Note to self: being different doesn't automatically makes me stylish
on how unchecked snobbery was limiting my true personal style
It happened with my L.L. Bean tote bag, which I loved not simply because it reminded me of my mom’s style ethos that seamlessly merged practicality and design, but because it was a tangible symbol of the American dream—one I could wear and afford. But suddenly, the bag that made me feel unique among the sea of Louis Vuitton leather totes I encountered every morning on the 6 train on my way to work in NY, turned into something that made me feel utterly basic in the Florida suburb I moved to in 2015. Unlike Manhattan, the L.L. Bean tote bag was everywhere here— worn unironically from the grocery store to birthday parties, emptied of the significance I had once assigned to it. So I also emptied mine, hung it in my mudroom, and in an effort to send the unequivocal signal that I was indeed different and cool and complex, replaced it with a Loewe basket bag that, back then, no one in Tallahassee could still identify.
It was for this reason, along with my complete inability to think critically, that I deprived myself of wearing something I truly loved and valued. Snobbery disguised as a need to stand out, probably rooted in the fact that, as an immigrant, I’ve always felt the pressure to prove myself— to show that I am one of “the good ones,” deserving of my place in this country, as if being treated with basic dignity was something to be earned.
At some point I figured that if Duchamp could turn a urinal into art with nothing more than a signature and the context of a gallery, I could reclaim my bag from the mudroom and declare the manicured lawns of Tallahassee as my own wonderland—the context in which I get to decide that a seemingly basic L.L. Bean tote bag is cool on me. For me. And I don’t mean by monogramming it with my new English last name or by replacing it with a $4,000 elevated version from The Row. No, I mean just by wearing it on my own terms, when I want, where I want—by releasing myself from the obligation to be different for the sake of being different, by breaking the seemingly sacrosanct style rules I picked up from God knows where, whenever I see fit.
Yes. The quest for free personal style requires an effort. And I don’t mean an effort just to be different from the masses. I mean the effort to distill my own notions of beauty and value into how I present myself which tends to results in that nonchalant, chill look that stylish people have and we all want, ignoring the fact that it only comes from thinking, and thinking hard about why we like the things we like. And why we disdain those we find deplorable. The “why I wear it” before the “what to wear.”
I probably should have titled this post something like:
Found Your adjectives? Great! Now Let’s Focus on Adverbs: The Whys over Whats.
gosh that’s annoying.
I could have also shown you all the ways I wore my L.L. Bean tote bag in the Florida suburbs, you know, just to prove my point. But proving my point isn’t the goal here. What I really want to get at is the fact that, more often than not, the value of an item isn’t intrinsic to the item itself—or in how many people wear it or where it’s worn. The value lies in me, in you, in our ability to trust our instincts and have the courage to wear what reflects our own ideas of beauty or whatever it is we want to express, before someone else (a brand, an influencer, a price tag) gives us the green light—I mean, that’s a lot of power we are giving someone to decide something that should be pretty personal. Because what we are after is true personal style (emphasis on true and personal), not validation. This, I promise, is infinitely more stylish than obsessing over being basic or worrying about what our neighbors are wearing (so we don’t) or what our instagram followers might think—a trap that often leaves us as a watered-down version of someone we’re not, wearing outfits with the rhythm of an MRI machine, modeled by whoever we’re currently idolizing online or the voice of that high school friend who once pontificated lime green was tacky, or the tías’ voices insisting that flip-flops were irremediably “corronchas.”
Like Duchamp, I’ve decided to remove the value from the thing itself, the L.L. Bean tote bag or whatever someone online thinks I shouldn’t wear, and ascribe it to the invisible signature I stamp on my own choices, with the confidence of someone who has made the effort to distance themselves from the echo chambers in order to have, at the very least, one original thought. The confidence of someone who has taken the time to look at people who don’t dress like them. Look like them. Think like them. Who can admire a designer who makes things they wouldn’t wear. Who tries to understand where the aesthetics they dismiss actually come from. And in doing so, honor them. Respect them. Maybe even start liking them if their story connects enough. Or simply accept that they can admire from afar what others are trying to express through clothes they don’t viscerally respond to.
Including those who dress in the morning without thinking about clothes at all. The people we see on the train, at the bus stop, on the street, in the waiting room, the other moms we see at the school meeting. Those who wear the flip flops unironically. The L.L. Bean tote bags without trying to make a fashion statement. For those are often the most stylish of all—the very masses inspiring the designers we adore. And often have tried, unsuccessfully, to buy our personal style from.
Yes, to this! I completely agree with these sentiments, well said.
This is such a refreshing read, especially after i just read a GQ article declaring chore coats over because everyone has worn it to death (I can't tell if the writer meant to be funny but he really just sounded like someone who's too worried about what other people think). Articles like that are why some people feel like engaging with clothing and style is a shallow pursuit.