Hey… can you all help me out?
It’s getting late and I’m still try-
ing to figure out what to wear this
Halloweekend. I know, I know, I
should have been on this a long
time ago, but the truth is… I’m
kinda indecisive when it comes to
dressing up.
Of course, every Halloween cos-
tume comes with its own ample
affordances and dire drawbacks,
but in the back of my mind there’s
always a voice muttering to me
about how ridiculous I might look
in one outfit or how unfit I might
be for another. And to tell you the
truth times two, this problem per-
sists way before and much beyond
this spooky weekend in October.
Personally, this issue exists as a
permanent fixture throughout my
entire life.
I could write an article for every
article of clothing I own, how it
makes me feel, the memories I
maintain and experiences that
remain attached to it. I won’t. But
it’s interesting to think about how
tied we truly become to our ward-
robe over time. After all, because
our clothing so successfully com-
municates information about our
gender expression, sexuality, eth-
nicity, race, religion, class status
and more to others, one might con-
clude that we are, indeed, dressing
up with every outfit, with every
decision on what to wear serving
as a defining piece, an unquestion-
ably delineating part of our quotid-
ian costumes.
(Do note that in this article, I
will speak primarily about [what
has been traditionally conceived
as] men’s clothing, considering I
am by no means an authority on
women’s clothing nor have the
proper lexicon to ponder on it.)
More than just flesh, our clothes
hold history. And not just of our
own… each item reflects a complex
series of relationships and experi-
ences even before appearing in our
closet. Fashion theorist educator
Renate Stauss encourages us to see
our fashion not just as product, but
as a commodity, denoting that in
making such a distinction, we’re
compelled to think more critically
about the vast processes behind
our purchases, the diverse array of
fashion designers, manufacturers,
department stores, all of which
establish such close-knit relations
with our clothes prior to their
arrival in our clutches.
Once we perform the purchase,
and the clothes become ours, they
take on their own personal mean-
ing mediated by our experiences.
I maintain memories of where
and when I copped certain heart-
felt items that stay with that item
as long as it is in my possession.
Though with the advent of digital
retail outlets, these fond memo-
ries of falling in love at first sight,
at first fabric are less frequent.
Online shopping, aside from pro-
moting fast fashion culture, has
divorced us from intimately know-
ing the details of the items we’re
interested in putting on our person
before purchase. Now, what we get
in the mail is a crapshoot, with the
sunk-cost fallacy feebly urging us
to come to terms with whatever
ends up delivered on our doorstep,
regardless of how much it matches
the digital depiction.
Beyond our personal feelings
about our fashion, our quotidian
costumes can be considered a form
of inter-actional code-switching
with others. We dramatically alter
our appearance with every outfit
and prime people’s perceptions of
us based on what we put on. How
we dress reveals our values, con-
veys our beliefs about the body,
how it should be accessorized and
stylized. We wrestle and wonder
about what features of the flesh
should be displayed and how
much. Sometimes, we may open
ourselves to a healthy degree of
external inspection, feeling liber-
ated amidst the soulful sensation
of showing off.
Anyone can try practicing this
easily on their own. Though it may
take some reconciling with the det-
riments of desirability politics plus
monocultural (commonly anti-
Queer, anti-fat and anti-Black) ide-
als of identity and self-expression.
German theatre practitioner Uta
Hagen advanced an exercise in
which one is to observe the chang-
es in sense of self as they “get
dressed for a particular occasion
… (noting) the sensorially sugges-
tive aspect of a garment.” We must
feel ourselves into the fabrics, as
we can only come to truly know
ourselves through our sensory
feelings. Knowing is feeling. We
innately know when putting on
our quotidian costumes of conven-
tion, we’re simultaneously putting
forth our personal aesthetics and
emotions.
In the morning, when we rise
to figure out what to wear, we
employ our own cognitive theo-
ries of color and our own aesthetic
philosophy to decide how best to
display our Self. Even those who
claim to not care about how they
dress must still partake in this
process. The complementing of
colors and matching of fabrics we
select can be considered musings
of our subconscious mind speak-
ing outwards. Personally, I find
myself drawn to wearing navy
blue, heather gray, black, white
and burgundy the most. But that
still doesn’t help me decide what to
wear this Halloweekend…
On the surface it’s evident
our fashion allows for artistic
self-expression. But are we truly
expressing the Self when the fab-
ricated forces of late-stage capi-
talism continue to command our
closet? The relationship between
fashion
and
capitalism,
once
stripped bare, becomes unbear-
ably evident. As Stauss states,
“Fashion and capitalism are co-
dependent, caught in an inextri-
cable cycle, a relentless cycle, a
relentlessly accelerating cycle.”
Eighteenth-century
innovations
in marketing and manufacturing
of clothing in particular, as Ameri-
can historian William H. Sewell
Jr. claims, allowed for significant
advancements in the development
of industrial capitalism. Sewell
asserts that the massive role of tex-
tile manufacturing in the Indus-
trial Revolution demonstrates the
formative function fashion has
historically taken on with respect
to the (current) capitalist system.
Much like the exploitation of labor
in the textile production processes
of the past, the fashion industry’s
ongoing exploitation in the present
solemnly suggests to me that there
are scornful skeletons in every one
of our closets.
After all, have we not all
become walking advertisements
for corporate brands, our drip
drenched in the most mainstream
of attire? Heedlessly dressed
head-to-toe in promising pro-
prietary lines, labels and logos,
from our inner and outer to over
and underwear, it seems we’re
unaware of how strong of a hold
corporations have on the clothes
that hold us together.
A short stroll through campus
simply proves how many people
proudly
brandish
themselves
with elite and luxury brands.
German philosopher Walter Ben-
jamin maintained that “Fashion
prescribes the ritual according
to which the commodity fetish
wishes to be worshipped.” It is
not uncommon for folks to buy
clothing items for logos alone, as
wearing recognizable brands may
strengthen one’s perceived status.
Though somewhat antitheti-
cal to fashion culture’s commod-
ity fetishism and the modern-day
monstrosities of the harrow-
ing hypebeast culture, another
formidable
phenomenon
has
emerged. Yes, thrifting is trendy
now! Obscure, niche and virtu-
ally unrecognizable brands are
becoming all the rave as young
people veer into vintage aesthet-
ics. Interestingly in thrifting, one
person’s garbage quickly becomes
another person’s garment. To say
you thrifted a fine piece of fabric
might feel like a flex, especially if
it is from a recognized elite brand.
Yet there’s a growing awareness
occurring of how rich, well-off
people have exploited and appro-
priated thrifting and it is not
uncommon (at this university
even) to see considerably wealthy
individuals
wearing
thrifted
clothes, subsequently glorifying
poverty aesthetics in the process.
And while white, affluent individ-
uals may cosplay poverty aesthet-
ics out of attempts to conceal their
privilege, conversely speaking,
there’s a tendency for poor people
of Color to dress impressively out
of a desire to ascend socially.
Evidently,
the
rubber-soled
shoes meet the road of retro-
spection when we consider how
sneaker culture, a result of the
historical popularity of basket-
ball in the ’70s, has enthralled
many young Black males — from
all socioeconomic classes — into
being (hyper?)conscious of their
shoe game. As Black sociologist
Michael Eric Dyson asserts, “the
sneaker reflects at once the pro-
jection and stylization of black
urban realities linked in our con-
temporary historical moment to
rap culture and the underground
political economy of crack, and
reigns as the universal icon for the
culture of consumption.”
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
10 — Wednesday, November 2, 2022
Magic in the palm of my hand
My grandfather has always
been my sounding board; he
teaches me simple truths about
myself that I can never seem to
figure out on my own. My dose of
therapy entails an endless supply
of home-cooked food and conver-
sations over chai with my grand-
father as he inevitably launches
into his captivating past.
My story is about my grand-
father — Dada, as I refer to him
— and his magic. Not the kind of
magic that I believed in as a kid —
when I looked anxiously for a coin
under my pillow in the morning —
but the kind that I now try to apply
within my own life. Maybe magic
is too exciting of a word since life
is not always smooth sailing like a
child’s fantasy. Growing up, I was
always fascinated by Dada and his
understanding of the art of palm-
istry. At age 11, I remember a fam-
ily friend going to him to have her
palm read. I felt excited, but over-
all, very puzzled. Surely magic
like that does not exist. Surely you
cannot look at someone’s hand
and be able to determine the tra-
jectory of their next how-ever
many years? Regardless, I just
went on with my little life and
realized much later how this piece
of magic worked on even the most
incredulous of people.
“I once read the palm of this
beautiful Lebanese woman,” my
grandfather said. I giggled and
cheekily eyed my grandmother,
who shook her head, grinning. “I
told her she will become extreme-
ly wealthy and privileged, and
she went on to marry Sheikh
Yamani — the minister of oil for
Saudi Arabia and one of the most
influential figures globally during
the 1980s.” My eyes widened and
eyebrows rose at the thought of
Dada’s words playing such a mon-
umental role in the life of such a
powerful woman.
Dada was 16 years old at the
time of the 1947 Partition, which
led to the creation of two inde-
pendent nations: India and Paki-
stan. What is described in history
books as the fall of British colo-
nialism, was also a calamity of
human migration that separated
Muslims from Hindus, taking
thousands of innocent lives and
displacing millions of families.
My great-grandfather was an edu-
cator turned politician in pre-Par-
tition Kashmir, and one of many
men caught in a religious crossfire
when attempting to cross the bor-
der into newly formed Pakistan.
These stories would command
family breakfasts and spill into
the evening discussions over chai
and biscuits.
As Dada recalled his early teen-
age years, I would listen bewil-
dered at the thought of having to
carry the weight of my family’s
burdens at the mere age of 16.
He would describe the dilapi-
dated horse and carriage he
would use to go to school every
day, remembered the responsi-
bilities he held as the man of the
family and recalled the sadness
he carried from the death of his
father. This feeling of hopeless-
ness drove him to find a measure
of control. Many books and hours
of research later, he began to place
meaning within the inner work-
ings of palmistry. After he mar-
ried my grandmother, they moved
to Lebanon and had two sons and
a daughter. As more people began
to hear about his ability to read
palms, he would be asked to set up
stalls and work at charity fund-
raisers — one reading in exchange
for 1,000 liras. Many decades and
multiple grandchildren later, he
would look back on all the fasci-
nating narratives he unraveled by
simply looking into the hands of a
stranger.
I should preface this by men-
tioning that I have never taken
much notice of fortune cook-
ies, star signs or how I’m acting
when mercury is in retrograde.
If any of their predictions come
true, I label it a lucky coincidence,
which life is full of after all. Also,
I knew Dada never read the palms
of his immediate family — he felt
what he said would come true and
didn’t want his family to be too
influenced by his words. Hence,
this magic remained a distant
fascination and I always watched
from afar with the secret antici-
pation that one day he would pass
it down to me.
The summer before I started
as a sophomore at the University
of Michigan, my family members
were hit with the sudden reality
that London to Ann Arbor was not
a short flight away. In their own
wonderful ways, everyone began
showing me how much they
would miss me. For my little sis-
ters, that meant a three-way peace
offering in the form of a clothing
exchange. My mother decided to
ignore my many unpacked bags
and resorted to sending me sad
memes via Whatsapp. The list
goes on.
Having lived two streets down
from each other my entire life,
Dada and I also realized that we
wouldn’t be able to meet for week-
ly breakfasts or go for day trips to
Ikea as often. So, his proposal was
as follows: I get to ask one ques-
tion and he answers. My inner
11-year-old self was jumping with
joy.
I sat opposite him with appre-
hension. Eyebrows raised and
eyes squinting, he was carefully
fixated on my left hand. I have
never felt the urge to know how
my life will play out — I still don’t.
I also believe that one’s fate is
already written. I was feeling
doubtful but strangely assured.
“You base your decisions on
emotions. But, in many ways you
are balanced,” Dada said to me,
deciphering my traits. Depend-
ing on who you talk to, this is true.
How he knew this, I simply do not
know.
“You’re an emotional person
when it comes to love. Hold back
before you jump in.” I laughed
nervously at the idea of my white-
haired, elderly grandfather giving
me relationship advice. Maybe
this was the best I’d get.
Then, he began unraveling my
next few years. “The initial part of
your twenties will be confusing;
you won’t know which direction
to follow.” I took a deep breath
and registered how much sense
that comment made. It scared me
that this could be the prelude to
my adult life.
He got carried away, as they all
do, but it was the perfect parting
gift.
Fast forward to the present day,
I remember this moment with
complete clarity. It was the most
one-on-one time we spent togeth-
er in the last ten months before he
passed away. For the many years
that I had relied on his snippets of
wisdom, I now have a lifetime to
put them to practice.
Last year, I made sure to record
his palm reading as a voice memo,
in case I needed to refer to these
snippets of wisdom. I feel ground-
ed hearing the sound of Dada’s
voice. Sometimes, when I am sit-
ting in Ann Arbor thousands of
miles away, I switch on my phone
and listen to him. I cannot speak
for every college-goer, but my life
feels particularly transitional. It
is an intrusive feeling that rocks
my sense of self from time to
time. I often find my mind wan-
dering to where I will live in four
years, or who I will consider my
closest confidants. According to
NURAIYA MALIK
MiC Columnist
Aditi Khare/MiC
Our quotidian costumes
Design by Leah Hoogterp
KARIS CLARK
MiC Columnist
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
Read more at MichiganDaily.com