On a Closeted Honeymoon, the Chance to be Seen

A bell clanged when we entered the shop, which was empty except for the trio of shopkeepers watching us expectantly. When my wife explained that we wanted to order clothing, they brought out three-ring binders bursting with images. We could have anything we wanted, in any color, in just one day. First we’d pick the style. Then the fabric. Then we’d get measured. Then we’d return in a day for the final fitting and payment.

My wife chose a vintage-inspired dress from the binder. As we pulled out fabric, hemming and hawing over our choices, I lost my shyness. I pointed to a page with a woman wearing a button-down shirt. “Could I get this?” I asked. “Of course,” the shopkeepers said, without skipping a beat. “And pants to match,” I added. Here in Hoi An, Vietnam, thousands of miles from home, their casual acceptance set me at ease.

For a gender noncomforming queer person, like me, clothes and shoes are flash points in a neverending quest to exist in the way you feel most authentic in a world. This requires constant compromises because the clothes you most admire are never made for your body.

When I came out, I was femme-presenting with a dash of punk sensibility: glitter makeup, bobbed hair, skirts paired with fishnet tights and Saucony Jazz sneakers. I moved steadily toward gender neutrality, settling into a masculine-of-center-meets-rural-lesbian wardrobe of button down shirt, jeans, work boots, and hoodie. I wore my clothes until they fell apart: I couldn’t replace them because women’s clothing – cropped, ruched, and off-the-shoulder – was deeply othering to me. And men’s clothing – well, if it fit over my hips, it was ill-fitting everywhere else.

Then my wife and I took a trip to Vietnam. In Hoi An, clothing could be made expressly for me by an unseen army of seamstresses tucked behind the carved wooden doors of the UNESCO heritage city. Every third shop in the old part of town seemed to be a tailor; the shop windows were cluttered with silk dresses and ao dais and wide-leg pants made from breezy bamboo fabric. To ask the tailors for what I wanted, I’d first have to let them see me, and not the grungy female backpacker I’d been passing for since my wife and I landed in Bangkok a month earlier.

“To ask the tailors for what I wanted, I’d first have to let them see me, and not the grungy female backpacker I’d been passing for.”

In crossing oceans for our 40-day honeymoon trip through Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, and Vietnam, my wife and I had put ourselves back in the closet for a constellation of reasons. Public displays of affection were frowned upon in these countries, so we were careful not to kiss or cuddle in restaurants the way we would’ve back home in Boston. Homosexuality wasn’t illegal anywhere we traveled, but every place had its own set of rules – and those rules always seemed to be different for foreigners. Vietnam welcomes LGBTQ tourists, but takes a more conservative attitude toward locals. Same-sex weddings are technically allowed, but aren’t legally recognized.

We wanted to enjoy our vacation, which meant being discreet so we wouldn’t offend people, and seeking queer community in the rare safe spaces we encountered. We weren’t worried about “consequences,” aside from alienating people–mostly, we felt uncomfortable being openly queer outside of spaces like Phnom Penh’s gay bars.

While my short hair and boyish clothing tended to out me as queer back home, here those traits didn’t convey anything unusual. To the locals, I was one of a steady influx of female backpackers, and if my wife and I chanced to hold hands, well, that was what female friends did. We’d trudged east from Thailand to Vietnam, only outing ourselves to the hotel clerks whom we asked for a double bed, though we’d inevitably be shown to a room with two twins anyway.

It had felt odd, that first week in Thailand, but over the subsequent weeks, not showing affection publicly became normal. So had fielding strangers’ questions about boyfriends back home, when in reality I hadn’t had a boyfriend since the seventh grade. While a couple of people had guessed the truth, we’d been successfully passing for straight. And given the frequency with which we experienced homophobic comments in Boston, it was oddly freeing to experience straight privilege on a trip meant to celebrate our queer love.

Asking for gender-affirming clothing at the tailor would blow my cover. Rather than deal with those feelings, I focused on finding the “right” tailor. We couldn’t afford the most expensive tailors, which had been vetted by Lonely Planet. I hoped to support a small family business or a shop that treated its workers fairly, but it was impossible to tell from the outside whether a nice-looking boutique did the work in-house or contracted out to a garment factory.

In the end, we went with the recommendation of a local we’d met at a private lantern-making workshop we’d seen advertised with a hand-lettered flyer stapled to a telephone pole.

While I’d sought out opportunities like the lantern-making class from a desire to connect with real Vietnamese people, I wasn’t being myself. I was playing roles: the foodie tourist snapping pictures at the wet market; the grungy backpacker bargaining over the price of a ride; the traveler looking for “authentic” connection while playing it straight. Standing there in the tailor’s shop, I knew I couldn’t hide.

I pulled a dark gray cashmere wool fabric, which could replace the flared gray dress pants I’d been making do with since high school. Back home, shopping meant making do with the season’s colors on the rack. Shirts that were gender-neutral enough for my liking tended to be plain or simply patterned: dots or stripes. Here my choices were limitless. The shopkeepers had allowed my wife to browse the shelves without commentary, but as I considered my options for shirts, one of them pulled fabric off the shelves and held it against my skin. The others murmured in approval. Soon we’d filled the table with bolts, working together to select the best fabrics. I was surprised and moved by their desire to help. Day after day, customers came in shopping for dresses. Maybe this was fun for them because it was something different.

When I’d made my choices (purple checks and a green-and-white abstract geometric print), they measured about 20 different points on my legs, arms, and torso. I’d had to do this myself the previous year, taking measurements for a suit that would be custom-made for the wedding; we hadn’t gotten it exactly right so my wrists had stuck out of my suit jacket, like I was a kid who’d had a growth spurt. This time, the fit would be precise.

“Shoes?” the women asked when we’d finally finished, hours after we’d entered their shop. My wife and I traded a look. We didn't want to insult them, but we’d already gone shopping for shoes.

“I could use a pair of tall boots,” my wife said. Those off the rack never fit over her calves. If we were going to find room for a pair of knee-high boots, then why not get myself a pair of oxfords? They measured our feet and produced material samples. We rubbed leather and suede between our fingers, taking our time with these choices. I felt at home here in a way I hadn’t expected to, and the gratitude I felt was worth any price.

At last the women waved us off with instructions to return the next afternoon. We’d lined up a cooking class, so we spent the following morning at the local market. When we returned to the tailor shop, we tried everything on. The clothes needed slight adjustments–my pants were too long in the leg, a shirt was too loose in the back. The women pinned, then sent us off, promising everything would be ready in an hour.

Over dinner at the restaurant next door, while we waited for their adjustments, I joked about returning to Hoi An the next time I needed to shop. By our five-year anniversary, I’d probably be ready for a new pair of shoes.