Ropa Tipica
In Guatemala, traditional clothing is still worn by most of the local women. These standard outfits, called Ropa Tipica, consist of an insanely intricate, embroidered blouse, tucked uncomfortably into a thick, high-waisted skirt, constructed by wrapping a piece of patterned fabric around the waist like a roll of paper towels. This is cinched tightly at the top with a colorfully embroidered belt. None of this matches, by the way, and the overall effect, although quite elaborate, can make the eyes dizzy. (In America we are taught that too many clashing visuals at once is bad form, that our color palates should be carefully coordinated, and that we must never, under any circumstances, wear six different patterns at the same time.)
Despite my personal qualms with the Guatemalan aesthetic (those patterns make me think of the nineties, by the way, when MC hammer may or may not have rocked Guatemalan print baggies while he boogied) there is something that I love about the way Guatemalans wear their clothing. Here, clothing is not used to distinguish oneself from the group (we love to do this in the States with bold “one of a kind” fashion statements) but rather to fit people into a whole. Each village in Guatemala, however small or remote, however poor, produces and wears their own form of “Ropa Tipica.” This means that wherever a woman goes, she will stand out not as an individual but rather as a member of her village, a part of a place.
Other women will notice and appreciate the varied forms of Ropa Tipica rather than judge the wearer of it (as we may judge the wearer of flared jeans in a moment of skinnies, or vice versa), and will take note of the technique that they use for embroidery up on the hill, or the way they tie their hair in the capital. “Ahh,” one will whisper to another, “she must come from San Pedro. That is the embroidery they use on that side of the lake!” And she will feel confident that she has recognized the detailing on the sleeve to correctly discern where this woman hails from. This making and wearing and recognizing of clothing is quite endearing in its association with its sense of pride and place.
I understand that in certain American cities there are “uniforms” that characterize that city’s residents, much like the traditional garb of the Guatemalans. In New York last year it was mandatory to wear flat shoes, skinny pants, and an ironic accessory. Black was never out, pink was never in, and Chuck Taylors refused to become uncool. In California they were still getting away with flip flops and Volcom cargo shorts, and the Californian could be spotted as a West Coaster as soon as he set foot in any other state. In Ohio I am quite positive that they have not moved away from Sketchers and Ohio State hoodies, which sucks for them but makes them recognizable nonetheless. Our identities, therefore, can be linked to our place of residence through our clothing, but there is a fundamental difference in how we Americans put ourselves together than those in many other cultures: this is about America’s obsession with choice and tendency towards change.
What is different about our “uniforms” is their lack of traditional value, which decreases their level authenticity, therefore decreasing the confidence of the wearer incrementally. We are allowed to and expected to choose what we wear each day, and this choice is yet another of our expressions of “self”and “individuality”. Yet this choice can be confusing and overwhelming, which creates a sense of doubt in our fashionable expressions. Because of this we move in and out of fashion crazes, we “fall in love!” with shoulder pads or spatter paint, we detest or adore denim (depending on the decade), we love bangs or we love braids or we love “back to basics” or nautical or lumberjack plaid. We declare war on certain waistlines and wearing white at certain times of year. We let everyone know what is “in”and what is “out”, making hasty and definitive statements that regulate what’s in our closets. Our overall aesthetic, therefore, is always changing, always fleeting, and this means our choices are always changing.
We go to all ends to break traditional clothing molds rather than keep them, wearing whatever we can to set us apart, to be different from our previous generations, to define ourselves and our status and our group of peers. When we do wear relics of the past we do so with a sense of irony or drama, a “throwback” if you will, which pokes fun of and relishes in decades past simultaneously. (The eighties, for example, are always “coming back” in the form of leggings or side ponytails, and the fifties are resurfacing in the waistline and the cardigan.) The casting off of tradition is as important to Americans as keeping it is to Guatemalans.
When we try to be cool in Guatemala it is almost laughable. The American Apparel tee is just a tee shirt here, and no one knows that it has a definable weight on the coolness scale in the States. The ironic throwback is misunderstood and misread here; a shirt that reads “Fun in the Sun,´88” may be mistaken for summer camp that you ACTUALLY attended in Florida Beach, rather than some thrift store score that people in America would understand was a real gem. Stylish haircuts are absurd, and big sunglasses are a joke. There is really no point then, in putting anyone on by putting things on. Living out of a backpack with one pair of jeans is probably a good thing.
This doesn’t mean I don’t miss my dresses though, hanging in a row in my old closet, collecting dust there, and gradually becoming uncool.
