PASSION FOR FASHION

(c) Breeze Vincinz

When I was younger I concocted a future for myself where I would wear some sort of all purpose uniform in my daily life that would deflect the possibility of scorn or comment from an otherwise overly fashion-obsessed public. I imagined myself to be this ghetto version of Jem and the Holograms whereas at any given moment I could touch my nipple ring and a hologram would appear over my body resembling whatever high end fashion garment just happened to be en vogue at that particular time. I never really wanted to own clothing that was particularly luxurious or trendy but I have always, even as a kid, had this insatiable need to get people to… shut the fuck up about what I happened to be wearing at the time. Holograms always seemed to be the best strategy; throw some light beams at people, have them think I have on Bugle Boy or Karl Kani, move past that immaculately-plastic-first-impression bullshit and get straight to an actual conversation while I remain the true person that I am underneath.

I have always just hated the scrutiny people go through in terms of their appearance and fashion. It probably started, or in the very least was consummated when my father uttered in my youth one of his most (in)famous dissertations, “You know son, judging by the way you dress, I can only see you [in a relationships] with white folks or weirdoes.”

And so began years upon years of therapy.

I don’t know how it happened, I even mused about it with my mom, but somehow I grew up to be this sort of anti-capitalistic anarchist of sorts. Like most African Americans I had pretty humble beginnings (as if the middle right now is any better). I grew up in the Ida B.Wells Projects in Chicago and though we were never particularly destitute… we were pretty broke most of the time. I never remember going without, but I did always have this feeling of “the rest of the world ain’t like this.” Even still, somehow the whole capitalism isotope that usually infects preteens like public hair and menstrual cycles just never happened with me. While my comrades looked at television shows like Dynasty and Dallas and maybe saw the drug dealers on the block with flashy clothes and cars and slowly began to convolute their dreams and agendas to include such extravagancies, it just never clicked with me. I was never jealous of the bourgeoisie and I never really found it to be a more amiable way of life; which in all honesty is a pretty odd way to think of things. The majority of people who have nothing… usually want everything. It was no surprise to me when Eazy-E and 50 Cent came out to be Republicans, or in the very least, Republican sympathizers. One of the major tenets of the Republican Party has always been “fiscal first” whereas everything in this country should be built around protecting the sanctity of money and all of the accoutrements that it affords… or… “Get Rich or Die Tryin’”.

And the truth of the matter is that a lot of the people that I grew up with have that mentality and I can’t necessarily stand in judgment of it but I have often wondered why was I never enticed by that weird looking eye in the pyramid on the back of a dollar bill the way so many other people have been… I don’t understand how the projects could have bore a hippie!

And somewhere along the lines, my idea of fashion became steadfastly serious. I never thought of it as an expression of personality or an art form where color and silhouette could be appreciated. I guess I have always thought of it as a reflection of its owner’s perceived status in society; particularly when it comes to the African American community whereas so many of us are going without yet have this intense need to look the lie of aristocracy. I absolutely don’t see a single thing wrong with someone who makes under $30,000 a year shopping at Payless Shoe Source or the Salvation Army or just wearing affordable clothes and when I see someone not only sporting a pair of $200 True Religion Designer Jeans but also has this need to inform everyone that they are indeed sporting $200 True Religion Designer Jeans, I can’t help but roll my eyes and think, “Jesus… we’ve lost another one.” And my world gets just a little smaller.

But alas, I will concede to the idea that one of my closest friends summated that I “think way too much about this stuff.” I understand that there is a good chance that the majority of people don’t do the mental gymnastics that I do when looking at someone’s clothing but I still don’t think I’m too off the mark here. Just the other day a colleague told me that when he first meets a guy the things he pays most attention to are his shoes, his watch and his car. And as much as I would like to thing of this colleague as a typical shallow, image-obsessed Hollywood starfucker, the truth of the matter is… I do the same thing; my judgment is just on the opposite end. While he might find someone wearing a smart pair of Stacy Adams and a Rolex who drives an Aston Martin the most prodigious man to have a romantic relationship with, I am similarly looking at the same man with such extravagant trappings and think that he has never been south of Wilshire Boulevard in his life and outside of us both being carbon based life forms we have nothing in common. And the truth of the matter is… my colleague and I would both be in the wrong for judging this guy solely based on his physical appearance and acquired paraphernalia.

For me, I have always seen fashion as something that gets in the way of getting to the marrow of a person’s character, spirit and moral fiber and because of that I have always rejected it. But as I was listening to my colleague describe the shoes, watch and car that a potential paramour must have, I began to make the most startling discovery that… rejecting fashion is a fashion within itself.

I remember writing a letter to my father after he made that curious little statement about my lot in life based on my clothing that said something to the fact of, “Do you think that I purposely dress bad? Who in their right mind would wear clothes to intentionally make themselves look unattractive?” This is usually what goes through my mind when someone makes some off color comments about my baggy jeans or my wrinkled shirt or my dirty gym shoes. I’m not trying to be unattractive; I just want it to be easier for people to get to what I’m about. It’s not a reflection of my mentality, or my income or even my hygiene… I just want to make it steadfastly clear that… I’m not trying to impress you… and what you have on your wrist, feet and garage will never impress me… so let’s just cut to the bullshit and really get to know each other. A friend of mine once asked what I imagine people think of me when I walk into a nightclub or a bar with my beard unruly and untamed. I replied, “Well, anybody that doesn’t want to talk to me because of a couple of stray hairs in my beard shouldn’t really be fucking with me anyway.”

So for me, there’s an effort being put forth where my outside does in certain ways reflect my own personal struggles, feelings and concepts and that effort in and of itself… makes it my fashion. And as I get older I am “loosening up” a bit, which in my case would mean dressing up just a little bit more. I’m wearing a lot more shirts with collars and I totally stopped ripping the arms off of my t-shirts and that has to count for something.

I imagine that one glorious day I’ll probably have an abundance of money to afford an extensive wardrobe but it would probably still consist of a ton of t-shirts, a ton of blue jeans and a couple of gym shoes. If they still haven’t perfected hologram technology at this point I’ll probably have a handful of really expensive and luxurious outfits on hand to wear at dinner parties or award shows… just so I can get people to shut the fuck up about what I’m wearing.

Though… I don’t really think I will ever stop listening to Tori Amos or Björk or having starfuckers for friends so… maybe my father was right after all.