#bakhu

My family immigrated to the U.S. from Nepal. We didn't own a car, so when we attended Mustangi cultural gatherings in New York City, we would cross the Hudson River from Jersey City into Manhattan on the PATH train. My mom always forced me to wear a bakhu, the long Mustangi dress we reserve for special occasions like Tibetan New Year, prayer ceremonies and weddings. I would beg her to let me wear "normal clothes" on the train and then change into my floor-length bakhu, but she wouldn't budge.

Wearing this elaborate garb in a public space where everything is still and subject to examination — and in my impressionable young mind, harsh criticism — was absolutely mortifying. Being trapped under the train's bright fluorescent lights made me feel particularly exposed and out of place.

... The intense unease that I had once felt while wearing a bakhu as a child disappeared almost as soon as the trip began. I forgot I was wearing one by the end of the first day. To my surprise, I only got a handful of verbal reactions during the entire journey. And most of the interactions were brief and pleasant. In Charlottesville, an elderly bodega owner from Iraq asked me in broken English: "Where your people are from?" I told him, he nodded, then continued to ring up my purchases. In Nashville, Tenn., a young girl told me she really liked my dress.