I've been a label whore since I was five years old. Not because I was born into a wealthy family, and definitely not because I knew what a fashion designer was; I was infatuated with name brands at an early age because my mother has been obsessed with keeping up with the Joneses for as long as I can remember.
She was so determined to make sure my sister and I wore nothing but the best, she would strap us in the backseat of her old Buick and drive an hour and a half to Kankakee, Illinois, from our home in Chicago to go shopping. And when I say "go shopping," I don't mean that in the literal sense. We didn't drive to a mall, find a parking spot, and then go inside and ask the salesclerk where the children's section was. We drove to my mother's friend's house and proceeded to try on clothes that her three daughters had grown out of. This was basically the black bourgeoisie version of taking us to the Salvation Army.
While my sister and I were busy upstairs trying on hand-me-down expensive dresses and overpriced denim overalls, my mom was downstairs drinking wine and gossiping with her friend. After a few hours, we would have at least three huge bags filled with designer clothes — free of charge. Now, of course, we would then pile into the Buick and drive back to our modest house on the South Side, but we had a trunk full of the finest clothes money could buy — so it didn't matter what our financial situation was at the time, because inside we felt like a million bucks.
It was during that time I learned the importance of doing whatever you had to do to acquire great clothes, and as I got older, my addiction to them only got worse. In high school I was a slave to name brands. Tommy Hilfiger was a favorite. FUBU was still a thing. Ralph Lauren was huge, and because Jay-Z was at the height of his career, every self-respecting teenager had at least one Rocawear hoodie in his or her closet. And since I was still a budding lesbian at the time, everything was at least three sizes too big. Whenever I look at old pictures of myself, I always wonder why my mom let me leave the house every day looking like an extra from a Wu-Tang Clan video. But since she had such a fear of my sister and me getting pregnant in high school, she was probably relieved that I would rather hide my body than show it off.
Sneakers were also a big deal. They had their own caste system. If you wore K-Swiss, it meant you probably had a single mom who worked two jobs and knew paying for groceries was more important than you being the most popular kid in school. That was me. If you wore Jordans, chances were you lived with your mother and your father, and they didn't mind paying for them, or you had a parent who couldn't afford them, but they would use half their disability check or tax return to pay for them just so you could have a fresh pair the day they came out.
Speaking of coming out, that's exactly what I did freshman year of college — not to my friends and family or anything. Just to myself. Between the baggy clothes, my large collection of sneakers, and my enormous crush on Mariska Hargitay, it was pretty clear that I was a full-blown lesbian at this point. But I still didn't know what kind of lesbian I wanted to be. Yes, there are different kinds. But for the sake of this piece, I'll just focus on the two categories I knew I didn't fall into.