Everybody’s been born into a label. The sticky film of it’s tag leaves a residue on your skin as a reminder that it will always follow in your shadow. I was the class introvert. Quiet, unconfrontational, demure – and let’s not forget small and Asian. Double whammy. I was brought into this world with tape over my mouth, representing a small minority in white neighbourhood, and if I said a single word, all eyes were on me: ‘Oh my god, you can speak?’
In a way, keeping in my turtle shell gave me a sense of protection. Nobody expects anything extraordinary when you’re an introvert. Most of the time it’s easy to say nothing, and you aren’t tasked to mediate tireless (and oftentimes meaningless) conversations. But for that one per cent, when you come across something or someone that makes you want to open your mind, you’re reminded you can’t, or at least shouldn’t.
But I remember a crazy day in fifth grade, where we were supposed to dress up oddly. I asked my mother if I could borrow her Italian leather knee high stiletto boots. I grabbed my glittery orange dress from the back of my closet (one I’ve never worn) and my matching feather boa I only used for play. The boots were obviously ill fitting, and weren’t tight enough to cling to my legs, so they often slid to my ankle; but that wasn’t the reason why everybody was staring at me.
For the first time ever, everybody was gawking at me, even though I haven’t said a word. And for the first time ever, I didn’t feel a sense of inferiority. Sure, I stood out, but it was like I was invoking a voice that nobody heard before. I was heard loud and clear. The expensive stilettos, the dress, and the feather boa no longer registered as costume wear anymore, it became a sort of protective armor.
Fashion, from that point forward, became both a shield and a sword for my self-esteem. In the days of low confidence, low energy, or just wanting a way to express myself without having to say a word- I’d find positivity in arranging a cohesive outfit. I’ve gone through phases: the all pink phase, the hating pink and loving black phase, the cutesy frilly phase, the grunge phase, or the vintage hipster phase – they were periods of self expression. Putting together flannels, jackets over jeans, turtle necks under t-shirts, warm tones with cool toned colours gave the essence that I at least had my life together. If I wanted to look intimidating and dominating, I had an outfit to show that.
Soon after, I slowly got into the hobby of sewing my own clothes. I found the process to be somewhat therapeutic. Hand stitching, seam ripping, pinning fabrics, and spending hours by the sewing machine helped to calm any nerves I was having that day. Whenever my mind was clouded, or I was undergoing a great deal of stress, I found solitude in just having my brain be in my hands, mindlessly tackling a project that had nothing to do with the anxiety riddled reality that was waiting for me outside. Additionally, my voice was heard through my creative process. I could design whatever I wanted. I was cutting pattern pieces and draping fabrics that outlined my personality and who I wanted to be.
Sewing clothes obviously isn’t everybody’s cup of tea, but everybody wants to dress nicely. Fake it till you make it, or in this context, dress up as who you want to be for that day. Want to look smart? Try a button up blouse, tailored pants, and some statement earrings. Want to look sexy? Wear lingerie as a top and high waisted jeans. There are thousands of identities that you can take inspiration from, and you’ll find yourself inhibiting all those personality traits.