The Woman Scared of Her Own Kimono

I feel unworthy to wear the uniform of my inheritance.

The word kimono breaks down into 着Ki—Clothing, 物Mono—thing. When I say that I am scared of wearing a kimono, in a way I’m saying that I am frightened by clothing-things. This feels both true and ridiculous.

The reasons I find it hard to wear a kimono are both practical and cultural. The practical reason is that a kimono has many layers. It takes experience and skill to wear the garment gracefully.

Layer 1. Nagajuban—The inner kimono, shorter than the outer kimono, and often made of sturdier fabric. On a fully dressed woman, only the collar is visible. Although many nagajuban are plain, they can also be heavily embroidered and patterned. The concealment of their beauty enhances their charm.

The cultural reason takes longer to explain. For a long time, in Japan, the word kimono really did just mean clothing. Outside of Japan, I’ve heard any kimono-clad women called a geisha. Yes, geisha wore kimono but so did empresses, merchants’ daughters, shopkeepers, and servants. All Japanese women wore kimono.

Then America and Europe battered into the country and brought with them European dress. Nowadays, your average Japanese woman will only wear a kimono on special events and festivals. The occasions for wearing a kimono as a quarter-Japanese, quarter-Chinese, half-hodgepodge Northern European person are even fewer.

Layer 2. The Koshishimo cords and Datejime sash hold in place the nagajuban.

I was given my first kimono when I was about six. My Japanese relatives posted it to me in London. It was cotton and Hello Kitty’s face rolled around and around on a bright red background.

It matched my favorite backpack, which too was bright red and emblazoned with Hello Kitty’s face. Sanrio have recently revealed that Hello Kitty is in fact not a cat but a small British girl, called Kitty White. In retrospect there seems something fated about a small part-British, part-Japanese child being such a fan.

The photographs arranged on the table in the sitting room showed elegant women wearing the garment with grace. My mother had told me these people were my relatives. In my parents’ room hung a woodblock print of a woman wearing an elegantly striped kimono, checking her appearance in a mirror. But I’d never seen an actual person of muscle and bone in a kimono. I was excited for my chance.

Layer 3. Kimono—The outer layer of the kimono, the one publically visible. Traditionally, the shape told the world who you were. Furisode, the formal kimono for unmarried women, have extra long sleeves that flap and flutter, silken flags declaring that this person is ready to be married. A black kimono with white circular mon crests is a statement of clan membership. The way the kimono is worn even indicates whether the wearer still dwells in the land of the living. A live person closes the flaps left over right; a corpse’s are arranged right over left.

What I’d been given as a little girl was a yukata. The yukata is a light summer version of the kimono and is far more informal. It only has three parts: the main garment, a sash, and a cord. I slipped easily enough into the body of the yukata. But I struggled with the sash. I was a clumsy child and had yet to learn to tie my own shoes correctly. My mother frowned and beckoned me over. She knelt in front of me, complaining that if only Grandpa were here, he could do it right. I squirmed. As a child of the early nineties, I was used to running free in giant T-shirts and floral leggings.

Layer 4. Obi—The sash that goes over the kimono. The way in which it is tied declares both the formality of the situation and the status of the wearer. Is she young, old, a geisha, or a bourgeois woman?

Why couldn’t it be tied like my dressing gown? Why all this fuss? My mother explained that the way an obi was tied was a declaration to the world of the sort of person you were. The way I wanted to tie it? Well that was just wrong. It would be like half-buttoning up my dress, with the wrong buttons in the wrong holes. I’d be declaring that I was a no-nothing slob.

Layer 5. Obijime—A decorative cord that wraps around the obi. These come in all colors and can be tied in many decorative styles. They add both to the beauty and complexity of the obi.

Finally the yukata was satisfactorily on. My mother aimed her Kodak disposable at me. Smile for the relatives. I hated smiling. I hated cameras. I don’t remember if I smiled that day, but the picture appears in no album. There is no record of that garment on my body.

I never wore it again. I have few memories of those early years, but I remember the kimono I could not wear. It hung in my cupboard until one day it disappeared. Along with my cat T-shirts, old uniforms, and everything else that no longer fit.

Layer 6. Tabi—White socks, with a gap separating the big toes from the others. Although not strictly part of the kimono it would be very strange to see someone wearing a kimono without tabi.

Older now, I know that it is not unusual to struggle fastening a kimono. YouTube is full of instructional videos on the correct method. Many are in Japanese because young Japanese women rarely have reason to dress so formally. But still, I am afraid.

At a party last summer, a redheaded boy wearing a dressing gown announced that he was a geisha. He put on a false nasal voice. He sashayed to the laughter of his friends. I thought of the high-class geisha who were beautiful singers, conversationalists, and dancers. I thought of the poor girls sold into prostitution, not true geisha, whose bodies were how their fathers earned enough to feed the rest of the family. I thought of the women who saved and scrimped for a beautiful kimono. I thought of the wives of samurai, who were bound by strict rules of etiquette. I left the party early.

Layer 7. Zori—Sandals into which the tabi easily slip. Casual zori may be made of rice straw and over time the straw molds to the shape of the foot. But for formal occasions, the soles are wood. They are painful to the unaccustomed and require precise, skilled steps. Despite this, zori inspired the far less refined flip flops made by Americans from rubber.

I’m happy to be mixed-race. Many of my friends boast genetic code gathered from all over. Mixed-race people are not uglier, prettier, smarter, or stupider than people who live without hyphens. But my figure is not the figure of an Edo woman. My wide rib cage is Celtic and I cannot quite bear to see how the garment would expose the wrongness of my body.

When I think of wearing a kimono, I think of every way I have failed. I can use chopsticks, cook udon and kare rice. But my Japanese accent is deformed and my vocabulary is poor. I feel unworthy to wear the uniform of my inheritance.

A friend and I were in Paris when I saw a kimono jacket. It was the blue of a bright day reflected in a puddle. There was no embroidery. There were no poorly written Japanese characters. The silk whispered as I slipped it on. It did not look costume-y. This was still the time of the strong pound; I could just about afford it. My friend touched my shoulder. She told me it looked beautiful.

I was leaving town the next day. I thought: Perhaps, I can wear this. It’s mixed-up, like me. We had only walked into the shop by chance, and for a moment chance felt like fate. They wrapped it in tissue paper. I took it home. I put it on. I walked around my room. I listened to the uniquely silk sound it made as the fabric shifted.

I still don’t wear it outside. I’m afraid that when people see me in it, all they will see is a white girl stealing something Japanese. Of course, there is no one whose permission I can ask. There is no one who can tell me that I am Japanese enough.

I know many Caucasian women who studied abroad in Japan. I’ve seen their kimono-clad figures on Facebook, usually towering over their Japanese host families. They are wearing kimono because they are about to attend an event where kimono is the only appropriate dress. This is a sign of their respect. And yet, for a flash, I am always unfairly furious. Why is this so simple for them? How can buying a plane ticket be enough to for them to wear this garment with pride?

I remind myself that I am not alone in my uncertainty about whether I have a right to claim this inheritance. How many of us feel worthy of our ancestors’ spit and blood? Was being born really enough?

Layer 8. Kanzashi—Hair ornaments. A formal kimono is usually paired with a formal hairstyle inside of which perch kanzashi. They can be made of silk or lacquer or metal. The designs are often seasonal, cherry blossoms in the spring, maple leaves in autumn.

In my sketchbook, I have begun to make small studies of kimono. There are so many varieties of patterns woven into the silk. I could keep drawing them my whole life. I let my fingers follow the curve of a green leaf or falling petal. I may not be able to carry the silk on my skin, but I can hold the patterned cloth behind my eyes.