COSETTE
JOYNER MARTINEZ
I cannot remember a time when clothes were not of interest to me.
The bright green sash, delicate flowers, bric-a-brac, and sheer cotton against my skin… I can feel the dress I wore for my first family portrait. From my earliest memory, my life experiences have been shaped by what I wore, how I wore it, where I wore it, and how others responded to me.
the early years
Growing up on the island of Guam, my fondest memories are of what I wore for creative play. My mother helped me construct imaginary worlds in the backyard and sewed costumes to suit each storyline. An avid seamstress and a bit of a fashionista herself, my mother and I enjoyed playing with aesthetics. She sewed most of my clothes, though she recounts that I was the one that decided what I would wear and how it would be worn. My mother also sewed heart- shaped patches on the butt of my rompers, but I forgive her for that now.
My father served on the local board for the Red Cross, and I was a mascot for the local chapter. Wearing a toddler-sized Red Cross uniform, complete with a headband, apron dress, and stethoscope, I would accompany him to volunteer activities. The uniform made me feel official. I still have it. I have fond memories of a lilac-colored bikini, complete with a dramatic, frilly bottom of sheer, pleated layers of ruffled polyester. Like it was yesterday, I remember wearing the bikini bottom with a t-shirt while riding in the back of my mom’s VW station wagon, listening to Linda Ronstadt’s Blue Bayou playing on the car radio … I loved to wear it with and without a top.
My mother bought me a pink ballet leotard for ballet class. When the dance instructor broke the news to my mother that I had no real future as a ballerina, I pulled on some shorts over the leotard and passionately danced to Donna Summers in front of my parents’ floor-to-ceiling mirrored wall in their 1970’s living room… freestyle. Admittedly, my fonder memories of ballet lessons had been the shiny black ballet slippers and drinking Hawaiian punch from the can after class with my friends. Like it was yesterday.
early love for clothing
My mother often took me to cultural events on the island, many of which referenced Polynesian culture… basket weaving, grass skirts, coconuts, leis. I can smell my grass skirt now. I had no real future as a hula dancer either.
Nevertheless, my mother recalls that I would create a variety of outfits specifically for dancing. Every day was a fashion show. It bears noting that to this point, I had never been to public school. I also lived in a household without a television, so my media references were relegated to what I could see at friends’ homes, which was a limited assortment of cartoons. Though I was surrounded by countless social and cultural influences that inspired my dress habits, I had little connection to the fashion system. This was a time in my life where a few, prized items of clothing brought great joy simply for what they were… the material, the color, how it felt on the body, the costume of it. And, I loved how I felt about myself when I wore these treasuered items.
my move to the mainland
My family’s move to the Mainland signified distinct wardrobe changes from island attire to layered garb, which was difficult for me to accept at eight-years-old. Before the move, my parents had liquidated many household items, including clothing, so we arrived with a limited assortment of warm-weather garments. We purchased winter wear mostly from thrift stores and also sourced garments within a local home-schooling community. Families would box up their children’s old clothing, and one community member would catalog it in the upstairs of a barn. You could “shop” the assortment according to your child’s age. I found some of my first winter items there.
We moved into a Tennessee homeschooling community in which acceptance into the social circle seemed to be predicated on the basis of age and maturity rather than appearance. There was little pressure to wear a certain uniform to be accepted. I continued to experiment with clothes I fell in love with… a violet-colored velvet top, a lightly faded pair of Wrangler jeans, a bright canary-yellow pair of rain boots. I can feel the cold water engulfing my feet as I waded across the creek in those shiny yellow boots.
In my early days in Tennessee, books became an important fashion reference, including Little House on the Prairie, Little Women, the Secret Garden, Mouse and the Motorcycle, and especially the Ramona Quimby series. Ramona was a dusty, rowdy, precocious little girl who had her own personal style (tomboy), which included some flip flops she fashioned from paper and staples. Ralph, a young, brazen mouse lived in the walls of a hotel, driving a red sports car with a pinball helmet strapped to his delicate chin with a rubber band. Laura Ingalls’ books prompted visions of skipping down a sloped prairie, clad in a blousy gingham skirted dress and high-top leather boots poking out from under layers of white petticoats. I used these references to shape an expressed identity more pointedly. I aspired to Ralph’s attitude; I wanted to be Ramona but had far too much fashion sense… Laura, on the other hand, seemed like a realistic fashion reference for the mountains of Tennessee where plaid flannel, denim, and gingham were always in supply. I recall standing in the bed of the family one-ton Chevy truck we affectionately named Bula, wearing practically all of these things with my overalls… and a belt.
pre-teen years
My pre-teen days in rural Tennessee found me living a typical hippie lifestyle with few means yet lively community. I spent most of my free time outside, and instead of cracking coconuts or swimming in a backyard pool, I was building forts, riding on imaginary “tree horses,” and creating secret hiding places. I wore what I needed to, which sometimes meant nothing at all.
I only vaguely noticed the change in socio-economic status from our island life until getting dressed became more important. I decided to go to public school for the third grade. This put me in contact with rural natives who were far more conservative than the hippie community to which I’d grown accustomed. I longed for the capacity to express myself in distinctive ways at school, but I learned quickly that to do so in a small, rural elementary school would never be possible. It was difficult to disguise the hippie culture to which I was clearly a bona fide member. When I went to public school for the first time, I had no reference point for school dress. My only images had been from Mark Twain, Louisa May Alcott, and Laura Ingalls – plaid dresses, lace-up leather dress shoes. My Little House and Ramona references weren’t “cool”, and I quickly found myself on the outside of most social groups on the basis of my appearance alone. This was my introduction to appearance as a symbol of status and a tool for competition. For the first time, getting dressed became linked to quantity and constant change, because if you could wear a large variety of current clothing styles, like a different outfit every day, this was currency that bought you a seat with the “cool kids.”
While I longed to be accepted, I also felt the urge for distinction – I really enjoyed fashion and in particular, expressive dress. My family lived in proximity to multiple gay communes where many of the men dressed in outlandish garb and make-up, and I also aspired to such expression. There was a big part of me that truly wanted to look different and set apart from my peers in extravagant ways… and also for that to be accepted. It wasn’t. I was already considered an unusual personality, so looking different just made me a target for bullying. I would make numerous attempts to align with the current clothing trends of rural America. I would accompany my mother to the fabric store in an effort to steer her towards things my peers might find more acceptable. A family friend took me shopping once at the local JCPenney where we purchased some Lacoste polos and Me Too jeans. At first, I felt transformed. It was a rare mainstream moment in my life. I also remember feeling more like others than myself. My reluctant but inevitable cultural assimilation into the public school system is no better documented than across a series of annual class pictures. My third-grade picture shows a hippie kid with a big toothy smile, unkempt long hair, flannel shirt, brown cords, and rubber boots with sheep shearling in a sea of plaid shirts and proper polos. By fourth-grade, I’d tidied my hair and am sporting a plaid blouse with puffy sleeves and a tie at the collar that my mother made. By fifth grade, I had cut my hair in angel wings, not unlike most of my classmates, am wearing a store-bought cowl-neck knit top, Me Too jeans, and grey suede ankle boots that were popular that year… the position of my body is tucked in, hands-clasped with a distant-looking half-smile. The toothy grin was gone. I had entered the fashion system.
Rekindling of my love for fashion
In the 8th grade, my parents thankfully returned to homeschooling, which gave me the opportunity to rekindle my fashion exploration without the social pressure. I became an avid thrifter. I snagged some amazing vintage finds and quickly developed a huge collection of eclectic clothes. Being out of school and without a TV at home, I subscribed and regularly poured over magazines such as Vogue, Cosmopolitan, and the Rolling Stone as a way to understand popular culture. I entered a heavy metal phase, wearing rock band t-shirts, a long black trench coat, combat boots, and ripped jeans… this image came with the music. It was another costume and one I loved. I still do. The fashion magazines provided another form of information also… about skin care, body image, and fashion. What began as a seemingly innocent form of entertainment soon became a measuring stick. Women in these magazines were predominantly White, tall, and thin, and while I was White, my chances of adding 6 inches to my height were low, and the lengths required to achieve the thinness portrayed in those glossy pages would reap havoc in my life for years to come. I tried my first diet from the pages of Cosmo at 18 and by the time I entered college, bulimia had become a fact of life.
Though I would thankfully recover from bulimia before I graduated with my first degree in fashion, it would be decades before I would become aware of my propensity to seek the adoration of others through my appearance at the expense of my own truthfulness. I would amass closets and rooms full of clothing, as I perennially changed my expressed identity for whatever look a new job or friend group seemed to command. I struggled to express myself in a way that felt true to me, and in a quest for acceptance, I found myself caught up in a system that led me to believe that quantity and constant change could deliver it. I became accustomed to paying a price for acceptance with my own honesty, not to mention my bank account. As I talk to others about their journey to an authentic outward expression, I’ve learned that it is a tangled road for many. Most struggle to achieve the most privileged height, body shape, body size, skin color, complexion, gender conception or even ableness that is most valued in society. Some know exactly how they wish to express themselves but are unable to find it in the fashion marketplace. Some give up and withdraw their interest in fashion because it feels empowering to not care anymore.
During the fifth decade of my life, I have been on an inward journey to confront my ego’s need for acceptance, approval, and power… just a few of the drivers that have taken my consumption habits off-course.
To be sure, this journey has not been about eradicating external influence from my life. It has been about becoming conscious of its presence, so I may engage with it differently. This process has also not been about abandoning my love of fashion. Rather, it has been about noticing how my experiences with fashion foster creative energy, bring a sense of peace, and cultivate confidence … or don’t.
Becoming more mindful has allowed me to change my relationship with fashion and clothes and with many other material objects, for that matter. I have reshaped and resized my lifestyle in very intentional ways by taking a spiritual rather than technical approach. This journey is about more than decluttering, switching to a new laundry detergent, or buying from a fair-trade brand. Through meditation and mindfulness, I have begun to recognize a true self underneath the stuff and have become committed to its expression. I have found a pathway to delight in material things for what they are without the experience being rooted in a craving for belonging or status. What used to be protective armor, a costume, or a billboard has become a luminous skin through which what is most precious to me can be deliberately and truthfully shared. I created this website to be a place to share my own experiences and those of others who have joined me on the spiritual walk to temper our consumption.
After working in the fashion industry for 15 years, Dr. Joyner Martinez earned her advanced degrees in Apparel and Textiles from Kansas State University before working for Oklahoma State University for 12 years. Joining the faculty as an Associate Professor in the School of Family & Consumer Sciences at Texas State University in 2023, she teaches courses related to the social psychology of clothing, sustainable fashion, and product development. Her research has focused on educational mechanisms for sustainable consumption, exploring how personal style and authenticity, minimalism, and mindful consumption may encourage more meaningful relationships with the clothes. Her current work focuses on the role of spirituality and spiritual practice as mechanisms for mindful consumption, as described in her 2020 publication, Fashion & the Buddha in the Clothing and Textiles Research Journal. She is an international scholar with over 40 peer-reviewed publications and has conducted several large-scale federally-funded research projects. Her publications can be found in the premier sustainability- and fashion-related journals, including the International Journal of Sustainability in Higher Education, International Journal of Consumer Studies, the Journal of Cleaner Production, and Cleaner and Responsible Consumption. She is a board member for the Sustainable Fashion Consumption Network, an international working group that investigates the mechanisms and barriers to sustainable fashion consumption. She also serves on the editorial board for the International Journal of Sustainable Fashion and Textiles. Dr. Joyner Martinez is a graduate of the Osage Forest of Peace School of Spiritual Direction, and she holds a teacher certification from the Institute for Emerging Adults. She created The Mindful Dresser as an outreach platform for clothing users who are interested in evolving their relationship to clothing and to encourage other scholars to consider spirituality as an important aspect of experience that deserves more attention in consumer behavior scholarship.