R E L AT I N G
E L I F S H A FA K , C O U RT E SY O F Z E Y N E L A B I DI N
Mum and I returned to Ankara, taking refuge with my grandma in a conservative Muslim neighborhood. There were eyes watching our every move from behind lace curtains, judging. A young divorcée was regarded as a threat to the community. But Grandma intervened: “My daughter should go back to university. She should have a job.” I was raised by Grandma, whom I called anne (mother), for a long time. My own mother, I called abla (big sister). I was a lonely child, an introvert. Many afternoons I climbed our cherry tree with a new novel. I would read and eat cherries and spit the pits left and right, pretending I could reach the bleak brown and gray houses in the distance. I dreamed of bringing a shade of cherry red into their lives. In the meantime, Mum threw herself into her studies. Sexual harassment was rife on the streets. She would carry large safety pins in her handbags to poke molesters on buses. I remember how “modestly” she dressed—skirts that reached her ankles, thick coats, absolutely no makeup. Eventually she became a diplomat. In the male-dominated world of foreign affairs, too, she continued wearing “nonrevealing” clothes. She wanted to look as strong as possible. T H I S S U M M E R , when I retreated to a little town in Cornwall, England, to start my new novel, I decided to pack just one dress. I had a plan. Since a breezy fishing town had no reason to specialize in black garments, I would have to purchase a few variegated items. My plan worked—for a day. The next, I was in a cab heading to the nearest mall for black clothes. I am comfortable in black, but I am not comfortable with being too comfortable—hence the impulse to always question myself. I realize, albeit reluctantly, that my resistance to bright colors might be rooted in negative personal experiences, each of which has left a subtle but stubborn impact. Oh, I know what commercials will tell me. I know the slogan of our times: “Just be yourself! Forget the rest!” But are not memories and experiences, and the way we responded to them, also part of what constitutes “the self”? After so many trials and errors, I have accepted that I actually love wearing black. The color that turned into an entrenched habit in response to a patriarchal world has, over time, become a faithful friend. I do not have to change, so long as it makes me happy and remains a personal choice. Since I am not inclined to wear colors but like to have them around, I’ve found another solution: I keep my accessories flashy—turquoise rings, magenta bracelets, sunglow scarves. The darker my clothes, the crazier my accessories. There are many seasons in a woman’s life. Seasons of black, seasons of colors. None is eternal. Life is a journey. It is also hybridity—a mixture of contrasts. As the poet Hafez wrote, “You carry all the ingredients / To turn your existence into joy, / Mix them.”
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ABOUT T H E AU T H O R Elif Shafak is a Turkish author, activist, and speaker. She has written 10 novels, including The Forty Rules of Love and The Bastard of Istanbul. Her newest novel, Three Daughters of Eve, will be published December 5.
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