OTF - Gimmick Tee to the Consultant Interview—cause I can!
I remember Freshmen year when I was applying to Garb—which I got rejected from at the time—I was asked to describe my style in one sentence. To my best recollection, I put something like “a kindergartener that dresses themselves without any understanding of color theory and spends most of their time in the dirt.” My style since then has undergone some refining, but remains of the same vision… I now claim the style of an advanced fourth grader.
To my great dismay, I remember very little of my childhood. The key details that stick out to me are Spongebob, weird varieties of open toed shoes, uniforms, and my ever so lovely girl gang that always stuck by my side. The blur of these years could be my brain kicking into protective mode—in order to continue forward I must block out my past (which fucking sucks)—or it could just be that I have a really shit memory. It’s most likely the latter, as I can’t recall in vivid detail much of my middle school years either… except that I was able to fit a capri sun straw in the gap between the front of my teeth—I was a real stunner.
The reason I am typing about this topic begins with this Friday. Friday’s are quickly becoming one of my favorite days of the week, following close behind Saturdays and Mondays; I have only one class from 3-4 meaning I can spend the majority of my day luxuriating in laziness—something I do better than anyone I know (at least at Berkeley). In the glow of this past Friday I decided I was going to saunter over to my favorite secluded spot on campus—Wurster—and spend an hour or two reading before my class. I am a voracious reader, tackling up to two Colleen Hoover’s in one day at my most streamlined. My reading plans were quickly halted as I passed 4.0 hill and saw a truly awe inspiring sight. Right in front of my eyes, thirty five kids sprinting around the grass—one was climbing a tree, one was rolling around in dirt, one was chatting with her own girl gang, one was doing pull ups, there were limbs flying everywhere (weirdly kids never walk anywhere they are always running, especially when they are outside). It was truly a joyous scene, and I was sat. I was listening at the time to Amie Mann, a wonderful artist to accompany your sun sauntering, as I watched the gaggle of kids seize the day in a way I only wish I could. Not a care was in Suzie’s mind as she ran her little legs up the hill, her polka dot skirt swirling over her blue and black striped leggings. Creeping into this awe was a passionate jealousy. I too want to run like that in my skirt and my leggings. But no.. I’m big as fuck and must go to my EECs discussion in an hour.
I immediately noticed, and not in a weird way oh my God you guys are sick, how every one of the kids was sporting just the most rambunctious outfits. I had never seen such an intense clash of patterns, colors, textures. Skirts over leggings, hats with puffballs, shoes that sparkled, socks pulled to the knees, jackets tied around waists. I felt sooo boring; it was extremely humbling. At what age did we stop clashing patterns like there was no tomorrow? Of course, it could also just be the granola moms dressing their kids in classic granola kid garb.. But still the magic was there nonetheless. In the face of all this unrestrained freedom, I felt so isolated from the figure of the child. I think it's quite obvious that I have no problem at all not taking myself seriously, or embracing my inner child, which is a perfect excuse for anytime I am being reprimanded for disturbing the peace.. Which is often. Yet, at this moment I felt encompassed by a wave of nostalgia. A wave that tumbled and jostled me—had me thinking stupid shit like “Is that child still in me? Will I ever be able to replicate those fleeting moments of weightlessness?” I almost started running with them if it was not for my toe that is currently in recovery from a very heroic act I performed mere days prior that I will not bore you with.
I realized that a majority of adulthood, or at least the limited experience I’ve had with it, has been spent chasing the freedom of the child. I wonder to myself if I was ever that child running in front of me, arms flailing, visually free of any worry. But then, in my moment of intense introspection, I came to understand that clothes are the medium that move me closest to this inner child. The freedom that was pooling from this childlike joy, dressed by the largest splay of colors I had seen in a while, reminded me of the power of clothes. Sporting bright colors, clashing patterns, gimmick tees, telling the RSF “I don’t give a fuck!” by wearing my Spongebob tee, all feel like an honoring of the freedom akin to childhood. Obviously, clothes are a prime way to circumvent societal standards, expectations, but also growing up! Through the medium of clothing I can alter how free I feel in myself. In a suit, I feel restricted. I feel like I am in “normal” jail with the suit serving as the bars I am forced to watch and be jealous of the rest of the world through…my one time in a suit was traumatic (congratulations to my cousin on her marriage!). BUT IN MY FUZZBALL HAT and my striped shirt under my real tree tee… Catch me doing a headtsand in the middle of FSM like a beast. I emphasize again the reciprocal relationship I feel I have with clothes. I honor them with love and adoration, and they grant me the power to be rebellious, to revolt against the professionalism Berkeley forces upon us AND to connect to the toddler Trey I so desperately seek to honor. There is no better medium at which I can use to transcend time. These kids were a reminder again to not take myself too seriously, and to wear whatever the fuck I want.. Although, do not expect to see me in a tutu.. I have limits.
My childhood also appears to me, not in a series of fun memories on the playground, but in clothes. Coming into myself—growing up—was manifested most within my clothing. As soon as I hit sentience I started to care about what I put on. Sadly, I did not have a granola mom that dressed me in little baby blundstones, so fashion for me marks my coming of age. And while I can’t remember much of what I was doing in seventh grade, I remember my first time thrifting, the excitement of finding a gray and black hurley shirt and it being all mine. I found it! I see its potential! It’s a representation of me—one of the first. My style, while helps me transcend time and tap into the authenticity and unboundedness of childhood, also is the primary way I can visualize my childhood self. Again, what I was doing in sixth grade I could not tell you, but God knows those Superstar adidas stayed STRAPPED on my size six feet. Freshman year of highschool… can’t even tell you what I was like… but trust and believe I was single handedly keeping my local Tilly’s alive. In my head I can conjure more vividly than experience, a timeline marked by what I was wearing at the time. Even freshman year of college I can see blue haired Trey posting up in GWS 100 rocking hand warmers, a gothic tee, and my black buckle pants gifted to me from my non-granola mom. Truly, my clothes have been the most constant and authentic visualization I have of my transition from youth, to teen, to adult. For a brain that can’t seem to remember much of its past, it takes no effort to remember where I was when I got this shirt, where these pants were from, how much I paid for this pair of shoes—and these are all things that my brain does automatically. It just sticks. Now why it can’t remember which way I need to go to get from Wurster to the Physics building (where all of my classes (upper division) are) I cannot tell you.
I get excited thinking about what my garb will be like when I’m older, or even next year. I used to go to sleep fantasizing about what shoes I would own when I was older, and I do the same now. Clothes in a way, are my past, my connection to a part of me I can’t seem to reach, and my future, fuckkk can’t they just be my man???
The last thing I will leave on this page, and something that gagged me when I thought about it while watching these children—When the fuck did I learn nostalgia? SPARE ME WORLD FOR I AM TOO YOUNG!!
