Man in Skirt

Today's finally the day, I think to myself. The sun hasn't come out yet, but I'm already up - I've been tossing and turning all night long, and just lying awake in bed's a waste of time that could be put to better use.

I can hear Dad stirring too - he's used to these hours, if not necessarily fond of them - as I trot over to the kitchen. The donuts Grandma got for the occasion are tucked away in the corner; we're supposed to wait for everyone to wake up, but my stomach is grumbling like a wild beast. Flipping open the lid of one of the donut boxes, I pick out a creme-filled long john (my favorite) and an iced pumpkin donut. Afterwards I'm sitting on the couch in my pajamas, munching on the surprisingly rich pumpkin donut, and slurping down a glass of milk. A quick look at my figure reminds me that I need to get back to dieting... but only after a few more pastries.

Then, before we know it, the time's come. I find our clan t-shirt and my Dropkick Murphy's shoes (a bit scuffed up and dusty, but still stylish), and then get out the real clothes.

First comes the centerpiece itself - the kilt, that glorious work of art, the embodiment of our family pride. Eagerly I lash it around my waist, noting that it's feeling decidedly more snug than usual. Mom brushes it off to me having the t-shirt tucked in (which it is); I'm content to leave it at that. Next are the knee socks, or the 'kilt hose', and the flashes go on over those. I loop the sporran (man purse, as Dad calls it) through the belt loops, and finally fix our clan's woolen cap around my head.

Here comes the epiphany, then: the kilt, that skirt of men, is me and not me. It is most definitely a part of me - a part of my heritage, my culture, and my pride - and yet, at the same time, it does not define me absolutely. My world is not of bagpipes and haggis; I believe in more mystical creatures than the Loch Ness Monster; and yes, there are days (most days, in fact) when I do not where a 'skirt'.

I'm more than aware of what leads people to divine such characteristics when they see me in my kilt: inevitably and inexplicably, as we mature we learn to generalize others based on first impressions and past experiences. The man with the effeminate swagger? His passion is fashion. The young woman with clothes dark as night? A smile has never crossed her lips. Perhaps there is some slight element of truth behind these assumptions, but there are virtually never any cases where a fleeting glance or a brief chat allow someone to surmise the entire nature of another.

My Scottishness undeniably contributes to my character, but it does not make me a caricature. It's merely a part of the whole, a miniscule piece of the puzzle; it is merely another aspect of my person, not a lens to see me through in narrow, stereotypical terms.

Remember, then, that the man whose hips sway may well end world hunger someday, and that the woman who exudes darkness might one day bring smiles and laughter to the hearts of your grandchildren. Knowing that, I remind myself that in the end I am simply me, nothing less, and that just as my faith and feelings are merely partial aspects of who I am, so too is my birthright as a Scotsman.

Just keep that in mind the next time you see a man in a skirt.