Haters Gonna Hate, But I'm Still Gonna Wear Striped Socks, Tiny Hats & Tutus
It all started with an idea: "Let's dress wacky for a day!" I was in eighth grade, and my best friend was visiting for the holiday break. She happily agreed, so we headed to the mall in wacky clothing, which, to me, meant fun, colorful, and bright. It was a stark contrast from my usual boring jeans and T-shirt look. I wore striped socks with a tutu skirt and multiple shirts layered on top of one another. As mismatched at the outfit was, there was something about it that I liked.
That one wacky outfit started a lifelong love affair with alternative fashion. I didn't want it to just be a passing phase. Despite the many people who stared and yelled obscene comments at me as I walked through the mall that day, it was the happiest I'd felt in a long time. I'd always felt that plain clothing was boring. It lacked pizzazz and personality.
I didn't want to specifically be seen as different–it was just a coincidence that the outfits I liked to put together weren't mainstream.
Despite the many people who stared and yelled obscene comments at me as I walked through the mall that day, it was the happiest I'd felt in a long time.
Several weeks after my initial wacky outfit debut, I did the craziest thing imaginable: I wore what I actually wanted to wear to middle school. I put on my striped socks and layers of colorful bracelets, well knowing that I'd be stared at. Kids at my middle school were teased for wearing anything outside the norm, or even for shopping at Wal-Mart and thrift stores. But I put on a brave face, and I walked into school.
Eighth graders know no bounds when it comes to bullying. I was tormented relentlessly, but I continued wearing what I wanted. Kids laughed, pointed at me in the halls, and asked me where I got my clothes from (online, local homemade sellers, Delia's, Forever 21).
I began waiting out the rest of the year in silence as I applied to an alternative high school to study veterinary science. Only two of my classmates from middle school were also going to that high school, and it came with a bonus: I could get away from the bullies who'd been torturing me.
When I started high school, I quickly earned the nickname "The Tutu Girl" from the upperclassmen. I was so well-known that friends of friends would see me at family holiday parties and say, "My son goes to your high school, and he said everyone knows you. You're that tutu girl, right?" As a part of a graduating class of just over one hundred people, I was impossible to miss.
Luckily, my high school (unlike middle school) was one of the quirkiest regional agricultural schools in the area, but public opinion was still starkly divided. By my first month in, rumors had circulated that I wore rainbow striped socks because I was gay, and other people talked about how my mom died and I was wearing these clothes in memory of her. (Little did they know, my mom was a no-makeup, jeans-and-a-sweatshirt woman her entire life.)
But I wasn't insulted by the rumors. I enjoyed dressing up on a daily basis, and I knew that high schoolers have a tendency to spread rumors about each other whether someone is wearing tutus to class or not. If I was going to be talked about either way, I'd at least give them something interesting to discuss.
I knew that high schoolers have a tendency to spread rumors about each other whether someone is wearing tutus to class or not.
As I progressed from high school to college, fewer and fewer people cared enough to say anything about my clothing. I still got the occasional stares, but most of the other people on campus affectionately expected my colorful tulle skirts, tiny hats, cat ear headbands, and ombre purple hair. At my college graduation, I even affixed three-dimensional lace cat ears to my graduation cap so that they showed in my photos.
Dressing this way gives me a reason to be excited to get up in the morning, which was one of my original reasons for doing it. It fosters and nurtures my creative spirit, and allows me to utilize my love of visual design on a daily basis.
Since May, I've been a working professional, and in September, I also started graduate school, so I try to toe the line on what's considerate appropriate. I haven't ditched the tulle skirts, but I don't pair them with striped socks when I'm attending an interview. I've left the world of middle and high school, so I'm no longer bullied, but I can't leave the house without at least being complimented, stared at, or asked what occasion I'm dressed for by strangers.
People who don't know me have made many assumptions about me simply because of my style: That I'm LGBTQ, that I watch anime, that I'm a Lolita, that I want to be a living doll, that I'm an artist, that I'm a witch, or that I'm in costume on my way to a convention. The list is endless.
I've been told by many friends – after our relationship developed and we became close – that the only reason they spoke to me at first was because of my outfits. By earning nicknames and being known for something, I've become more of an icon than just another person in class or at the office. They don't see me as just Alaina, the aspiring publishing superstar, the editor, the social media guru, the writer. They see me as the Tutu Girl, the Rainbow Girl, the Girl with the Purple Hair. I've become little more than a punchline to some, and an inspiration to others.
And maybe that's not such a bad thing, after all.
