Escaping Categorization
I've been wearing my anklet since the eighth grade. The knot I tied seven years ago has proved to be surprisingly sturdy. It has stayed intact from age twelve to nineteen, from insecurity to self-assurance, over thousands of showers consumed by pubertal overthinking, to new cities and different schools. Nothing else tangible and inanimate has lasted me so long. It is the sole accessory that has remained unchanged through my experiments of passions, social circles, and looks; the only survivor in my chaotic fashion journey of self-discovery.
The year I put on the anklet, I still wore clothes from Justice and my older sister's "give away" pile. That is, if they didn't provoke too many snarky comments from the Brandy Melville girls. The Justice shirts I wore were the ones without sparkles or animated monkeys, of course, but the little heart logo always gave me away. And there was absolutely no hope with the Abercrombie & Fitch hand-me-downs. Wearing those was straight-up self-incrimination. I must have had balls to do that while all the preteen girls strutted around me in PacSun and Lululemon. At that point, I was basically begging to be bullied. I remember my mom bought me a shirt from Children's Place that year, a desperate grasp for the remnant of my childhood. It was hot pink and displayed a giraffe saying "Don't forget to giraffe!" because apparently 'giraffe' sounds like 'laugh' to some very out-of-touch designers. I love my mom, but there was no way in hell I was going to wear that while my acquaintances were engaging in rated R activities. Besides that, I enjoyed transforming an older item of my sister's into my own style. I liked how I dressed, no matter how untrendy, and that's all that mattered.
Me in middle school, dressed in a Justice shirt and studded Justice army jacket, next to my friend holding a PacSun bag. (Sorry Irene for exposing us)
At thirteen I saw all the beauty that American high school had to offer: the highs and lows of high school football, the predatory nature of senior boys, and the schoolwide event of observing the kid in the army costume eat a raw potato for lunch. I now shopped exclusively at Forever 21 and H&M, ironically the least exclusive brands to exist. I wore tight crossover dresses or cheap short skirts to class, and constantly wondered how to style my white ripped skinny jeans. My anklet sported powerful purples and exciting yellows whenever it peeked out. Nearly every top I owned was cropped. I tried lightening my hair with Sun In spray, and turned it orange. Below are some scary examples taken directly from my Snapchat memories circa 2017, in the flash photography mirror-pic style that was popular at the time. Embarrassing.
By junior year, I developed a withstanding insecurity of wearing feminine clothing. My realization was that when you showed your body or dressed too girly, people did not take you seriously. I dyed my hair bright red as a byproduct of pandemic-induced boredom and a newfound lust for individuality. It was nearly neon and no matter what I wore people called me “alt,” so when it faded back to a cursed orange, I bleached it blonde. Then people would mistake me for literally any other blonde girl, regardless of our differences in height, facial features, or character. Alongside my humbling hair journey, I moved away from fast-fashion and now shopped at the artsy vintage stores of Seattle, or the much less artsy, less vintage, Goodwill. In my early days of thrifting, my eighth-grade self would have been disappointed to see that I bought based on brand. I looked for Urban Outfitters, Free People, and lo and behold, Brandy Melville. I grew a strong love for denim, always on the hunt for a good pair of Levi’s, Lucky Brand, or Lee jeans. I felt a masculine confidence in baggy pants and even baggier sweatshirts, and became enamored by the kitschy freedom of Y2K. My outfits were almost always accompanied by my beloved pair of Doc Martens.
As I transitioned entirely to shopping secondhand, I began to try out all kinds of brands, styles, and fits. This was primarily thanks to my discovery of the Goodwill Outlet, aka, “the Bins.” My friends and I would walk into the large warehouse full of blue plastic bins, take in a breath of smelly air, and begin our ravaging, salvaging anything that had an ounce of potential. I looked at the clothing I found like a challenge. Could I style this (fugly) item and make it look good? I dressed as a different trend daily, from Fairycore to grunge to Bella Hadid clean girl. Soon enough, my closet let me take on any identity I wanted. And, as a result, I couldn’t be categorized. I was all of the categories.
In the years that have followed, I’ve stuck to “binning” all of my clothes. I shed the extra aesthetics and facades that I didn’t feel matched me. Now, as a sophomore at Berkeley, the way I dress is inspired mainly by the 2000s era, skate culture, indie and hippie-esque fashion, and minimalism, each holding elements that reflect parts of my identity. Almost every day, I wear dark-wash, low-rise flare jeans with a plain t-shirt and hoops and a choice of either Converse, Nike Uptempos, or Doc Martens. I grew out my natural hair, a dirty blonde so dark it’s basically brown, and cut off everything bleached and dyed. Reverting to simplicity in my outward appearance has aligned with rediscovering comfortability in being myself. In transitioning from childhood to adulthood, it’s been hard not to get lost in a kaleidoscope of social norms, outside influences, insecurities. My unornamented style is my new way of escaping categorization, escaping being placed in a box, and escaping people making assumptions about me based on my “aesthetic.” You have to speak to me to get to know me. Aesthetics feel false and forced, as boring or unoriginal as having no fashion sense at all. Instead, I am fascinated by unique styles that borrow from many different realms of fashion, curated by an individual’s experiences, taste, and personality.
Somehow throughout these years, the anklet I put on in eighth grade has remained, storing away every memory. It's become ratty and torn, soft in some spots and rough in others. The colors have all faded to varied shades of brown. I used to worry about what will happen when it falls off. Will I cry when this time capsule of teenagehood is gone? Must I take it as my final sign of becoming an adult? Do I leave my raging experimenting behind, exchanging it for stability and consistency? But nah. I refuse to mourn my inner child. She will be alive and well as I continue to change, fueled with a youthful desire to explore the fashion world and beyond for the rest of my adult days.
