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

