I’ve never worn sweatpants in public. This isn’t due solely to sartorial reasons — though I admit I hate the shape sweatpants create or more specifically the shape they hide. The true reason I haven’t worn them in public is because I grew up associating them with poverty. Throughout my entire childhood the only clothes I ever saw my mom wearing were sweatpants (often accessorized with cigarette burns) and frayed, oversized tee-shirts. Getting dressed up involved putting on a pair of jeans and an outdated-but-fitted sweater. My mother wasn’t trying to make a statement with her everyday clothes. They were her signature, but they weren’t intentional. She just couldn’t afford anything else.
I don’t know when I first understood this, but I imagine I was very young. I lucked out as an elementary school tomboy, gladly taking any clothes my older guy friend grew out of. But when I entered middle school, my awareness grew tenfold. No longer could I camouflage my lack of money with my “anti-girliness” identity. As I came to embrace more stereotypically feminine clothing, I realized just what it meant to be part of a lower class.
One good thing that came from the shame and insecurity I dealt with was my creativity. Rather than trying to blend in with everyone else and their Aeropostale/Hollister/Abercrombie jeans and UGG boots (whose knock-offs were just as out of reach), I decided to stand out from the crowd. I would focus on style, cutting out images from magazines that I used as inspiration for sewing projects and outfits. I saved up money when I could and bought clothes from thrift stores (way before that was cool — does growing up poor make me an automatic hipster?).
Eventually this experiment worked out. I was known as the girl who could pull off ‘anything’ and was voted “Most Outrageous Apparel” my freshman year of high school. I would ride on the high that comes with going against the grain and try to ignore the real reason I chose to dress the way I did. I didn’t have an option to fit in, and I knew I could either look poor or look ‘funky.’ I chose the latter.
Of course, I was not immune to the pressure that seemingly mandates women young and old to look good. The most amazing thing to happen in high school was the increasing popularity of Victoria’s Secret PINK line. I will forever be amazed (appalled?) by their marketing. How they were able to sell sweatpants for $50 just by putting the word “pink” on the butt seemed simultaneously phenomenal and outrageous. But I’ve come to learn that PINK represented something a lot of people in the middle-class and above are able to afford: status. Even when that status is unattractive (looking at you, UGGs).
What all of this boils down to is presentability politics. This is a concept typically associated with black people in the midst of the civil rights movement. Many black families would heavily starch their clothes, wear ornate hats and never leave the house without nylons. They had to look twice as good as white people in order to get half the respect. Most of us with privilege (class or social) balk at the idea that dress carries so much weight in society, but ignoring the reality of the situation is a serious problem.
I saw the side-eyes and snickers of wealthy (read: did not have to get food from a “food shelf”) people when they saw someone poor. Someone whose clothes were stained and ragged, someone who wore clothes from the ‘90s before it was retro-cool, someone with missing teeth because they couldn’t afford dental care. Someone like my mom. I was torn between defending her and distancing myself from her. I didn’t want to be associated with poverty, but I really didn’t want to be associated with the people who looked down on me and my family for things outside our control.
But now I can afford the clothes that were once well beyond my means. And as a college student, I’m frequently mistaken for someone middle-class. In a way I guess I am; I have a high school diploma and college education that was out of reach for my parents and their parents. But no matter what I buy, no matter what I wear, I will never have that effortless comfort with status that those who grew up middle-class and above have. No matter how hard I try, I will never be comfortable wearing sweatpants in public.
BY APRILL EMIG
Senior Staff Reporter