I was recently reflecting on what it was that made me so interested in modesty over the past few years. To know me you would know that there were quite a few years in which I could be categorized as a “hoochi mama.” “Hoochi mama” is a term I picked up from my little brother who uses it to refer to girls who dress a bit on the skimpy side. As a teenager I never had a figure that I was terribly comfortable with, but in my early twenties I finally had a body that I was willing to show off, and accordingly, did. Then I had a wake-up call.
I was talking with a male friend who on a beautiful May day confessed how much he dreaded Spring. “How on earth could you not love Spring?” I asked. He replied that as a woman I could not understand what it was like to be a man who, after months of winter’s imposed modesty, was suddenly bombarded with so much female flesh! This was no ordinary guy but rather a nice Catholic boy who made every effort not to objectify women. “I have to spend all of Spring and Summer with my eyes on the concrete. It’s horrible!” he told me. Sitting there in my micro mini skirt and noticing for the first time how his eyes darted from mine to the pavement, I felt terrible. All that time I had thought that being “liberated” meant that I could wear whatever I wanted when it really meant that I was being inconsiderate to those around me. My turn to modesty had begun.