I'm Fine...And Other Lies

by Whitney Cummings

  I know this is starting to sound shallow, but what I’m trying to say is that the hijabs were especially jarring to me because they looked so modern. So . . . made in China. I guess the root of my confusion was that in this day and age, hijabs and burkas were still being manufactured. I figured, or at least hoped, that the women were still using leftover ones from when subjugating women was more universal. But no, they were still churning out new ones. It dawned on me that there was a factory that had many machines churning these things out. It blew my mind that a bunch of people go to work every day and their job is to make new batches of these oppressive garments. America still has corset factories or whatever, but they’re more for strippers and spicing up fading marriages, not because women are still required to wear them. I guess I was under the assumption that women having to cover themselves was being phased out, a tradition for the older generation, like VHS tapes or Quaaludes.

  Even if younger girls were wearing them, I assumed theirs were passed on from generations before them, and that maybe there was something poignant or ceremonial about wearing your grandmother’s garments. Maybe that was part of why they wore them, for posterity, I rationalized. I’m not sure if I’m making sense, but it was just hard for me to process that new burkas were being made, that this wasn’t an obsolete trend that was on the way out. These weren’t like ephemeral jelly bracelets or stone-washed overall shorts. These getups were here to stay.

  My theory was confirmed by the kiosks in the mall that sold hijabs. In America kiosks sell dream catchers; in Dubai they sold nightmares: cheap, tacky fabric that women are forced to wear because they’re thought of as inferior. As if that weren’t bad enough, they have to go to a mall to get one. As if being oppressed isn’t bad enough, they had to drive around and look for parking? There was no ceremony, no passing down the fabrics with harps playing and light hitting the gorgeous skin of the women receiving them? It was much less cinematic. They just grabbed some hijabs on sale between buying socks and picking up toilet paper.

  I didn’t know how or what to feel, but from what I could tell, I was, per usual, in a state of total hypocrisy: insulted by the lack of respect toward a symbol I disdained. If these women had to be confined and hidden in these fabrics, they should at least be pretty, special, and breathable, I thought. I was, very obviously, missing the point.

  I had a momentary crack in my self-righteousness long enough to realize that I was staring at these women very creepily. I looked them up and down as if they couldn’t see me. I was outraged by how they were treated as subhuman, yet there I was, objectifying them as if I was watching them on a TV screen.

  They stared back at me, unflinching. It seems as if they felt my judgmental gaze and were determined to let me know that they were just as judgmental about me. This is before I traveled the world enough to know that many people around the world disdain Americans and our values, just like how I had a preconceived disdain for theirs. The women in hijabs and I ogled one another with the same wonder and patronizing compassion in our eyes. I got into a few staring matches with a couple different women, but each time I was always the one who got nervous, always the first to look away, pretending I got a call on a cell phone that didn’t even have international service. These women may have been oppressed, but they certainly weren’t shy.

  I was taken aback by this whole situation because I was anticipating that the women would be meek, scared, beaten down. I thought they’d be mere shells of themselves given they had been treated like they were worthless for so long that maybe they finally started believing it. But it felt to me like they knew I was making that assumption and were trying to tell me with their eyes that my assumption was wrong. They didn’t want me to pity them. The older women intimidated me too much for me to approach them, but I came across a group of younger girls sitting on a bench, laughing gregariously. Since I’m constitutionally unable to mind my own business, I was dying to ask them a million questions. They all had their heads covered with hijabs, but paired them with very fashion-forward, youthful outfits. Some even seemed to be intentionally coordinated, as if they had numerous hijabs so they could mix and match them with various outfits. I found it particularly, well, ironic that a couple of them paired their headscarf with a tiny tank top and Daisy Dukes. This felt like it should be offensive—pairing what seemed to be sacred tradition of muting sexuality with a modern expression of aggressive sexuality—but, again, this country refused to pick a lane. Regardless, I was very confused. Were they allowed to show skin or not? My brain couldn’t compute what kind of oppression I was dealing with.

  The girls looked about twenty-five, but when I mentally removed all the makeup from the faces of those who were actually revealing their faces, I deduced that they were probably closer to twenty-one. They were cracking jokes, taking selfies, and texting. They seemed so American, I thought. But then I realized that having that thought is so American. The point is, these were young, impressionable women. Our girls. Our world’s future. Being oppressed and abused, being forced to cover their heads and faces with scarves. They must be saved, I thought. And who better to save them than an American girl with some dick jokes and eight grand in credit card debt?

  I wanted them to know that nothing that was put in their heads was true. They could go to school, marry whomever they wanted, and have kids when they were forty—that is, if they even wanted kids at all. Did they know they could be anything they wanted in life? That they could run the world? I took a deep breath and sauntered over to the girls in headscarves, with my head covered in nothing but a bad dye job.

  “Excuse me? Can I ask you a question?” I asked, speaking too loudly, enunciating every syllable. I’m not sure if it’s a uniquely American thing to assume that saying a language loudly makes someone immediately learn it, but that’s what I did. As if that wasn’t embarrassing enough, they spoke flawless English.

  The girl who responded first had her face almost completely covered by a hijab. She was breathing heavily, which I could tell from the fabric fluttering around her mouth. It was surprising to me that the girl who was the most covered up was also the most confident in responding to me. Did the covering of the face act as a sort of shield? Did it oddly empower them because of their anonymity, the way the Internet does for trolls? My head was swirling with guesses about what happens to someone’s personality when their physicality and identity are removed from the equation.

  “So, I can ask you a question?” I asked again.

  She responded with a simple and powerful “yes.”

  She didn’t say “Sure.” She said yes. If someone asked me if they could talk to me, I would say “Sure,” a more apologetic affirmation, which half the time means “I want to say no but I’m too worried you’ll be mad.” This girl said yes. With the one word I had heard her say, she was already more direct and self-possessed than I have ever been.

  I responded with some version of “I’m just curious if wearing headscarves makes you feel oppressed at all?”

  They laughed. A lot. Now I was the one being looked at as if I was from the Dark Ages.

  I remember what one of the girls said verbatim: “We are not oppressed. We see American women as oppressed. You’re judged by your appearance, the women get plastic surgery, everyone has an eating disorder. We aren’t judged on our looks.”

  Damn. That’s not how I thought that was gonna go down.

  Before we process how wrong and reductive I was about the Middle East, let’s address how wrong and reductive this girl was about America. Although we seemed like total opposites, we did have one thing in common: We both had no clue what the other person’s life was like. I mean, yes, I personally had corrective surgery and an eating disorder and am judged by my appearance on a daily basis. In fact I’m often lambasted for it, so the girl was on to something, but not all American women go through that, right? RIGHT?

  The girls, seemingly all at once, explained to me that they did
n’t feel subjugated by their traditional garb. They very assertively stated that they were relieved that they didn’t have to obsess about their hair or makeup, even though the ones whose faces I could see were wearing some makeup. When I timidly pointed that out, they explained that if they didn’t want to wear makeup or didn’t have time to put it on, they’d choose a headscarf that covered more of their face. If they wanted to wear makeup, they’d cover less. I wasn’t sure if this was a traumatized person’s rationalization for their oppression or a genius life hack, but regardless they felt that they didn’t have to spend time and money trying to mirror a socially constructed ideal of beauty. They could if they wanted to, but were not bound to it. Suddenly my face not being covered by a scarf was actually frustrating because I really wanted to hide my confusion.

  Although I’m horrified by the way women are institutionally treated in conservative parts of the Middle East, I was able to see the point being made here. Whether they were trying to convince me or convince themselves, I could see how hijabs could be self-empowering if it helped them remove the obsession with being physically perfect. It made me think about how I couldn’t leave the house without concealer under my eyes, how I had wasted days of my life trying to glue on false eyelashes, applying and reapplying liquid eyeliner because it’s impossible to get straight, and lasering every hair off my body. I’m ashamed to say I’ve looked into tattoo eyebrow filling more than once.

  Even if I go in my backyard alone, I have to put stuff on my face. If I don’t put on sunscreen, I’ll look like a basketball by three P.M. The tradition of women covering themselves is obviously rooted in oppressive sexist lunacy, but these girls were making it work for them, perhaps reclaiming it in a powerful feminist way. Then again, maybe they were rationalizing something abusive. I don’t know which was actually happening, but regardless, it made me think: Being able to cover my face with something other than a handful of expensive chemicals did sound pretty nice.

  Even though the girls threw a little shade my way, they seemed grateful that I was at least asking about their situation instead of digging my heels into my assumptions. At least I was a smart enough American to know I was a stupid American.

  The girls retaliated with many questions of their own, which was also surprising to me. I’m not sure why, after ten minutes of talking to confident, opinionated women, I was still shocked by the fact that Middle Eastern women are confident and opinionated, but my brain was clearly very resistant to updating its paradigm. Maybe it was jet lag, maybe it was arrogance, maybe it was self-preservation rooted in the tribal need to malign the “other,” but my brain just could not trust that what they were saying was true. The girls asked if I ever felt obligated by the constant scrutiny that Western culture put on my body, my face, my appearance. I responded the only way I knew how: I lied and pretended the answer was no.

  They saw through my bullshit immediately. As I said, the fabric over their eyes was very poorly made, so they could easily see that my face was full of doubt.

  I guess I just wanted the answer to be no so badly. I wanted to be a feminist role model coming in from the utopian West to save the day with my shining example of bravery and self-acceptance. But to my surprise and chagrin, I wasn’t a good example. I was wearing Invisalign orthodontics over a set of teeth that had already had braces for two years, and clear ones at that. Even at twelve years old, when it was socially acceptable to have a row of chompers covered in cumbersome metal and colored rubber bands, I was so insecure that I begged for clear braces. And by clear I mean whatever color of the food I just ate was.

  I saw no irony in accusing these girls of wearing something oppressive whilst I was strapped into a bra with metal wires rubbing against my ribs—ribs that were showing, since I was constantly dieting. I conveniently left out the constant exfoliating, teasing, dyeing, tanning, bronzing, eye shadowing, plucking, threading, shaving, steaming, cortisone-shot-ting, derma-roller-ing, pore shrinking, cuticle cutting, teeth whitening, dry shampooing, lip-liner-ing, eyelash-extension-ing, Spinning, squatting, juicing, and airbrushing photos.

  After all, I was indeed wearing my own version of traditional obscuring garb, just Western-style. I had spent time and money getting my hair the right color and the right texture. I had spent years finding the lip stain that made me look like I wasn’t a corpse. Every morning I put foundation on my face to cover up my flaws and minimize my pores. I was spraying my face with self-tanner on a daily basis, and I got painful weekly facials to make my skin look younger. These girls were hitting a nerve. Suddenly, I had hijab envy.

  I thought the hijab was designed to make women invisible. But these women were telling me they felt more confident in their individualism and their personalities because they weren’t constantly being scrutinized on their looks.

  Brain explode.

  Now, let me take a moment to say that I’m not trying to trivialize a garment that has been so degrading to so many women. I’m fully aware that these girls could have been completely delusional, been brainwashed to think such things, have had Stockholm syndrome, or have been lying to me or to themselves. They could also have been the only four girls in the Middle East who felt this way. I’m not an anthropologist or sociologist; at the end of the day I might just be an alarmist who sounds like a chauvinist.

  The Middle Eastern girls I met may not have had schooling or equality, but they sure as hell had self-esteem. Could it be that although they were victims, taking your looks out of the equation could breed higher self-worth, even if you’re in an archaic culture that victimizes you? How could these girls be more confident and self-assured than I was? I mean, after all, I’m American, confidence is supposed to be my thing.

  I want to blame the business I’m in for my self-consciousness and insecurity, but unfortunately I can’t. This physical obsession thing started way before I had ever done television. I shudder to think that my experience is probably fairly typical of most American girls: worrying about what to wear, how to tone up, how shimmery my eyes should be. My brain started doing something it hates doing: math. I put it together that I spent an hour a day on my appearance, times 365 days a year . . . 365 hours a year?

  That’s more than fifteen days. A year.

  If I live until I’m eighty, that’s 160-plus weeks of my life spent putting expensive creamy poison on my face.

  I thought about all the other things I could do with that time. I could learn a language, travel the world, open a ranch for rescue animals, build a school in Africa—not that I could afford to do any of those things, but still. I was embarrassed at the amount of time I spent on my outer self, especially when my inner self was such a mess. I’m sure this is pretty standard behavior of anyone in their twenties, but with this new clarity, my priorities just felt wrong. It all felt like an institutionalized and expensive pressure and a distraction from life. In college I read The Beauty Myth by Naomi Wolf, which addressed a lot of these issues in a much more sophisticated way than I’m doing now, but I remember reading about how the obsession with physical perfection keeps women subjugated. I’m sure men’s obsession with their appearance does the same for them, but I’m not really an expert in that department because I have a no-bathroom-sharing rule when I’m dating someone. Anyway, the book blew my mind, but I didn’t have the self-awareness yet to think it applied to me. Now that I was in the Middle East, having an epiphany about my own preoccupation with appearance, I was finally ready to process it all. How could girls get ahead and accomplish their goals if their focus on physical appearance causes them to have seven less hours a week than men do? The whole thing made me sick.

  Once I got back to my hotel, I had a vivid image of myself on my deathbed. I imagined what I’d be thinking as I took my last breaths. I don’t know how I was dying, but I didn’t look that old in my vision, which means I either think I’m gonna die young or that I’m going to get many a facelift. Anyway, I’m lying there dying. I wasn’t on my d
eathbed thinking “I can’t believe I wasted so much time on friendships! I just wished I had spent more time curling my eyelashes!” I doubt any woman on her deathbed said, “I just wished I had worn more blush! I can’t believe I wasted all that stupid quality time with my dumb children!” Chances are, I’m going to look back and wish I spent more time with people I love, trying to make an impact on the world, and eating fondue.

  My conversation with the girls at the mall has haunted me for years, but for that day, their self-possessed vibe gave me more confidence about going onstage in front of a Middle Eastern crowd. I had to perform in front of a couple thousand Middle Easterners in just a few hours, and I was grateful that I no longer had the irrational fear that I would get stoned by someone in the audience, even though I was so nervous that I was secretly hoping someone would find me some weed and get me the other kind of stoned.

  When I go to a foreign country to perform, or even to various states in America, I’ll write some specific jokes to cater to that area. People are paying money to see my show, and I feel it’s only fair that I address anything I find ridiculous about their hometown. I thought about doing this for Dubai but ultimately decided not to, not only because I was completely confounded by the culture, but also because I felt I shouldn’t pander to them or try to endear them to me; I should just bring my liberated brand of comedy to them to show how we progressive people get down. I would be fearless and strong, demonstrating that women could be badasses, too. Also, if I’m gonna be honest, I was also terrified of offending them or pronouncing a word wrong.

  I was having trouble balancing my desire to show them how self-actualized I was with the fact that I was at a complete loss over what to wear. I tried to find the middle ground in between maintaining my identity but also respecting their norms. As much as I resented them, I knew I had to cover my body, but I wanted to do it on my terms. I thought about wearing a giant pink Snuggie, which honestly I’m always looking for an excuse to make my permanent uniform onstage anyway, but it was way too hot. Apparently, I was really into subversive statements mocking and satirizing oppressive culture as long as it didn’t involve my having to sweat.