 Egypt 121 historical perspective 185186 schoolgirls 221 and sexual harassment 121122, 182 Woolworths 76 X Xhosa dress and hats 124 and segregation 3233 Y Yemeni dress codes 120121 YOU magazine 309310 youth culture 281 Z Zambian cloth 158, 159 Zimbabwe belief systems 149 Christianity 149, 155157 Ndau people 149150 patriarchy 159160 see also funeral dress, Ndau, Zimbabwe Zulu culture 4 Zulu masculinity see masculinity, Zulu Zuluness 279 Zuma, Jacob, rape trial 4, 278 and the kanga 17n3 and patriarchy 308309
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DRESS IDENTITY MATERIALITY

eDiteD BY ReLeBoHiLe MoLetsAne cLAUDiA MitcHeLL Ann sMitH

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Stories fluttering in the wind: How clotheslines write our lives

Take a picture: Photographs, dress, gender and self-study

Aesthetics and identity in contemporary South African fashion

ACCESSORISING DEMOCRACY Gender and the politics of the Basotho blanket

The gender politics of the school uniform

The perfect matric dance dress

Rewriting the script: Drag, dress and the body politic

304 323 341

Sari stories: Fragmentary images of Indian woman

Personal adornment and creative process as micro-resistance

Picture credits 354 Contributors 356 Index 358

Tables and figures

Profile of the five domestic workers Employers profile 139

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and method ty ress, identi D section 1

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But why Was It Something I Wore?

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