mom jeans

on hand-me-downs and where resourcefulness meets identity

Camp Reunion 1976 FW15 collection

My favorite clothing store has always been my mom's closet.

Whenever I itch for new clothes, but my bank account isn't exactly on the same page as me, I run to the most reliable place I've known. Worn denim, vintage heels, chunky wool sweaters, gold earrings, and pearls—new treasures are unveiled each time I return.

Only after I've rummaged through and selected the pieces I want do I ask her if I can “borrow” them. She always responds with 'You can just have it.' A response that is usually tinged with confusion, as she questions, 'Why do you want that old thing?' or 'You really want that?' unable to fathom why I want her old, worn, "out-of-style" garments and even more surprised when I report back with all the compliments I've received on them.

As the youngest of 5 in my family, I was raised in hand-me-downs. I used to resent having to wear my older sister’s things. I wanted clothes that felt like they were entirely my own, representing my distinct personality. But as I grew older, I came to cherish and seek out the slouchy silhouettes, worn knees, and broken-in fit of second-hand clothes. I found joy in scavenging through my mother's, father's, and siblings' old stuff that I could style and upcycle to fit my evolving tastes.

One of my favorite jackets is an old, beat-up, paint-stained, five times too big Nautica Competition Fleece. When people compliment or ask where I got the baggy, gray fleece, I take pride in saying that its belonged to every member of my family at one time or another—it has the stains and wear to show for it. My brother tells a story of how my dad wore the coat dropping him off at school one day, and he remembers how his classmates gawked at how cool the then-new jacket was. It lived in our home's entry closet for many years, thrown on to run out and grab the mail or shovel the driveway during winters until I finally stole it once and for all.

The origins of it all, though, were my mom's closet. It was my playground, my dressing room—where my first ideas of what it meant to be grown up were built. There are dresses in my moms closet that I return to annually, eagerly waiting for the day they will fit my curves as they did hers. I would try them on and slip on different pairs of heels which lived perfectly placed in their original boxes and wrappings, my heel barely touching the backs. Heavy gold hoops weigh down my earlobes and layered necklaces tangle around my neck. I remember building out my first makeup bag with four-pan eyeshadow palates nearly empty, an almost completely dried up mascara wand, some loose powder, and a kabuki brush slipped from my mother’s vanity.

In rifling through her makeup bag, jewelry box, and drawers, I learned who I was from who she was. I learned to tailor too-big trousers, crop old t-shirts, cinch dresses and blouses at the waist with belts and scarves, and add buttons and hems to miscellaneous items. I didn't always have the resources to get the new, cool items I wanted, so these hand-me-downs shaped my tastes and taught me to make clothes my own. Her hand-me-downs made me love gold jewelry, ribbed-knit turtlenecks, long coats, and oversized silhouettes. Seeing how well my mom kept her things made me want to collect items I would have for a lifetime. Items that would hold stories and collect memories. These clothes, while at first worn just out of necessity, became the diving board for my creative exploration in fashion.

The clothes we wear, where we get them from, and how we keep them are all an expression of character. The circularity that comes from receiving hand-me-downs or buying clothes second-hand is, of course, good for the environment but just as good for the soul. It allows you to weave your own stories and identity into the garments, leaving traces of yourself in them to be passed onto the next person. Pins, buttons, elastic bands, zippers, and drawstrings tell a tale of the body who lived in them before.

When I put on clothes stolen from my mom's closet, I examine the tears, faded prints, and worn-out spots on them. I find old junk in the pockets and loose threads hanging from the hems. I smell the distinct scent of her perfume forever ingrained into the fabric, and I experience the world with a piece of her perspective.