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.