I Heart NY

My high school days: creative, and filled with color and questions. Most of the items in this archive I accumulated and saved were from those days. And at that time, I was a budding fashion designer, not just wearing my clothes, but styling my clothes in the way I felt the most imaginative, creative, and fun. Designer labels were definitely not a part of my compositions then as they are now, but in a way, the younger, poorer and more innocent version of myself was always more willing to take risks. One such risk was the physical trust involved in the act of destroying one item to create another. And such was the case with my "I heart NY" tee. I proudly snatched it from a Chinatown street vendor during my fourth and final year of high school on my second trip and not so final trip to New York City. I took it home and with great pleasure cut right into the jersey fabric. A wider boatneck, a shredded sleeve at the shoulder built up into a lively pom-pom, secured at last with a vintage rhinestone pin -- I wore it well and I wore it often (quite an honor for a wardrobe that doesn't see many repeat performances) - It always made me smile. Styled with large plastic bracelets, colorful belts, fitted jeans or short '80s miniskirts, and finished off with my omniprescent vintage pumps (white, red, aquamarine, hot pink suede, spectator: a harbinger of the dangers of footwear-fetishes to come, I had them all), I loudly and proudly used that tee over and over again in my colorfully coordinated yet bravely naive outfits. It was a trophy of my autonomous ability to alter and create my own original garments. It was a symbol of camaraderie with an extroverted proclamation of love for a city in which I longed to live. And it was an exhilarating statement of a delight over a newfound romance; for I not only fell back in love with New York that autumn, but I fell in love with a boy whose name bore the same initials as that city. N.Y.

The City and the Boy. Both had always been quite tangible loves but intangible lovers since I first laid eyes on them both at the age of 13. And both were admirably evasive, coy and outwardly uninterested in being "taken," so to speak. New York was only ever an option after high school, and the boy, well, he only ever became an option after an accumulation of missed opportunities. The choreography of these slip-ups had stepped in time to the "I'm single, you're not, and now you're single and I'm not" tune for many turns. Many, many turns...until all of a sudden everything seemed to fall into place with some sweet combination of timing, magic, and well, fate. N.Y. and I were dancing at last. And as for the other NY, the elibable bachelor, whom I still willed to educate, entertain, nurture and house me during my upcoming four years of fashion studies, I knew it was going to take more than just a quiet game of footsie at a local restaurant, a secluded park and freshly-shaven legs to capture that bad boy. Young, pale, ambitious, and fiercely feminine (as I suspected most all the other applicants to be), getting into fashion college in New York City, even with a strong application, interview, and portfolio, was still pretty much a shot in the dark without a connection. Nonetheless, I had a plan: it was my strong intention to date Mr. N.Y. my last blissful year of high school, continue the relationship on through my studies at Parsons School of Design or Pratt Institute, graduate, land a position on a design team at a young, hip label and marry Mr. N.Y. shortly thereafter. It was an outfit for success: custom drawn and designed, fitted and tailored to me and my NY loves, completed and ready to wear, all by the age of 25.

However, fate always seems to design a different version of the stories we so diligently and delicately, naive as they may be, plan and hope and dream of. After getting wait-listed at both New York schools while Mr. N.Y. was promptly accepted to Stanford University in California, it became clear our dance was not going to continue as we had designed, or at least as I had. Even a shcolarship at the acclaimed School of the Art Institute of Chicago could not soothe the pain I felt from my NY dreams swiftly slipping away. Mr. N.Y. and I had been friends before we fell in love and felt it best to sacrifice our romance for the sake of our friendship rather than risking the ruin of both over time. It was the realistic, logical, and smart thing to do. However, for a girl who gets heart palpitations from the Haute Couture show reports, dies a little whenever she hears the French language, and requires a daily intake of dark chocolate for survival, being "down to earth" about our relationship did not sit well with me. For four years of college and one year thereafter, in between (and sometimes during...) boyfriends, girlfriends, three time zones and 2200 miles, we shuffled back and forth with our conflicting ideas of what our relationship should, and one day, would be. We had picked up our old song and dance, when one would give up, the other rebutted full force; one step up two steps back. We knew we could work, just maybe not cross-country. And so came the final attempt: I offered to pack up and move to the West Coast, find the first retail job that fell into my lap and vow to make things work. But somehow, I knew even that would not save us. The fizzling dream had at last become a palpable reality; Cinderella had finally dropped her other shoe.

The dream unraveled further. I opted out of the SAIC's Fashion design department for the more mathematically lax but conceptual rigorous major of Fiber and Material studies. And upon graduating, rather than moving to my dreamy New York and working in the industry, I decided to stay in dreary Chicago and continue my retail job. An although my employer was home to the most exciting, pristigious and profound collections of designer clothing and shoes in the world, it was not enough to make up for what I'd lost in dreams, although what I gained in shoes came close. My hope of both my NY dreams had almost entirely slipped away by the time my fifth Chicago summer had come. I knew there was no way to control my fate with Mr. N.Y., but the more I mourned over the loss, the angrier I felt. Angry with myself, disappointment in myself; having laid dreams on something and someone to deliver my own design. Et voilà! That was just it, my design! My life. My story. I would simply go back to the table and cut out a new shape. Not for or with Mr. N.Y. but instead, for and in NY. And why not? NY had always been there, calling to me in waves, whispers, shouts and sighs. It was time I listened. So with the help, support, encouragement and reminders from friends near and far, coworkers, previous NYers and current NYers, I decided to go to it. And again, as if by magic, timing and fate, all at once I found a full time retail job, a part time creative design internship, an apartment, and roommates. I packed up my belongings, 86 boxes in total (10 dedicated to shoes...) and on the eve of New Year's Eve, my 86 boxes, my cat, my shoes, and I arrived in Brooklyn, NY, USA. I had done it. I wasn't just writing my own story; I was living, breathing, and designing it. The move unearthed an instinctive and determined bravery that had been buried under those layers of Chicago comfort for so many years. I had always possessed the will to do to my life what I had done so well with my clothes, I just hadn't been the one holding the shears. My ability to collect, style, maintain and treasure, and of course, to alter my clothes had kept me and my passion above water and snow in Chicago, and I would take that same skill with me to little less snowy, but a lot more bravely stylish NY. My direction, my career and finally my life were going to benefit from my rediscovered bravery. I may not have graduated from a fashion school in NY, or even with a degree in such, I have the design job I dreamt, or the boy for that matter, but taking the scissors to Chicago, Mr. N.Y. and a life settled for was the first step in living the real NY dream. A dream I am in charge of designing, styling and maintaining. And loudly and proudly, that is a job I am thrilled to take.

So today and every other day when I walk past the street vendors on that Chinatown street, the same street I walked years prior, I pass by the "I heart NY" tees; I face the irony of a past loss but present gain. It is a reminder of the proclamation I once designed a dream by. It's still available in every color and plastered on every object; it's still a bold fashion, romantic and city-pride statement; and it still makes me smile - but it's no longer fit for my sleeve. I kept safe under my bed, and finally I've given it its due. As for the large bangles, the colorful mismatched accessories, but certainly not the fabulous footwear, they're all put away too. And although time has stripped its sting and naive notions, the memory of the N.Y. dream prior remains, for it holds a page in my book, a step in my long dance, and a stitch in the continuously-growing fabric. Without it, the NY dreams I am living today would not be as sweet. And sweeter they grow day in and day out because this time the story I'm living, the song I'm dancing to, and the outfits I'm wearing are all my own, and my own to bravely alter. And this time, I'm on my own two feet, with a litte less naiveté, a little more focus and independence, and a hellova lot more shoes.