Dress like a person

If I’d been living in the U.S. anywhere from third to ninth grade, people probably would have hit me up for a Hanson autograph.

No matter what, when I think back on my pre-college years, the thing that comes rushing to front of my brain is how much I looked like a boy.

Now, as people look my outfits up and down each morning, I wait with bated breath wondering, “Ashli do good?” because of an immense pressure to reject that side of myself.

That’s ridiculous.

Gender is a fluid social construct. It’s dynamic.

Three centuries ago, men were wearing tights and powdered wigs.

If “Law & Order: UK” is to be believed, in some courts they still do.

When I strode purposefully toward the boy’s junior section, it was because I knew that’s where the pop culture tees were in the colors I liked.

It had nothing to do with a freedom march, crossing the divisions of Old Navy in hopes of obliterating sexism.

However, my parents instead corralled me toward the shelves of cap-sleeve tees.

Despite my protests against pink, my dad said, “You’re a girl. Dress like it.”

I can look back now and say yes, sagging pants was a bad call.

That’s a notion entirely independent of gender.

But so is wanting to be loved and understood.

If someone looks back on photos with regret and self-loathing because of a god-awful decision to wear denim gauchos, it should be for the fact they were hideous and not because it wasn’t socially acceptable for a girl to have done so.

Ultimately, the world is just a swirl of clouds, oceans and dirt, so societal constructs are arbitrary anyway.

One expression of gender doesn’t capture the specific experiences of every
individual.

Fashion shouldn’t be stigmatized by masculine or feminine ideals because there’s more than one way to be either.

Men aren’t frightened little flowers or drag queens if they experiment with makeup or heels.

Girls aren’t lesbians if they wear short jean jackets with pins declaring their love of podcasts.

Categories are simplistic and exclusive and leave people feeling anxious, defenseless and embarrassed.

I had no idea people were questioning my sexuality or confusing me for my sister’s little brother.

Cap-sleeves were itchy and tight and I liked the freedom in dressing “like a boy.”
Not freedom as in autonomy, but the literal room to breathe that boys’ clothes provided.

I liked that part of myself, I embraced it, and it had nothing to do with gender.

Sure, my style was all wrong, but only because it was 2003 and everyone’s was.

I could go all Shakira and talk about the person underneath your clothes, how there’s an endless story and it has nothing to do with what’s on the surface.

But in this case it’s an opinion of what is on the surface, specifically people using how it’s adorned to shrink-wrap their minds and suffocate real thought.

Appearance needs no justification, especially in terms of gender roles and rules.

­— ashhendr@indiana.edu