no fingers.

Not too long ago, I had a few random strangers come up to me in school and let me know something along the lines of, “You look like a doll! I love your style! You should totally be a model, blah-blah-blah.” I was genuinely surprised and thankful, but couldn’t help the small inkling of suspicion that rose up, couldn’t help wondering if they had some sort of secret agenda or ulterior motive.

But wait, let me backtrack a bit.

 It all ties into my personality and how the day started. When I picked out my outfit in the morning (belted high-waisted black pants with a collared, sculpted-sleeve persimmon-coloured top) I wasn’t dressing the way I was for compliments or attention. Not once since I was 12 have I dressed for anyone other than myself. When I firmly expressed to my parents that no, I was not going to wear those hideous orange pants Grandmother had bought for me when I was seven and she had gone shopping after losing her glasses, and to stop buying me countless pairs of too-short corduroy overalls, that was that. I dress simply for myself. Some people say that that’s not true, people who pay attention to their appearance do it for attention and are narcissistic and shallow. But I don’t look through my closet thinking “hmm, I wonder what jeans Carla-Mark-whoever would like today.” I wear it because I myself like it – like those thrifted granny sweaters, the long, shapeless cardigans and clunky combat boots. They’re not mainstream, so how do you figure that I dress for others? Is it so terrible and shocking to want to look nice to feel good about myself? Honestly, it is a personal choice and none of their business – if they like it, that’s fine, I’m flattered, if they don’t, big deal, who gives a flying duck? I say that those who impose their unwanted opinions and observations to others may have bigger problems than me because I take pride in the way I look. Its always been a pet peeve of mine that people judge based on the way one dresses – um hello, wasn’t there an infamous serial killer a couple of decades back that was very friendly, charming, well-dressed, and uh, maybe also happened to murder dozens of people? Appearances are deceiving. That boy with the pocket protector and thirty five blue pens in his pencil case in your math class that you automatically labeled “dweeb” on the first day of school could have the funniest sense of humour of anyone you know.

Which leads me to my next point – my suspicion at hearing praise. Maybe it’s the fact that I was raised in a Chinese household, with distinctly Chinese values of humility and demure action. If a houseguest ever complimented my mother on a dish she made, “what are you talking about? The meat is overcooked, it is too bland..” or if a family friend remarked on the good grades of myself or my brother, “oh no, they always cause lots of trouble, they never study, are never at home…” Never once do you hear a direct acknowledgement of praise – it is simply not done. Doing so makes you appear boastful and arrogant – a big faux pas among Chinese folks. Growing up Chinese in a distinctly Western society has made me inclined to giving out compliments to others, with honest intentions, but also react badly to receiving them myself. Perhaps that is why hearing someone speak of myself in a positive manner makes me revert to my upbringing and vehemently deny such words. Even if, secretly, while leaving out the door and strutting down the street in my new outfit, I’m humming “feeling so fly like a G6” by Far East Movement.