the LADY & the TRAMP

Appearances matter--and mostly due to wardrobe. "Pretty" or "plain," "skinny" or "plump," changing how one dresses will do much to radically shape the reactions of others.

As a Muslim. Sameera Fazili '00 wears a head scarf called a hijab. She explains, "People have a lot of preconceived notions about what a Muslim is supposed to be like--especially a Muslim woman. They assume I'm going to be either quiet and subservient or violent and terrorist....In airports, they check my bags three times over. Even when the metal detector doesn't beep when I go through it, they scan me."

At the other extreme, girls who wear revealing attire often face judgment from their peers. Lanhee J. Chen '00 comments, "[People's clothes] might say something about their preferences for how they dress, but you should not pass judgment on them. You can't automatically say because the girl dresses provocatively that she's a slut or anything." It seems many people would agree, at least in casual conversation.

But what about in practice? One day, I wore a skimpy outfit; the next, I wore an especially modest one. Decide for yourself if Harvard is immune to the obsession over appearance. A Day in the Life of an Upscale Whore

Noon, Winthrop G-45

I wake up late with a sinking feeling in my stomach. The night before, my roommates Ashika and Anna helped me pull together a sufficiently skimpy outfit: a tight, ice-blue spandex camisole with an equally binding short black skirt and strappy high-heeled shoes. The combination wouldn't be so bad--if it didn't make me feel naked.

1 p.m., Winthrop House

As I teeter down the stairs, I pass one of my male neighbors and brace myself for his reaction. But he only grins "Hello" and then averts his eyes. I know I have the body of a 12 year old boy, but shouldn't skimpy clothes cause more of a reaction than that?

I'm glad he's not a lecher, though I'm somewhat disappointed--more than I should be. I decide not to brave the dining hall yet, since one a bite of food might rip this camisole rip wide open.

1:05 p.m., Mill Street, then Holyoke Street to Holworthy basement

Out on the street, I straighten my back, hoping to disguise imperfections that this outfit does nothing to hide. Slut clothes are bad for the nerves, but good for posture. I click-clack my way into the UC office to pick up posters. Good lord, the Vice President and Campus Life Committee Chair are schmoozing on the couch--will they ever think of me the same way again? I hide behind some boxes and mutter a hello. These shoes are killing me.

1:25 p.m., Eliot House

On my way to poster in Eliot, I cross Mount Auburn Street. Amazingly, the cars stop in line to let me cross. When I reach the Eliot breezeway, a staff worker buzzes it open for me before my hand even reaches for the doorknob.

On my way out, I open the door for a girl dressed in a frumpy sweatshirt and jeans. She's frantically banging on the door, trying to get someone's attention. She thanks me with so much gratitude that I know she's been waiting for some time. I look back at the window and see the shadow of the staff worker, still within the office. Maybe he just didn't see her?

1:30 p.m., Kirkland House Dining Hall

As I enter Kirkland Dining Hall, heads pick up--male heads, of course. I pass by a female friend who normally says hello to me. She glances at me briefly, then keeps her head down without acknowledging me. When I ask the female dining checker where I can put the UC collection boxes, two male staff workers at the table near the desk immediately answer for her, pointing out energetically where I can place the boxes. She rolls her eyes and tells me where to go. As I leave, two staff workers stop talking to stare at me. I'm gradually losing the self-consciousness and gaining an extremely vain high.

1:35 p.m., In front of the MAC

Passing by the MAC, I accidentally drop my box of flyers. Instantaneously, two men, about 30 or 40 years old spring to my side, apparently from thin air. Grinning at each other like mischievous boys, they help me gather the windswept papers. One warns me, "You be careful there," and I thank them with all the dignity I can muster in a skirt that seems to be creeping higher up my thigh every minute.

1:45 p.m., Harvard Square

While crossing John F. Kennedy Street, I get my first whistle, from a guy driving by in a truck. When I enter a store, a salesman automatically jumps up and asks me if I need help. He then helps me pick out a clock for my roommate, and when the computer jams, he gets flustered and jokes, "The computer's jealous." I'm impressed with the service, until I realize that no one is helping the other 10 customers in the tiny one-room store.

3 p.m., Walking back to the dorm

By now, the thrill of satisfying my vanity has worn off, and the whistles and stares just make me feel like a spectacle. So when a slightly deranged homeless man mutters, "I'd like to have me some of that," I answer him with a stare so cold he backs off fearfully.

When I leave, an elderly Asian woman walks alongside of me, staring at my legs and scornfully muttering in Chinese to her friend. I find myself wondering what my mother would think if she saw me dressed like this, and decide that it's time to return home.

5 p.m., Winthrop House Dining Hall

By this time, I feel immune to stares, so I decide to eat dinner in front of all the House tutors and my friends. Besides, I’m so hungry I would walk in wearing nothing but green paint if I had to. To my surprise, nobody really reacts to my clothes, until my friend Nancy turns to me at the drink machine and comments, "Hey, Evelyn, is that a new outfit? I like it." A Day In the Life of a Muslim Woman

Noon, Winthrop G-45

How much harder could it be to dress as a Muslim? After tolerating rude stares and whistles, I'm prepared for anything, I think. My other roommate, Sameera, wears a hijab, so she lends me an ivory one along with a long, loose navy-colored robe. We laugh as we walk out of the dorm together, wondering if people will really think I'm Muslim or not.

1 p.m., Barker Center

On my way to English 10b section, I meet many of my fellow UC representatives, who glance at me curiously, many asking if I'm Muslim. Otherwise, I receive polite and almost overly respectful glances, as though people with whom I normally goof around are now afraid to offend me with questions--or even eye contact. Yesterday I felt like a spectacle, but today I feel invisible.

In my English section, I immediately explain my garb, which sparks a discussion of whether clothes should be important at all. Even with my explanation, the other students can't help sneaking peeks at me during the section. One boy, who came late and missed the explanation, can't keep his eyes off of me. Unlike the bold stares of yesterday, however, his stare comes in spurts, as if he's trying not to let me see him stare. Almost worse than invisible, I feel like a shrine, too holy for mortal eyes.

2:15 p.m., Harvard Square

I bravely enter Harvard Square. I notice that men with beards gaze at me curiously. Unfortunately, I'm still in the mode of rebuffing advances, so I throw them cold looks. Later, my roommate explains they probably were waiting for me to say, "Assalaam- alaikum," the universal Muslim greeting, meaning "May peace be with you." I realize that my clothes serve both to exclude me from the general population and to include me into the smaller population of the Cambridge Muslim community.

I enter the same store where I had been so energetically served the day before. The same salesman greets me as I enter, but remains at his seat behind the counter, flipping through a comic book. I wandered around the nearly empty store, passing the counter a number of times as though in search of a certain item. Still, no one approached me to ask if I needed help. Finally, when I neared another salesman, he politely asked if he could help me. The respect in his voice contrasted with the easy, presumptuously friendly tone of yesterday's salesman. I decline his help and left the store, feeling rather sad.

5 p.m. Winthrop Dining Hall

Home again. I enter the dining hall. By this time, many of my friends already know about my experiment, but I still receive curious glances from the staff. Again, I am impressed by the silence, and respect that the silence implied. Nobody asks me why I'm dressed the way I am, except for the polite query, "Is it a special holiday today?" Nobody wants to offend at Harvard, but it leaves me feeling rather lonely. I find my friends, though, and eat a weary meal.