“A thrift store in Evanston,” my brother calmly replied.
“Look at the pants too, Mom. Sanya, spread your legs. Show her the pants,” I said. My brother spread his legs to show the crotch, hanging there like those saggy canvas bags placed beneath a horse’s butthole to catch all the poop.
After a moment of pensive silence, my mom spoke up, “Can you get me shirt like this?”
“Of course, Ma!”
My mouth dropped open. My brother had already figured out how to dress with confidence, while I floundered in the fashion world. I was quickly nearing the age where one needed to have her “look” figured out (which is twenty-five, by the way) without a clue of how to do so.
My wardrobe was a mixture of high school athletic gear, free T-shirts, and clothing I’d stolen from my former roommates (one male, one accountant, and one raver). On a typical day, I looked like a banker going for a jog at Burning Man. It was not me, but the clothes were free and I needed to cover my privates with something. Before I knew anything about anything, my simple sartorial rules were as follows:
1. Do not wear more than two colors at any given time.
2. Tight shirts are not flattering on 83 percent of people and should only be reserved for exercise.
3. Blouse buttons are a chesty girl’s worst enemy.
It wasn’t much, but it got me through the first twenty-three years of my life. Until, that is, I became friends with Noël and Stephen. Two fashionable New Yorkers, one a professional designer, the other a professional gay man. I didn’t want to be a fashion victim anymore, I wanted to be fashion survivor, so I asked Noël and Stephen to What Not to Wear me.
“You should set this on fire,” Stephen said before he’d gotten all the way into my bedroom. He grabbed a sweater I only wore for special occasions—first dates, holiday parties, negative pregnancy tests. It was a large black knit sweater with an extra-baggy collar that hung down to my chest. If I bent down and jerked my body up fast enough, the collar would flip over my face, concealing my head. It looked like an uncircumcised knit-penis. It was my favorite party trick.
“Why? I like that sweater!” I snatched it from his hands.
“It makes you look way bigger than you are,” Stephen said. I put the sweater in the bag marked “donations.” Noël started grabbing one thing after another, after another, until she was hugging a big ball of clothes.
“What’s wrong with all of that?” I asked her.
“It says ‘Forever 21’ on the label,” she curtly replied before throwing the ball into the donation bag.
I’d clearly made a mistake by inviting the disaster duo into my closet but it was too late to do anything about it. We bundled up and headed to Century 21, where Noël and Stephen proceeded to tear apart every single thing I put on my body.
“Thank god I only fuck men!” Stephen cackled when I came out wearing a peasant top with white mid-calf pants. I scampered back into the dressing room and tried on a teal empire-waist dress.
“Oh, my god. Congratulations,” Noël exclaimed. She walked up to me and gently placed her hand on my stomach. “Is it a boy or a girl?”
Every time I picked out a shirt or a dress, the jokes came like arrows, slicing through my choices. At the end of the day, I bought two items: a black cardigan and an off-white blouse for $120. The price tag hurt my feelings more than Noël and Stephen ever could.
I got home from that shopping trip, delicately hung the two items in my closet, and didn’t touch them again until returning both pieces the next week. The guilt of spending that much money on two pieces of clothing got to me. I tenderly pulled my shitty clothes out of the donation bag and hung them back in my closet. I made a mental note of each piece and promised to never wear any of it in front of Noël and Stephen again. Which wasn’t too difficult because our friendship ended shortly after that. (Unrelated to my stint at the burn clinic.)
After that experience, I went about my clothing revolution in a gentler way: by parroting. If someone was wearing something I liked, I made sure to ask them where they got it.
My favorite response was from my pen pal Amy. She has unmatched taste and was the one who taught me about consignment shops, which is a more sophisticated way of saying “thrift store.” She’s a bloodhound when it comes to lightly used clothing. “See these shoes?” she asked me while holding a pair of white, glossy snake-effect leather loafers which were two sizes too big for her. “These are Tod’s and they’re selling them for $20.” Amy leaned in and whispered, “They’re worth over $300.” She rolled her eyes and placed them in her shopping bag.
When I wrote Amy to ask about her style secrets, she emailed:
My aesthetic is “professor chic” and my style icon is Bea Arthur.
My advice is to carry yourself like you’re about to go out. I know this isn’t always realistic. I have days where I hate every single piece of clothing I own and come to work looking like a crazy. But there have to be some strict rules followed (and only very rarely broken) like:
• leggings are never acceptable
• find your silhouette and stick with it—only veer away from it if you’re 100 percent sure it works from every angle
• undergarments are never to be seen unintentionally (underwear creeping up/bra straps)
• AND SO ON. We can discuss fashion further if you don’t totally think I’m a snob.
I loved that response so much I wanted to take it as my own. But that’s not how style works. You have to grow into it, you have to find what works for you through mistakes and ill-advised “statement pieces.” It took me about three years to scrounge together my “look” and I still hit bumps along the way.
Last month, while on the bus in my brand-new, Cyber Monday–sale boots, I noticed the girl sitting next to me trying to sneak a photo of them. She wore ripped, acid-wash jeans and a powder pink sweatshirt that said “No” on it. The bus was so crowded that we were nearly sitting on top of each other and her elbows dug into my ribcage as she centered her phone. I smiled to myself, thinking that she’d taken the photo as a reference for next time she went shopping. I leaned in to tell her that the shoes were on sale at Macy’s, only to see she was posting my boots to Snapchat with the copy: “EWWW!! I HATE THESE SO MUCH!” I recoiled in horror. Someone in acid-wash jeans was about to cyberbully me and there was nothing I could do about it.
The truth is I worked really hard on my outfit that day. I was on my way home from a new job on a Comedy Central show hosted by Moshe Kasher, a comedian with a sharp sense of fashion and an even sharper tongue. Everyone around the office was desperate to get a style nod of approval from him. Your day depended on whether or not he noticed your shirt, shoes, hat—and said, “Cool.” I started peacocking in a desperate attempt to get his attention, and, slowly, my fashion sense began to change.
One day I showed up in a black romper with a bold pattern, complemented by a fitted black jacket and brand-new white Vans that sported pink flowers. The outfit demanded that everyone notice me, my chest, my style—my existence. I felt great in it. During rehearsal, someone tugged at my elbow. I looked over to see it was April, Moshe’s personal stylist. This woman was paid to tell famous people what looked good and what didn’t. Prior to this moment, we had never spoken because what would we have talked about? I just stared longingly at her tan skin, tiny body, and effortless style—everyone, except men and celebrity bloggers, knows it takes a lot of effort to look effortless.
“Where did you get that romper?” she whispered.
“Urban Outfitters, online,” I whispered back.
That romper became my diploma. I graduated to the other side. The side where I was being asked, “Where did you get that?”
I truly believe that style can only be learned through years of mistakes and asking trendy coworkers, “Where did you get that?” You don’t have to like fashion or even shopping to leave a lasting impression when you walk in the room. Unfortunately, women have to spen
d more time and money to look put-together, but luckily women are also prettier and smarter than men so it equals out. Women have more opportunities to send a message without speaking—a powerful tool if you use it correctly.
It took about five years to come up with an affordable, well-manufactured wardrobe that I hate only 20 percent of the time. A pretty good percentage considering the fashion industry survives and thrives on making sure that women are constantly disappointed with how they look.
There is a strong foundation upon which style can be built, and I’d like to share that foundation through some tips I’ve learned from the wonderful women and men in my life:
1. Don’t wear heels you can’t run in.
2. Everyone should own one good leather jacket (wonderful at hiding excessive arm hair). You can get a great (recycled) leather jacket for under $150.
3. Flowy shirts look good on everyone, especially women with abnormally large chests.
4. The darker your skin, the better cream looks on you.
5. Own one expensive blazer, they go with everything and can be used for multiple events (from business meetings to convincing your family that you’re doing okay).
6. If your top goes past your mid-thigh, it’s okay to wear leggings. (Don’t tell Amy.)
7. Invest in one nice pair of boots, heels, and shoes. (Wait until Cyber Monday for the sales, and fuck bus bitches.)
8. Vans or Adidas are a fun and comfortable way to make an outfit cooler.
9. Consignment shops in hip neighborhoods are the best place to shop for affordable and durable clothing.
10. Dark multicolored scarves are a good way to cover up the fact that you are a sloppy eater. So are Tide pens.
11. Wear a dress if you want to. I spent many years avoiding dresses because I worried they made me look too feminine and therefore vulnerable. I’ve since learned it matters more how you carry yourself than what you’re actually wearing.
12. Comfort trumps trend.
13. Wash new clothes after you buy them.
14. Hand-wash your bras. (I learned this late in life, and still don’t do it. Bad habits and stubborn women are hard to break.)
15. Find a store with good basics and learn how to use them.
16. Don’t wear chunky belts.
17. Don’t look at the size (my clothing size ranges from 0–10, XS to L).
18. Sew buttons back on within a week.
19. Throw out clothing with holes you can’t fix.
20. Don’t get mad at resale shops that don’t take your clothing; they’re just snobs who use their snarky opinions to hide the fact that they’re broken people.
21. Sunscreen is your best friend and a literal lifesaver. Nothing’s more fashionable than healthy skin.
I am living proof that you can blossom from an awkward caterpillar into an awkward butterfly—a sharply dressed awkward butterfly who commands attention because she is comfortable in her clothing and looks like a consummate, trendy professional.
10
SUBMIT AN ESSAY TO THE NEW YORK TIMES
I’ve always treated the English language with a sort of reverence, mainly because my parents considered me the Goddess of Grammar every time I pieced a sentence together. “Unfortunately, Marina will not be able to make it into class today. She has fallen ill,” my father proudly read from a note written by me. “Un-for-tun-ate-ly,” he marveled, “Our Manya and her big words!” I fell in love with the practice of putting letters together in new and interesting ways to win over the admiration of Olga and Vladimir.
Learning a second language so late in life was difficult for my parents. I started writing school notes for them when I was seven, work emails shortly after, and years later, Facebook posts to their friends. “Hi, Sue, so nice to hear from you. How are your boys?” To this day, birthday wishes and condolences are still my responsibility. Although they mastered English fluency at an impressive speed, my parents are still coated with embarrassment when their grammar is off.
It is a gift to speak English fluently, and therefore the language should not be abused. I never fell victim to the horrendous massacre that is “internet speak.” I don’t think I’ve ever typed R or U in place of the actual words, and you’d have an easier time convincing me to get a belly button tattoo than to shorten the word situation to sitch. Speaking eloquently was important to me because it was important to my parents.
Taiwan bolstered my appreciation for the privilege of communicative ease. I became a soft-spoken, shy woman who avoided opening her mouth for fear of sounding stupid. My stomach churned with empathy for my parents: it sucks to not be able to connect with people using your native tongue. I barricaded myself off from the outside world and created a comfortable life within the walls of my English-speaking office. My job meant everything to me, which is a dangerous position to be in, especially overseas.
The first time I got in trouble with my boss, Jerry, I wasn’t upset, I was destroyed. The whole situation was especially traumatizing because I knew it wasn’t my fault. A coworker had forgotten to upload my story during her evening shift, which was a cardinal sin in my department. The reason I’d missed that the story was never uploaded was because I was on the phone with Jerry, who divulged his feelings of loneliness to me late into the night. My father never allowed us to give excuses when we were blamed for something, and I wasn’t about to start throwing coworkers under the bus. Instead, I just stood there, letting Jerry’s anger wash over me.
“This is unacceptable. It is your responsibility to check the stories at night. If you notice…” He began to dig into me. My nose started to tingle, and the tingling headed toward my eyes. I wanted the conversation to end as soon as possible, but stood there frozen, listening to him yell. At the end of the berating, I squeezed out a “sorry” and headed to the bathroom on a different floor. (Please see: “How to Cry at Work”.)
By the time I composed myself and came back to my desk, my name had been taken off the schedule. Jerry took away all of my responsibilities for that day—and, as it turns out, for the rest of the week—because my stories were “too much to handle” for me, according to a curtly worded Gchat from him.
My parents raised me with a strict Soviet-era understanding that elders, especially forty-four-year-old boss-elders, are never wrong. I was taught to never question an authority figure no matter how wrong they might be. I feared teachers, police, and, most of all, managers, but my biggest fear was getting fired, and that fear only intensified in Taiwan. I’d ditched everything for this job. Getting fired meant I’d fly back to nothing. Jerry’s yelling shook me to my core. I took the next day off.
In Taiwanese work culture, women get about three days off a year to handle their period so that they don’t come into work and drown everyone in their bloody uterine lining—or so it was explained to me. It is my guess that a man wrote this legislation and nobody had the heart to tell him that a period doesn’t last three days a year, but, whatever, I was happy to find such a convenient use for my period. Joke’s on them anyway, I don’t get my period. I mean ultimately joke’s on me, because I probably can’t have children, but for right now joke’s on them.
I didn’t want to waste my menstrual leave on moping over the fact that Jerry was probably going to fire me, so I grabbed my laptop and decided to walk around my neighborhood. I weaved through old women doing Tai Chi in the park and grabbed dan bing from the corner cart with the angry ladies. I had walked further into the neighborhood than ever before when I stumbled upon a coffee shop. It was everything a young foreigner could want in an establishment: hidden from the street and packed with disillusioned space cadets. Laptops covered in stickers, and arms covered in tattoos, crowded the wooden tables. Bored Taiwanese hipsters worked behind the counter. It even had a name I could pronounce: Yaboo. A mangy orange cat with the same name and a tiny triangle missing from her right ear slept in the doorway. I couldn’t have pai
nted up a better place to hide out. A cool-looking Indian chick sat on the plant-filled patio. She had her long, henna-dyed hair secured with a purple scarf atop her head. Her eyeliner was early-2000s thick, but she pulled it off in a Cleopatra kind of way. The patches on her backpack indicated that she was a Westerner, and I desperately wanted to be friends with her. But making new friends as an adult is impossibly complicated, so I walked inside, out of her sight.
I opened my laptop and briefly looked at job postings for Digital Media Producers, Content Creators, Social Media Wizards, YouTube Magicians, Twitter Warlocks, Blog Dads—and all the other made-up titles created in hopes of catching the elusive millennial. I clicked out of all my tabs, overwhelmed with all the application requirements.
I turned my attention to an old essay of mine, written about something familiar. Someone familiar. If nothing else, I still had my words to comfort me. I wanted to revive the essay to upload it onto my small blog, read mainly by my parents. But during the rewrite, the story morphed into something a little too intimate to post.
I was worried someone from high school would get their hands on the piece and spread it across the web-o-sphere, or even scarier, share it with Kevin, the person it was about.
Oh my god, remember that weird girl from 7th grade, I imagined Jenni messaging Lindsey. You know, the one who always wore a leather jacket? Well, she just wrote the most ridiculous thing.
I decided to submit the story to The New York Times’s Modern Love column instead. Now, this sounds counterintuitive, yes. Someone who doesn’t want the world to read her story wouldn’t then go and submit it to one of the largest newspapers in the country. But I truly did not think it would get published. Sure, I had the goal of submitting, but that’s as easy as sending an email.
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