We stopped at a gas station as we got close to Seattle and every woman I saw had on zero make-up, cargo-esque shorts, a shirt that looked as though it could be worn in OR out of the water, and endurance sandals. I looked down at my purpley-pink sundress, with it’s big flower right on the center of my back, my bronze wedge flip-flops, and the flair and flounce of my dress as I went to buy a Diet Coke. It was my first realization that I was heading into a world where I would be the minority. As I got back in the car, took a glance at my sweet little girls in matching, embroidered dresses, I started laughing.
“What is it?” Jeremiah asked.
“I am going to get on their last nerve, aren’t I?” It had never occurred to me that my love of sundresses in the summertime and children dressed as though they stepped out of the eighteenth century might not “fit” somewhere in the continental U.S. Now, if you’ve been reading more than a day, you know that I’m no prissy pot. I love to hike and camp and run, I just also prefer to be in a dress when I’m not doing one of those things 🙂 These women at the gas station seemed to have no time, or patience, for dressing up.
When we landed at our month-long home on Capitol Hill, the comparison became different but nonetheless stark. Now, not every woman looked ready to climb a mountain, but I also didn’t see any that looked to be the stereotypical “housewife.” Now, men were wearing jeans even tighter than mine and very few women had left their bodies UN-tattooed. I started to feel like the big flower on my back was bouncing along behind me like a “Kick Me” sign and found Dora the Explorer’s “Back Pack, Back Pack” playing through my head like a mantra. We were all staring. They at us, us at them. Who are you? And where did you come from? We were all wondering it–as Pace and Mary Aplin giggled on–not knowing or caring that they were an anomaly in our new neighborhood.
The next day, I decided to try and wear something that would help me blend. I love sundresses in the summer. You throw one on and don’t have to worry about finding anything to coordinate. They’re cool in the 100-degree weather, and besides all that practicality, they make me feel girley and fun. I wear them almost every day. But this day, I was doing laundry, in a communal laundry room, using quarters, and I didn’t want to feel any more different than I already did. So, I put on a shirt and a pair of shorts, and I went to try and hit up our local (unfriendly) market for a butt-load of quarters. I was grumpy, and I somewhat hated myself as I tried not to use the word “y’all” (I had no idea how OFTEN I said that until now), and I wore clothes that made me feel as unlike me as possible.
I went to the grocery store, where I had to park in a parking deck and ride an elevator, and I suppose I looked lost enough in the QFC that a clerk came and asked if she could help me. I’d been looking for, what I thought was, a normal sized buggy–but all I could see were mini ones. “Where are the BIG buggies?” I asked…and she literally burst out laughing. “The whats?!” “Ohh, do you call them carts? Shopping carts? You know, the big ones.” She had to go get me one from the back, once she got control of herself.
Later, as my big buggy overflowed, I thought I heard one of the guys stocking the vegetables talking about me. You know when you just know, even though you don’t hear a word they are saying. He was talking to the girl stocking papaya, or some such exotic fruit, beside him. I convinced myself that it was my own paranoia and walked on. Suddenly, I remembered I’d forgotten the asparagus and whipped around to go back. The stock boy’s face turned red and they both stopped talking abruptly. I quickly grabbed the asparagus and turned around to hear the girl say, “Don’t worry, I could tell by her face that she didn’t hear what you were saying about her.” I almost started crying.
Jeremiah watched me trudge back and forth with the laundry, and helped me with the groceries, as he tried to entertain the girls and do a little studying. About halfway through, I walked over, laid my head on his chest and burst into tears. He consoled me, and I kept on keeping on. As I put away the last of the clothes, I looked at my sundresses, all hanging there in a brightly-colored array. They looked happy–a lot happier than me. I took one out and looked at it. It was a summertime twirler, covered in pink and blue and green flowers, short and flouncy and well-worn. I took my drudgeries off and put it on.
When I came out of our room Jeremiah gave me an “I know you and your weird dress need” smile and asked me why I’d changed. “My shirt didn’t fit,” I answered, and it was only a half-lie.
Then, we made a conscious decision to let a little of the joy of this town sink in. We went to Pike Place Market with a picnic lunch and ate sandwiches while the sailboats streamed before the Cascade Mountains. We bought some fresh, local vegetables for dinner and blackberries for breakfast the next morning. “I love your dress!” a girl said as she passed, and I really appreciated it.
Since we’d saved money on our packed lunch, we indulged in a slice of rhubarb pie, a cream-filled Napolean, and two cups of coffee at a French bakery right there in the middle of all the bustle. It was wonderful, and filled with sunshine and music. “I love your dress!” the girl said from over the marble counter-top as she handed me my pie. Her friend walked over with our coffee and added her agreement. I beamed–way more than I should have and said, “Thank y’all!” They smiled back and didn’t seem one bit bothered by my accent or my bright colors.
As our little girls fought over the last crumbs of dessert, I said, “I think I’m really going to like it here.” Jeremiah, who knows me better than I’d like to realize, grinned over his coffee cup as he said, “Is it because those girls liked your dress?”
I thought about denying the petty reality of his words, but then I realized why my heart felt so light over the two tiny compliments. It was because, yes, speaking in generalities, my personality and life preferences as a whole are different here, but we’re in a place that embraces different. My different isn’t “bad” any more than theirs is, and if they’re claiming to accept everybody, that should include me too…right?
“Yes,” I answered. “It’s because they liked my dress.” 😉
{I’d like to say here, as an aside, that Seattle is a liberal city, but we are also living in the most liberal area of the city. We’ve been to visit before and I wasn’t bothered at all by feeling so…different. Let me write here what the Newcomer’s Handbook for Moving to and Living in Seattle says about our neighborhood.
Vibrant and diverse, Capitol Hill is one of Seattle’s best-loved neighborhoods, where affordable rents, off-beat retailers and ethnic eateries lure a rainbow of residents. It is both the center of Seattle’s large gay community and a neighborhood of traditional Catholic families…At the south end [where we are] is Neighbor’s, a cavernous gay dance club…It is the place to go for lively dining or take-out; boisterous young residents fill innumerable restaurants and bars nightly, and on summer evenings the streets ring with voices late into the night. [EXACTLY the place to raise small children! :)]
So, if there is anybody reading this who is from Seattle and feeling totally ticked-off (maybe you love sundresses too!), I think it has a lot to do with where we are living and not so much the city itself.}
