Discussion Section Chic
It’s far too early, and I’m seventeen minutes late for discussion. I find my room in the bowels of Dwinelle and wind my way through the rows, avoiding glances, to find an empty seat in the back.
To my left is someone in a floor-length leather jacket, those runner toe-shoes, and wrap-around athletic glasses. I think, what is this, middle school? I look to my right and roll my eyes at a sorority girl repping a philanthropy event they’re doing this weekend.
My GSI asks a question, and a guy in the front row raises his hand so fast it’d make Hermione blush. He’s in a full suit, and I wonder if he’s going to or coming from a third-round consulting interview.
My instructor is wearing what could kindly be described as librarian chic. A shapeless black top, New Balances from the 90s, and glasses that are so smudged I wonder if they’re helping at all.
I look down for the first time and wonder what the rest of my classmates, ranging from hungover to hyper-caffeinated, are thinking about my outfit – a hand-me-down graphic tee, jeans with more rips than when I got them, and Chuck Taylor’s that are starting to bleach and curl at the corners.
The morning fog starts to clear, and all those whirlwind judgments start to point back at me. My classmates’ whispers seem to be asking, “Did he get dressed in the dark?”
I sink into my chair, wishing I’d stayed in bed, and start to wonder if anyone else turns into a cigar-smoking fashion critic in the morning.
Because who am I to pass judgment? Berkeley has never had a dress code. A non-conformist attitude is sort of our whole thing. During my first week here, I saw a silver-haired man rollerblading down Piedmont wearing nothing but a bow tie. And he looked like he was having the most fun out of all of us.
There’s a comfort in knowing that some blouse-wearing pre-law student has exactly the same status as the pajama onesie in the front row. That we’re all here to leave our privileges and our prejudices at the door and engage with one another in good faith.
Our campus is teeming with people dressing for a purpose other than attractiveness. The danger of writing for a fashion publication is the belief that life is trying to be fashionable. But the way we choose to present ourselves often has nothing to do with aesthetics.
I think of the man in a fraying red letterman jacket who washes his feet in Sproul fountain, dressing from necessity. I think of the wizard covered in plastic bags shouting under Sather Gate, dressing in protest. I think of the business casual cohort taking LinkedIn headshots under the Haas archway, dressing for their career, or the Quidditch team in their block letter t-shirts, dressing for camaraderie.
What we wear betrays who we are in a much deeper way than our rote name-major-grade introductions. Our clothes are sources of comfort and confidence. How long we’ve been awake, how seriously we take ourselves, how recklessly we spend our money – the way we adorn ourselves is often a biography of the things we’d rather hide.
When I find myself sneering at a freshman’s Google hoodie or simply wishing the world was a runway, I try to remember the sheltered kid who refused to wear anything without a superhero on it, the kid I used to be. When that little voice in my head criticizes what someone else chooses to wrap themself in, I can recognize that voice was once pointed at my own body, my own wardrobe.
College is a beautiful time to become what we’ve always wanted to be, and passing judgment on how those around us look can only ever be an obstacle to that process.
Now, whether I’m walking into class in AirPods and sunglasses, trying to avoid every eye, or debuting a new outfit with my jaw clenched and chin raised, I try to recognize the playfulness in dressing up or down or sideways. I hope you can, too.
Images generated with Open AI’s DALLE-2 technology.
