Some reflections on beauty, fashion, masks, and individualism

"Why do you paint your fingernails?" Jiovanna, my five-year-old friend, often asks me

"Why do you wear beaded necklaces?" I usually ask in return

Julissa becomes impatient with the questions and answers them for us. "Because you like to paint your fingernails, and because you like your beaded necklaces." I like that answer, because it makes me think that Julissa isn't aware that what we wear and what we consider beautiful is more often than not influenced by outside forces: society, religion, our mothers (haha).

But Julissa is transfixed by my eyeshadow. "Today you're wearing brown. Why?"

"I don't know...I wanted to wear brown today. It looks good with this shirt." I always have to give an explanation--saying that I simply felt like wearing this color today is usually not an acceptable explanation to her.

"And yesterday you wore purple. Why?" She keeps track of my eyeshadow every day, and on the days I choose to wear eyeliner only, she wants to know the reason.

"Are you going to wear makeup when you grow up?" I have asked her several times, and her answer is always the same. "Nah," she always says with a toss of her head.

"Why not?"

"It's for chabochis."

Simple answer, but it shows Julissa is highly aware of the differences in rarámuri and chabochi dress. I have come to see how important dress is as a mark of class and racial distinction in Chihuahua. Julissa and other rarámuri girls in Oasis may wear more Western items of clothing than their cousins in the Sierra (plastic sandals instead of handmade tire-rubber sandals, sweatshirts instead of rebozos, baseball caps instead of scarves), but some items of clothing are still not widely-accepted among the urban-dwelling rarámuri. Makeup is not common among the rarámuri of Oasis, except perhaps among the teenagers, who are starting to create a new "look" that mixes traditional rarámuri clothing with Western clothing and accessories. There is a pretty teenage rarámuri girl who wears large hoop earrings and black eyeliner and likes to alternate between her traditional dress and tight-fitting jeans and shirts. Sometimes she wears a rarámuri skirt with a "chabochi" top. One day she walked by wearing jeans, and once she had passed, one of the women whispered, "she's wearing those things backward." The rest of the women laughed as if this was the funniest thing anyone had ever said. The girl wasn't wearing her jeans backwards--in fact, she wore the jeans like a model, I thought. But an adolescent or grown rarámuri woman in pants causes a scandal in their society. Despite Julissa's prejudice against rarámuri wearing chabochi fashions, I suspect that painted fingernails and eyeshadow will grow to become a bigger source of contention among rarámuri mothers and their city-born daughters.

For a while, I wondered if wearing makeup and nail polish made me look too foreign, too "chabochi," and would consequently hinder any possibilities of connecting with the rarámuri on a deeper level. So I started dressing more simply for many weeks: jeans, t-shirts, sneakers, no makeup, and no earrings. If you know me, you know I hate wearing sneakers every day, never go out without earrings, and rarely without makeup. The sneakers were a necessary and practical move, since I do a lot of walking and running. But I discarded makeup and earrings when the rarámuri women first started asking me about it because I worried they would come to the conclusion that I was too materialistic, too "chabochi."

So I spent weeks doing the most simple "getting ready" routine I have ever done: shower, dress, and leave. I have always enjoyed the process of choosing the color for my eye makeup every day, and my earrings for the day, and I soon began to miss what one friend teasingly calls my "face." Discussing it one day with another friend, we came to the realization that I was putting on a mask for the rarámuri; that is to say, I was leaving off my makeup, a part of my dress and daily presentation that I have always enjoyed. "Your true face is your mask," my friend said. And she's right. Not that I have a complex about my face in its natural state; I have no problems being seen without makeup. It's just that my normal me has fun choosing colors to reflect my mood, or complement something else I'm wearing.

I think now that the rarámuri women asked me not because they were judging or being critical, as I initially felt. They are simply curious to understand my perception of beauty, as I am curious to understand theirs. I have often marveled at the hours the women spend discussing colors and patterns in dresses that they are considering betting on a race. There is a defined rarámuri perception of materialistic beauty, I think--the rarámuri women like dress and fashion, and there are culturally accepted norms of dress in their society just as there are in ours. Their dress is an important marker of cultural and ethnic identity, a way to stand out from the crowd of chabochis. But the rarámuri also like to look good for each other (my wise friend says that women dress for other women, not for men, and I think that is so true! I definitely think it's true with the rarámuri of Oasis, at least.) So many conversations with the women turn to dress, and I have overheard so many comments about the color and pattern of another woman's dress when she is out of earshot. It shouldn't surprise me, I guess--I talk about fashion with almost all of my girlfriends. Clearly the rarámuri women put a lot of thought into their appearances, and while it is interesting to consider that their dresses are very significant markers of rarámuri identity, the best part of all has also been fun getting to know each woman's taste in colors, patterns, and fabrics. I think it's easy to forget that my "research subjects" have an appreciation for colors and designs, like any human. My new favorite question to ask: "what is your favorite color?" They always ask me what mine is, and I always tell them that mine is blue.