Our Lady of the Pantsuit: In Praise of Hillary Clinton's Style
Yes, in the past there has been too much attention paid to Hillary’s clothing choices. And unwarranted criticism. But I love it that she’s now making her clothing choices part of her campaign arsenal. She’s consciously choosing her pantsuits for the messages they convey. (And for once her gender gives her an advantage: can you imagine if Trump had chosen a crimson suit? 
)
First there was the Convention, where she wore all white – the color of suffragettes a hundred years ago. And in the first debate, against that dark blue background, she popped out in her red power suit. I can’t wait to see what she wears to the Town Hall.
And here’s a writer who agrees with me.
http://www.salon.com/2016/09/30/our-lady-of-the-pantsuit-in-praise-yes-praise-of-hillary-clintons-style/
I wasn’t even finished crushing on the white suit she wore to accept her nomination at the Democratic National Convention back in July, given that all but the leanest women tend to avoid the color. Like horizontal stripes or mid-length capris. Even my mother-in-law, when discussing the convention, was surprised Hillary had chosen white.
“I know,” I smiled, thinking of all the white I’ve never worn. “And I love her for that.”
And just when I thought I could not have stronger feelings for a pantsuit, Hillary comes blazing onto the stage in red, once again obliterating the idea of looking as small as possible that dominates women’s sartorial choices, especially those in the public eye. It has been the job of women to slenderize, minimize and fade away. We veer toward narrow cuts and safe colors: navy and black and gray. Never red. Red screams I’m here. Red says I’m not backing down. Red makes the body into a beacon, and we’ve been made to fear all that largeness and reflected light. But for her first debate against Trump, with so much at stake and millions watching, Hillary chose to flare.
SNIP
Why I love Hillary is that I don’t need to like Hillary.
We women, even the most educated and progressive, still spend much energy trying to please. We almost can’t help it. We’re groomed for it from the get-go — learning to lower our voices, to put others first, to make ourselves tiny, to try for the prettiest face — until it feels as natural as breath. There’s nothing wrong with cultivating attraction, or sacrifice, or kindness. The real problem is how uncomfortable we become when someone breaks out of the mold and comes at the world with an unbroken gaze. No matter how much we embrace the concept of powerful women, in real life we aren’t always comfortable with them. They rattle subtle but ingrained expectations and threaten to undo something so embedded in the fabric of our culture we can hardly name it. We tend not to like them, even if we aren’t exactly sure why. All of which has me thinking about pants and our ongoing discomfort with a woman who wears them. Because, make no mistake about it, Hillary wears pants. Unapologetically. Literally. Symbolically. And in every other glorious sense of the word.
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