~ From Docs to Dior: Fashioning the Face of Feminism ~
INTRODUCTION
The first time I caught a glimpse of her, she wore a decorative electric pink sari, her glossy
brown hair loose, long, and flowing, as she told me about the women in her region of Chennai,
India, who were banning together and eliciting the help of local media and politicians (after years
of forced silence) to spread the message that violence against women was not “okay”. I saw her
again in my ‘Introduction to Women’s Studies’ class. She spoke in a throaty, authoritative voice –
that made everyone’s ears perk up – as she explained how her work at the women’s shelter had
made her come to terms with the harsh realities that many Canadian women still face; she wore
her peroxide-blond hair pixie cut short, her black lace-up army boots knee-length high, and her
ever-changing mini-skirt short, short, short, and made no apologies for any of it. She was there
once more, in the heat of a northeastern Brazilian summer, in the driver’s seat of her cherry red
sport utility vehicle, her scuba diving gear in the trunk and her tanned curves filling out every
inch of her itsy-bitsy bikini; a respected judge and the founder of a renowned women’s
organization.
Truthfully, she was everywhere: in class, at the office, on roads traveled, marching through the
streets…whichever streets. And no matter if you even tried to ignore her; as soon as she walked
into a room, she owned it. I listened to her voice, was engulfed by her story, but I was also
mesmerized by what she wore -- how little or how much of it. She had a distinct flavor, and it
was undeniable that who she was on the inside radiated on the outside.
________________________________________
I am a feminist, and I’ll gladly shout this fact from any rooftop. I have been a feminist for as long
as my youthful 23 years can recall, and there is just no way of getting around it. And while I may
be happy to declare it, I am consistently greeted with the charmingly painful retort: “But you don’t
look like a feminist…” Match that with a genuine look of bewilderment, as though I had just rolled
in on a pumpkin carriage, and with that simple seven-word phrase, this book began to see
fruition.
There appears to be a longstanding misconception that any woman with feminist inclinations
cannot also be a woman of glamour, sophistication, and style. Then again, this is not to suggest
that every feminist must be a woman who considers herself glamorous or sophisticated, as we
know that a great sense of personal style takes on many forms.
Hence the name of this book, “From Docs to Dior: Fashioning the Face of Feminism”. The plain
truth is that fashion means very different things to very different women. Fashion is not just
about what you see in magazine spreads or on the runways of Paris, New York, and Milan or
adorning that trendsetter at school/in the office/frequenting the hippest hang-out in town. Style is
personal, indeed; it varies from woman to woman, from culture to culture. It inspires and it is
inspiring, like so many incredible, successful, change-making women out there.
It is fun and it is fearless. It is about embracing flaws, realizing your femininity and your force. I’ll
never quite understand those who underestimate the power of fashion; who claim that there is
no rhyme or reason behind why we wear what we do; who cannot comprehend the power that
our favorite go-to piece has on our ability to take on – and conquer – the world. Its power is
priceless. Really. Fashion is an art form that too often does not receive the recognition it well
deserves, and those with the know-how to work its elements are the artists behind the creations
you see before you. What we wear is an extension of who we are, and who we are is as diverse
and dynamic as our carefully chosen attire.
Whether you strut your stuff in Doc Martins’ or Christian Dior’s, you are the fashionable face that
makes me proud to be a feminist with a fierce desire to look fabulous while I am shouting from
those rooftops.
________________________________________
We scoured the globe far and wide in search of fearless, fabulous, and fashionable women like
yourself, and met with 50 feminists who shared their insights into what personal style means to
them, and why the term ‘feminism’ does not equate with frumpy.
Their voices are as eclectic as their wardrobes, yet there is something collectively about them
that transcends both borders and cultures: whether in America or Argentina, India or Italy,
Nigeria or New Zealand, each of these women is comfortable in her own beautiful skin, believing
in her strength and empowerment and that of her fellow women.
This book is for them, and this book is for you.
PHENOMENAL WOMAN
by Maya Angelou
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them
They think I'm telling lies.
I say
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips
The stride of my steps
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please
And to a man
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees
Then they swarm around me
A hive of honey bees.
I say
It's the fire in my eyes
And the flash of my teeth
The swing of my waist
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say
It's in the arch of my back
The sun of my smile
The ride of my breasts
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say
It's in the click of my heels
The bend of my hair
The palm of my hand
The need of my care.
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.