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Little Black Everything

ELIF SHAFAK COMES TO TERMS WITH

HER MONOCHROME CLOSET.

OF ALL THE COLORS in the universe, there are two that I am particularly fond of: purple and black.The former is forwriting.All my fountain pens have purple ink.The latter is forwearing. Iwear black a lot—like, on-all-occasionswithout-fail kind of a lot. I had to admit to myself just how oftenIworeitwhenmychildrenpeekedintomywardrobe the other day and started describing the items inside: “A black jacket, a black skirt, a black top, another black jacket...” Whenever I run into awoman sporting multihued garments and accessories, carrying her choice of stylewith

Blackwas comfortable. It provided me with armor, drawing a border between my innerworld and the outsideworld.

perfect ease, I smile in admiration. But no amount of respect is enough for me to follow her lead. Maybe for a day or two, I try. I tell myself that enough is enough and Iwill brighten up mywardrobe. “It is time for me to have an outfittomatcheverytone inthecolorspectrum,”Ideclare. The craziness that gets hold of me, though powerfulwhile it lasts, dissolves.Whether I am giving a talk at a literary festival or picking up my kids from basketball, Iwear black.

I am a nomad—intellectually, spiritually, and physically. Ever since my childhood, I have moved from one city to another: Strasbourg,Ankara, Madrid,Amman, Cologne, Istanbul, Boston,AnnArbor,Tucson. For the last eightyears, I have been commuting between London and Istanbul. One day, at the IstanbulAtatürkAirport, a reader recognized me and asked ifwe could take a selfie.Whenwe stood side by side, the contrastwas startling: Shewas allvivid colors, and I the opposite. Smiling, she said, “You don’t write gothic novels, butyou dress like a gothicwriter!”

HERE IS A MEMORY: Iwasa22-year-oldaspiringwriter when I decided to leave everything behind and move on my own fromAnkara,Turkey’s capital, to Istanbul,Turkey’s craziest andwildest city. My first novel had been published to modest acclaim, and I had just signed a contract for a second book.The sameweek, Iwas invited to give a talk at a major book fair. Iwoke up that morning feeling slightly nervous and decided that lavenderwas the color of the day, thinking itwould gowellwith my long, permed hair, which I’d just dyed the brightest shade of ginger. Donning a billowing, pearly purple skirt and lavender top, I showed up on time—only to stop in my tracks and feel absolutely petrified as soon as I entered the conference room.

The malewriters had taken carewith their appearance (matching shoes and belts, gold and silver rings, necklaces), but the femalewriterswere completely devoid of color. Theywore no accessories and no makeup.The panelwent well; the discussionwas lively.When itwas over, one of the older female novelists murmured in an icyvoice: “A little advice, darling.You speak eloquently. But ifyouwant to be taken seriously,you have to look more serious.”

The experiencewas repeated on numerous occasions. Whenever Iwas in the company of theTurkish literary establishment, trying to understand theirways, I heard that naggingvoice at the back of my mind telling me Iwas out of place. I had thoughtTurkey’s cultural circleswould be more egalitarian. Iwaswrong. I understood that in this part of theworld, a male novelistwas primarily a novelist; no one cared about his gender. But awoman novelistwas awoman first, and then awriter. I started noticing how many female scholars, journalists,writers, intellectuals, and politicianswere trying to copewith this “glasswall” by systematically defeminizing themselves. Itwas their strategy to survive patriarchy and sexism.Then it became mine. Slowly, I changed my style. I asked the hairdresser to get rid of the red in my hair. I discarded the blues and the greens and the oranges in mywardrobe.Then came black rings, black necklaces, and black jeans. Iwas not a peacock. Iwould be a crow. Black provided mewith a kind of armor, less for protection than demarcation; it drew a border betweenmyinnerworldandtheoutsideworld.Theonly thing that remained untouchedwasmy fiction. Storyland had its own colors. It could never be reduced to one shade.

HERE IS ANOTHER MEMORY: Iwas born in Strasbourg, France, toTurkish parents. My fatherwas completing his PhD in philosophy. My mother dropped out of university just before I came along, assuming that love and family were all she needed. Ourswas a flat abuzzwith idealist, liberal students of all nationalities. My parentswanted to save theworld, but their marriage failed and theywent theirseparate ways.