It was my Junior year of high school that I first really went thrift shopping. My dad drove my two friends and I to downtown Portland, where he dropped us off while he went on his own kayaking adventure. The first shop had employees that were very condescending, so we did not stay long before drifting over to the second store. Here I found many things that I could fall in love with, though my tastes then were much more refined than they are presently. I remember that I bought my friend a pair of high heels because she was broke, but I don’t recall what I picked up. It is a short and simple memory, and it seems silly to refer back to a shopping incident as a turning point in one’s life, but that’s exactly what it was. That’s what they often have been for me.

At the risk of sounding materialistic, I want to express the importance clothing can have. It is a straightforward way in which we present ourselves to the world, which does much to direct the opinions of others upon first taking us in. Clothing is also a form of self-expression, creativity, and, at least for myself, an influence upon my confidence.

Back when I was a child, I hated pants. I wore skirts and dresses a plenty, preferably loose so that the wind could kiss my skin with its dance and refresh me. I also had sensitivity issues; there are clear memories of sitting on the floor our foyer crying that I did not want to wear my underwear, socks, or shoes as my mother sadly begged me to put them on and the bus drove past outside. I remember that a girl I called a friend told the rest of my class I did not wear underwear. I did wear little shorts. I laughed because her last name sounded like sorry, though it was spelled differently, and she was. I think I was too numb to cry. Her mom made her come to my house and apologize. They stood outside when they said it because I would not invite them in and kept the door only open as wide as I was. I remained her friend for some godforsaken reason, as she found more discreet ways to bully me and I stayed silent in my despair.

I remember standing in my kitchen screaming and crying because my dad was holding the only pair of tennis shoes that I had ever liked like they were going to contaminate him. He was telling me that they were trashed and that I needed to get a new pair, preferably ones with those thick heavy soles that are apparently good for one’s feet. I wasn’t sad because I loved them. I was sad because I had attachment issues and because of my desperate fear of trying to find a replacement. I just wanted things to stay comfortably the same.

In sixth grade, I grew tired of being the only one who dressed differently, caving and asking my parents to take me to one of the fancy popular stores at that time. I think I was trying to force my wardrobe into letting me belong, not knowing that that’s not how things work for people like me. I wasn’t going to be one of them, no matter how hard I wanted to try (though I only really did in the appearance department) and despite the hundreds of dollars that purchased ounces of clothing. How did my parents afford or allow those shopping trips I will never know, but I went back to school in my first pair of skinny jeans. No more gauchos for me. I felt self conscious, but triumphant as the complements and shocked expressions rolled in. Despite the immediate acceptance of my new look, the thin, tight shirts only hid my weirdness for so long and did little to protect me from the mess of hormones and confusion and cruelty that those years are.

I continued my search for normality until I hit high school. Well, I think I was still searching for some kind of normality but it was of a different group’s tastes. I believe I was just so desperate to belong that I thought if I looked the part, somehow I could magically shape myself to this person I am not. There had never seemed like there’s been a place where I can be just as I am, and so the search for some kind of wardrobe that would grant me membership continued.

My best friend and I kicked out of it some the summer before sophomore year. I remember us with our mothers getting first coffee, then driving to a piercing parlor in Beaverton. The place looked like a little house, quaint and blue with white trim, and a strange off-centered energy in the main room. We all went into the piercing room together and the woman had me lie down on the table. I can still feel the pinchers squeezing my eyebrow as she slid the needle thru. It wasn’t bad at all and it felt like a fist to the air declaring I was not what they wanted me to be. Though I was. All of this was only doing things for a different audience. I was always dressing for others’ benefit- either to impress, shock, or calm.

For a couple more years, I continued to try to fit into this darker alternative scene, though that doesn’t work when one isn’t being authentic. None of it does. I finally got to a point where I just started wearing what I wanted to, though with much reservation still, partly because I was tired of pruning myself to other’s tastes and partly because I discovered the joy of cheap clothing. Now, my life is ecstasy when I can get the price down to 89 cents a pound at the goodwill bins or I find 75% off, for a total of 2 dollars, pair of pants. I take pride in dressing in old woman trousers and things that have been loved before.

I remember the first time I cut my own pair of shorts from those high waisted granny pants. It was summer and I was with my bad-influence-but-good-influence-because-she-pulled-me-out-of-my-comfort-zone friend. She introduced me to the practice and I fell in love with doing things cheaper, smarted, healthier. It was to be in her good graces then, but I first started feeling comfortable in my body again that summer. It is as if I can trace my history through the clothes that I have worn. It still sounds superficial to my ears, but despite this I know that it is valid. I can see the twisting turns, the decisions I have made with my body synchronized with the changes that have occurred within myself, one overlaid upon the other as the events of my internal and external worlds and selves have unfurled.

I am standing at the smoker’s pit near the dorms at the beginning of my freshman year at Evergreen. I start up a conversation with someone I have only just met and they stop to compliment my outfit. I look down and realize that I am wearing something that I never would have worn before now; the fear that has kept me its prisoner so long is starting to retreat. In a way, I have come full circle. I am back to that early self, when skirts would blow in the breeze and I was free to dance in the music of it. But it not that time anymore, for time has passed and clothes worn and lessons learned. I am that me and I am this me. I tell my friend from back home that you could wear most anything here and someone is going to appreciate it. As I do I realize I don’t care anymore anyways. For the first time in years the wind blows along my leg hairs, tickling me with its liberating laughter, and my heart feels so open; no longer is there a square peg to jam myself into, tight socks that itch my toes, apologies.