I dress like a cartoon character. Bright colors, oversized sweaters, and the tendency to wear the same thing over and over again. With my bright yellow puffer, it’s easy to spot me in the midst of the 10:15 a.m. rush.
But despite how sloppily I might dress, I definitely spend way too much time thinking about what I wear. After all, with fashion, you literally wear your heart on your sleeve. The way you dress provides an opportunity for people to make all sorts of assumptions—your sexuality, your class, your interests. But style is also an avenue to assert and construct your own identity. What you wear is both who you are and who you want to be.
Style is a social medium. From Philadelphia Eagles jerseys and sorority formal sweatshirts to designer purses and the infamous Canada Goose puffer, the clothes you wear are a means of signifying your allegiances. In a sense, fashion serves as a heuristic, a means of making quick decisions without much context. At a crowded party, clothing allows us to decide who to talk to—and what to talk about. Band tees give you an in to share your Spotify. A Patagonia quarter–zip means that stocks are a safe conversation starter. And if you spot a man with a messenger bag and trench coat, avoid mentioning Foucault at any cost.
Often, I find myself wondering how people perceive my fashion taste—what assumptions they make and conversations they default to. My aesthetics change from week to week, mirroring my incoherent sense of self. I have my classic prepubescent boy fits complete with utility pants three sizes too big for me. But I also began to develop a skirt collection in an attempt to reevaluate my relationship with gender and femininity. There are days I shuffle around campus in a ratty Penngineering T-shirt and sweatpants—exhaustion apparent not only on my face but on my wardrobe as well. Some of my best outfits were borrowed from friends with far better taste than me because I tend to refrain from buying new clothes—well aware that my tastes have the tendency to shift with the winds. My inchoate fashion sense, in other words, is inextricably tied to my inchoate sense of self. The hope is that once I know who I am—I’ll know how to dress as well.
When I came out at 15, my mom took one look at me and admitted that I had been living in a glass closet—“I figured, Norah, you never liked wearing dresses.” Perhaps even without intention, the style has the ability to speak for us when words are far and few between.
In this issue, Street explores the intricacies of style on campus as it concurrently constrains and extends our sense of sense. Style is more than just what you wear. It’s the way you represent yourself. It’s an art of identity.
