The Outfit Was Doing the Talking

When your appearance became your armor ... and what cracked underneath.
It wasn’t just clothes.
It was a costume.
A carefully curated billboard that said, “Don’t confuse me for something I’m not.”

Back then ... late 80s, early 90s, peak adolescence and identity crisis ... I was all jeans and loud American T-shirts. The funnier and more obnoxious the better. Especially during the Gulf War. Wordplay. Cartoons. Sarcasm. The more it clashed with the world around me, the better.

I wasn’t dressing for comfort. I was dressing to not be seen as Saudi.

Part of that came from what the world was telling me. The media painted Saudis as extreme. Harsh. One-dimensional. And I was light-skinned. Lighter-haired. I didn’t look like the image they plastered on TV.
So I leaned in.
If people already assumed I was a foreigner, I gave them a show.
Played the part.

Not maliciously.
Not even consciously, really.
But I kept putting on outfits that spoke louder than I was ready to.

Because inside, I was confused.
I didn’t hate being Saudi.
I hated being boxed into what being Saudi was supposed to look like.

And then… a crack.

A distant relative passed away.
A formal gathering. I put on a thobe. Tried to show respect.
But I sprayed cologne like I was heading to a party ... not a wake.
Someone pulled me aside gently, quietly.
Not to shame me… but to protect me from embarrassment.
“It’s a funeral,” they said. “Maybe… not the perfume.”

That moment hit me harder than I expected.
Not because I’d broken a rule.
But because I realized I didn’t even see the line I crossed.

I wasn’t trying to disrespect my culture.
I just hadn’t claimed it.
I’d been reacting to it, dressing against it, hiding behind puns and punchlines… because I thought it was all or nothing.

You’re either fully Saudi ... strict, conservative, serious ... or you’re not at all.
That was the lie I had swallowed.

But the truth was quieter… softer… and sitting across from me at every family gathering.
My relatives weren’t extremists.
They weren’t judgmental.
They were kind, grounded, nuanced people.
And I had been performing for a version of them that didn’t actually exist.

It wasn’t rebellion.
It was projection.
And maybe even… protection.

I looked American.
So I acted American.
Because trying to convince people I was Saudi ... only to be met with skepticism ... got old fast.
“You’re not full Saudi.”
“You grew up abroad.”
“You’re white-passing.”
It was easier to let the T-shirt talk.

But here’s what time does: it strips the costume away.
Now? I don’t wear much Western stuff at all.
Maybe it’s age.
Maybe it’s comfort.
Maybe it’s just that thobes are easier when you’ve got a little extra around the middle.

But more than anything… it’s peace.

Peace with being both.
Peace with not needing to convince anyone.
Peace with letting my presence speak louder than my outfit.

Because for years, the outfit did the talking.

Now?
I’d rather just be heard.