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Emily Writes, happy dresser (Photos supplied, image Tina Tiller)
Emily Writes, happy dresser (Photos supplied, image Tina Tiller)

SocietyDecember 20, 2020

After years in black, I braved dressing in glorious colour – and found myself again

Emily Writes, happy dresser (Photos supplied, image Tina Tiller)
Emily Writes, happy dresser (Photos supplied, image Tina Tiller)

It’s called ‘dopamine dressing’, and it promises to make you feel happier with just the change of an outfit. The notoriously colour-allergic Emily Writes took the plunge.

Many years ago a New Zealand designer told me clothing is like Christmas wrapping: the gift is you. There have have been billions of words talking about fashion, style, and clothing. But these words stick with me.

Like many women I don’t view myself as a gift, don’t think I need wrapping, and feel more like my wardrobe is akin to the doors to my laundry. I press them firmly shut – hiding the mountains of washing, the mess of canvas bags that I always forget to take to the supermarket, the half empty washing powder spilling onto the floor, the pile of socks I’ll never pair.

My wardrobe hides the mess beneath. I don’t want my clothes to be my language. I want my voice to be heard while I am safe in my invisibility cloak of a dozen black sack dresses.

I can’t pinpoint the exact moment that I stopped wearing colour. Can’t say when the last time I wore jeans was – how I slowly began to only wear one style of dress. But I have been like this for about four years now.

It started slowly, just before my first book, Rants in the Dark, was published. I’d been writing under a pseudonym and didn’t share any photos. I didn’t want my two “lives” to cross. Sometimes people would send me my own writing – “have you heard of Emily Writes?” Generally people said I’d like her. I liked it when they said she was odd.

A cluster of people online knew me offline too, but mostly it was a separate world. I was naïve about the book. I said I didn’t want an author photo and figured that would be enough to protect my identity – I’d assumed a book about a 30-something mother struggling through life wouldn’t be much of a success. But the weekend before publishing I was followed by TVNZ’s Sunday programme for four days. The morning of release I did TV and radio spots one after another.

I realised my anonymity was probably over and called extended family to let them know. “I wrote a book. It’s out now. And I’ll be on TV. Yes, sorry I didn’t tell you.”

I began to be stopped at the supermarket, at the park with the kids, waiting for coffee, at the bus stop. Women told me they were exhausted, overwhelmed, suicidal. They begged for help for their babies who wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t eat. Begged for help from their husbands who wouldn’t change nappies, never gave them a break, treated them like servants. They told me of their lost babies, their struggles to get pregnant, to stay pregnant. They told me their worst moments as my children yelled at me from the trolley “Mama. Mama can we get this?”

I couldn’t understand why anyone would seek out advice from me. But then I realised something: they didn’t want advice – they wanted to be heard. I was a confessional booth – draped in black, a shapeless vessel.

Emily in her usual garb: the black sack dress (supplied)

The sack dress, my friends and I joke, is for those days where you want to be a rectangle. It is draped so there are no angles, no edges. It is fitting then, that I was at that time struggling to recognise where I ended and others began. They told me about their fears and fantasies – “do you ever…?” – as we watched our children on the see-saw. Up and down. Up and down.

“Do you ever imagine just crashing your car into a tree? Jackson! Come get a tissue!”

“Do you ever think about just diving off a cliff? Oh she’s hungry again. She just won’t feed. Last night she fed all night. It’s never enough. Charlie! If you can’t see me I can’t see you!”

My aunty said to me, ahead of a tangi, “At least you don’t have to buy a new dress. Every day you look like you’re going to a funeral.” Some days, I felt like I was. It was as if all the gift wrap in the world couldn’t hide the rivers of pain that I saw everywhere. But the black fabric I shrouded myself in could at least hide me.

In Auckland, stylist Monique Doy was seeing pain too. Monique works with women sizes 14+ to help them find their style and show up for their lives. As a feminist she knew the way societal expectations can crush women’s confidence, and how the pervasive messaging of the diet industry leads them to believe their bodies are something to be fixed.

Monique’s business began by accident, buying and selling second hand baby clothes in a Facebook group to connect with other mothers while surviving two small children. She began helping those mums find clothes to fit their own changed bodies (two c-sections had taught her a lot) and guiding her friends with their clothes as she saw them struggle to feel good each day.

The online community soon grew into a business as Monique saw these women’s need to reclaim their identity and self-image on their own terms. Her styling service is part-therapy, part cheerleading, with some sequins thrown in for good measure.

I discovered her on Instagram. Her acknowledgement and understanding of privilege was an antidote to the curated squares of online life. She didn’t follow rules. She talked about sustainability, capitalism, straight sizing and owning your shit.

Monique Doy (supplied)

I was captivated. Not just by the content but by her. In a video on dopamine dressing – the idea that the way you dress can change your mood – she stood in front of the camera wearing hot pink pants and a knitted jumper with red and pink (two colours I thought you weren’t allowed to wear together), silver and black and orange and maroon. She was a vision.

“Put on a tonne of colour so that you give yourself this dopamine rush of ‘look at me I’m so bright and glorious’ and everyone you see says you look so bright and amazing! And then they get a rush of dopamine too.”

Look at me? I couldn’t think of anything worse. I’m not introverted at all – I envy introverts and their ability to be comfortable with their own thoughts. I am only just learning at 35 that I’m not the worst company and it’s taken plenty of therapy to get here. But I still crave conversation, something to distract from the cyclone in my head.

What would it feel like to be bright and glorious? To allow myself to be seen? I contacted Monique and proposed an experiment. She dresses me – dopamine style – for a week and we see what happens. Our first Zoom session was not what I expected. Monique is not about clothes. She’s about finding out the beliefs you have about yourself, breaking them down and making sure they are working for you. And then the clothes come in.

“So what are your ‘rules’ when it comes to dressing?” she asked me. Well, I don’t have rules. I’m a feminist!

Um, hold on, actually  – I don’t wear anything across my waist. I don’t wear jeans. I don’t really wear pants at all if I’m honest – except tracksuit pants inside. I don’t wear anything tight across my tummy. Don’t wear belts. Don’t wear silver and gold together. If I wear any colour – I only have silver or gold – then I have to dress it down. I don’t wear sneakers. Don’t wear shorts. Don’t wear skirts above my knee. Don’t wear jean jackets. Don’t wear any jackets that don’t come to my knees except for my beloved leather jacket. I don’t wear anything strapless. I don’t wear wedges or kitten heels.

“Yes, somewhere along the line we all pick up these little rules that govern what we wear. I’m not a fan of giving women even more rules to worry about. So what do you wear?”

I wear black. I wear sack dresses.

“Why?”

I’m not sure.

“What do you wear when you’re on stage?”

The same.

I’d never considered this before I spoke to Monique and began writing this piece. I thought my sack dresses were just Wellington comfort. Yes, I’d taken it to the extreme a little – but it was my style.

I guess I don’t want to have all the attention on me.

“Why don’t you want anyone to see you?”

I don’t know. Sometimes if it’s a party I’ve organised that I’m hosting, if I know it’s safe – I’ll dress up. Have a laugh. But generally being on stage is a vulnerable space. I don’t picture people naked, I feel naked. I feel as if I’m being dissected.

“But people have paid to see you. Why would you not want to show your authority to be there?”

Oof.

“I’m not saying that you need to stop wearing black. I’m saying it’s about choice. Have you chosen this for yourself or have the pressures of the world chosen it for you? The first thing I ask my clients is what do you like? You’d be astounded at how many women have been so busy in service to others that they no longer know.”

Emily in some of Monique’s clothes collection, including the amazing pink suit (supplied)

So began the experiment. Monique’s box of clothes arrived with a manual. It included photos of her in each outfit – including accessories and shoes. I let the children pick my first outfit – a pink and turquoise jumpsuit with gold shoes and a soft pink jacket. I stared at the jacket. It was so femme, and it was what I consider a short jacket. It would make me look fat. Plus I was sure the sizing was too small. I’m not a 16, I’m an 18.

Surprisingly, the jumpsuit fit perfectly. The jacket was the most comfortable thing I’ve ever worn. It was perfect for Wellington – not too light but not as heavy as my long coats.

I took the kids to the Special Kids Christmas Party where I was complimented a lot on my outfit. Were people smiling at me more? I did feel brighter – though a little nervous I would spill food on Monique’s lovely jumpsuit.

The next day I wore a pink t-shirt with a bright green skirt. My mother-in-law was ecstatic. She’s had many frustrating shopping trips with me where I’ve told her grey is “too bright”. I looked…younger?

On Monday I wore a hot pink suit. Yes, PINK, head to toe! Three people complimented me before I even got to the office. “You’re so brave! I’d love to wear something like that! Especially in Wellington!” I stood taller in meetings. I definitely felt more confident. In fact, I felt like a boss bitch. I felt powerful.

I had a desire for the first time to be seen. I wanted to go out after work. I wanted to lean against a bar and drink a whiskey neat. I went home instead because it was raining and I was tired. But the feeling remained even after I put my PJs on.

On Tuesday I wore a green tiered dress and my husband said I looked like a Christmas tree. My children were delighted and each time I caught a glimpse at my clothes I felt a little tingle. Was that dopamine?

On Wednesday I was exhausted from being up with the kids all night. I could barely stand to dress and I searched the box for something neutral. Jeans. I haven’t worn jeans in at least four years. I tried to shop for a new pair after my kids were born, but it felt so wrong standing in front of the changing room mirror with a size 6 teen asking if I wanted a larger size. (Monique tells me that’s why you shop with her – you don’t have to talk to shop assistants at all!)

These jeans had elastic. Wait, are elastic pants OK now? Did that make them…mom jeans? But they were so comfortable. I looked in the mirror and was surprised to see a waist. Is this what I look like? It’s… not bad?

On Thursday, with my mojo back, I tried a rainbow dress. I felt like everyone was looking at me but they probably weren’t. It’s true that if you wear a rainbow dress in Wellington you will stick out like a sore thumb… but I didn’t feel sore.

Friday, nearing the end of the experiment, I needed the pink suit again (who am I now?) As soon as I put it on I understood what people mean when they say they dress for battle. I put on lipstick, something I rarely do. I put on my stiletto boots.

I wanted to be seen.

On Saturday I put on my black sack dress. But I paired it with bright earrings and glorious necklace. I went online and began looking for a suit. I guess I was taking a step towards discovering my own personal style.

I asked Monique what it all means. Was it the clothes?

“It’s not the clothes,” she said. “It’s dressing unapologetically. It’s saying ‘I deserve to be here, I deserve to take up space’. It’s taking that light inside you and showing it out on the outside, in your own unique way.

“It’s showing up for yourself, Emily, the way we as women have to show up for everyone else in our lives.”

Keep going!
Nadine’s son leaves Hato Pāora College for the final time
Nadine’s son leaves Hato Pāora College for the final time

SocietyDecember 19, 2020

Life’s too short for burning bridges, and other meditations on regret

Nadine’s son leaves Hato Pāora College for the final time
Nadine’s son leaves Hato Pāora College for the final time

For many whānau, Christmas can be a difficult time of the year, accentuating the absence of those who have passed away. Nadine Anne Hura reflects on love, loss and regret on this first Christmas without her brother.

Jimmy Barnes says that life’s too short for burning bridges, but what I want to know is whether life will be long enough to rebuild them?

Last month I watched my son walk across the stage to graduate high school. Such a short distance to travel such a long, long way.

He dropped out in his second year, leaving the dorm and the boys behind. He came home and enrolled in the local mainstream school believing he could fix things that weren’t his to fix. In his graduation speech, he spoke about the struggle to focus on school when his mind was constantly on home. He said it felt as though his world was splitting at the seams.

When he made the decision to go back to Hato Pāora for his final year, he was trying to reclaim something he thought he’d lost. Speaking to the packed auditorium, he said he’d been asked many times if he regretted leaving, but he said he couldn’t dwell on pathways not taken because the past can’t be changed, only accepted. I knew what he meant, but regret is a song and I do so love to dance.

My niece and namesake said that the reason she left the country two years ago was because she couldn’t see a way to repair all the things that were broken, and I don’t blame her because I’ve been there and done that, choosing flight over fight, even though I know we were both thinking the same thing: was there really nothing we could have done?

Regret isn’t a dance. Some days it’s a treadmill. All this punishment to go nowhere. Her dad, my brother, still not laid to rest – literally or figuratively. It’s too late to turn back time, and yet. 

And yet.

My mother always said that if she had her time again, she’d do it all differently, by which she meant she wouldn’t have married my father at the age of 16. I get it, I do, but it’s hard to dissociate your own existence from the wistful look that suggests you might be the reason your parents had less choices, less chances, less energy, less education, less, less, less.

After my brother died, I took his eldest daughter back to our childhood home so she could see where we grew up. We stood at the edge of the driveway and looked. He wasn’t there, but I could see him sitting on the front steps in his red plaid shirt and black leather vest two days after Christmas, 1988. His eyes were glowing and when he smiled, he kept his lips taut to disguise that half of his front tooth was missing. 

Mum’s face was flushed with the surprise of his arrival. She disappeared inside and came back with his present, berating him that she’d been worried sick. He unwrapped the box in the fading light beside the bougainvillea, and let Mum put the necklace around his neck. She touched her hand to his cheek and kissed him, and he hugged her back, even though his mates were sitting on the bonnet of their grey-blue Ford Cortina and laughing and guffawing.

Nadine Anne Hura's brother and mother

Thirty-something years later his daughter wiped her eyes and sniffed.

“I keep questioning myself, and what I did or didn’t do, but I think it goes back further than me, you know?”

I nodded, wishing it didn’t have to take the death of her father to bring her home. Surely there are easier ways to build a bridge? I remember the day she was born and how crazy-protective her dad had been. He inspected people’s hands and gave out Dettol wipes before letting anyone hold her.

We weren’t to know then that the day would come when his ashes would fit into a box small enough to be held in the cup of our mother’s hands. This year is our first Christmas without him. We still haven’t decided if his necklace will return with his ashes to the soil, or stay on this side, with the living.

Regret’s a commute. Same scenery, different day. I sometimes wonder where the end of the line is. What if I took it all the way back to the beginning? Past the warning signs I either missed or ignored, back through the ominous tunnel of lockdown and the years of absence. Past the menacing footfall of a step-father, still echoing all these years later. 

Past the interracial marriage of our parents, and the poverty and struggle and emigration from distant lands before that. Past the prisoner-of-war camp in Hong Kong where my grandfather spent four years. Past the departure of Hineāmaru’s people from Waimamaku after a rupture in the whānau. Back and back and back. Has the sandfly begun yet to nip the pages of the book? Does Kāwiti regret his signature on Te Tiriti? Where even is the beginning?

It’s curious to me that the closest word I can find to regret in te reo Māori is the emotion that describes yearning. Maybe burning bridges and trains are wrong metaphors. Time isn’t linear and bridges are for crossing. 

I keep hearing my boy’s words over and over: the past can’t be changed, only accepted. When you think about it, it sounds a lot like whakapapa.

Maybe whakapapa is the yearning to return and keep on remembering. To continue uttering the names of those past, so we will always know where we came from and where we will return. We just keep making layers with memory, telling our whakapapa, back and back and back. 

If the light is right and the season is kind, maybe we can tell it beautiful.