“You always wore bright colors.” — A Personal History
Editor’s note: This is the second in our three-part series looking back at the style (if you can call it that) of our youths.
Earlier, Seth. Now, Jeff.
I always had a thing for obnoxious colors.
“You liked them,” said Trace (a.k.a. Mom) when I talked to her this week. “Everybody made fun of me for doing it, but you would just stand there in your Superman underwear and complain that you wanted to wear your bow tie, suspenders or bright shirts.
“The other parents would say, ‘Why are you dressing him wimpy like that?’ But you were such a happy kid when you wore those colors and patterns and prints. And if you didn’t like what I laid out for you, you stripped down and refused,” said my mother on my sartorial decisions as a five-year old.
Those are my mother’s words. I just called and talk to her to make sure I didn’t misquote her. Gotta fact-check, y’all.
I grew up on the edge of the suburban frontier with a cow pasture at the end of my street and a general store a few blocks away. My wardrobe was a mix of function and fashion. Overalls to go down to the creek, but bright and obnoxious. T-shirts, jumpers and backpacks, but slathered in with colors and prints and anything that would be able to be spotted from a distance had I wandered off in the mall or down the street.
But first, let’s take a moment to look how effing happy I am in the first photo on that swinging horse with my bright pink Nickeldeon T-shirt.
Left to right: 1) Pure joy: obnoxious t-shirt, swinging on a horse, full of glee. 2) It’s no surprise that I was an early adopter of photo bombing. 3) Acid wash denim jacket? Yes. Do I have acid wash anything right now? Yes. I also feel like this similar pose has surfaced on the Midwestyle.
I guess you could say I formed my personal sense of style from my environment. I was a raised on healthy doses of ’90s television injected everyday with my buddies from Saved by Bell, Clarissa Explains It All, Rugrats, All That! and anything that covered serious issues involving tweens. Although my mom picked out my clothes in my youth, I took the reins once my brain began to form. Clearly my style didn’t change once I was able to pick out my own Osh Kosh B’Gosh patterned shorts and Bugle Buy jeans.
Left to right: 1) Comb over, blue blazer, white OCBD and paisley tie. Swag, ya’ll. 2) Being a little brother has its expectations and drawbacks, such as being the one suggested to stick your head in a crocodile’s mouth.
I always insisted that we have costumes whenever we played games out in the yard. I’d drag out sheets from the garage to make capes and cloaks for our neighborhood battle royales. Whether it was playing out in the neighborhood with Nerf guns in my elementary days or the yearly Halloween “What do I wear?” issue in my teens, I was always the first and eager to respond to this crisis.
Take notes on the business dress code in my preschool Christmas recital. Singing in front of an audience is a tough gig. Imagine not looking fly in a tie when you’re five. These were my early white boy problems, people. Paisley or plaid.
Left to right: 1) Bright colored t-shirt again along with oversized sunglasses before girls caught on to the bug eye trend. 2) Matching plaid pants and bow tie with suspenders. Mom, I love you.
Bow ties, dinosaurs, puka shell necklaces and Abercrombie & Fitch. The perfect formula of my school pictures documenting my late streak with puberty. It seems like yesterday I was praying that I would grown underarm hair. Presently, I’m still asking for some facial hair that or my mole on my cheek would share the spare hair.
“Girl Picture!” was shouted. Naturally, my friends and I assembled into the standard co-ed pose. Seriously though, you can’t put a group of freshmen college guys together expecting that they’ll pose normally. Sorority girl pose, anyone? Left to right: Glen, Jarred, Ryan, Chad, Patrick, Myself and Zach.
Notably, I’ve had various hair styles as well. Short hair, long hair, shaved hair, dreadlocked hair.
FUN FACT: My hair is actually wavy, not straight or curly. It’s also as thick as your dad’s back hair.
BONUS FUN FACT: When treated with endless swim practices of chlorine-saturated pools and the notion that swimming in a pool equates a shower, my hair only became more dirty/curlier.
CLOTHING MATTERS, people. To be more clear, your appearance and presentation of self matters. Those impressions and first looks carry weight for your future. Even at a young age when you’re playing the most epic game of Cowboys and Indians on 113th Street against the assholes down on 110th, you gotta look fly to out-win and out-do your opponent with the most epic draping and self-tied capes.