Second Hand Clothes, First Hand Life

I'm no stranger to the outdated aisles of the Goodwill (the G Dubs) or the Salvation Army (SA Boutique, Sally's, Salvo...), to blue-ticket sales and buy one-get one deals. Every government-funded welfare child is familiar with the scent of mothballs, like stale sweat in an aged room. The trepidation when you pull into the parking lot, the quick glances from left to right, making sure no one you know sees you go in. That frantic search for American Eagle and Gap needles in the JNCO and Bugle Boy haystack.

Back then, I wore those clothes with shame and resentment. My friends had the entire mall to find their personal style in. Jessica was a Tommy Girl, prim and preppy, while Anna was the sporty Aeropostale girl-next-door. Even Roxie, as ill-allotted as her family's money was, was able to come out of the Arnot as a Hot Topic mall goth. But who was I? The combined effort of people I'd never met. People who pitied little charity cases like me.

Today, I walked to class in a pale blue Victoria's Secret hoodie I purchased for $5 at Goodwill. The cuffs are stained from numerous washings and the screen-printed lettering along the front is beginning to peel. It's a few seasons old and while I could easily afford a new one, I'm content with this one. I learned long ago that I am not my clothing, but my clothing becomes me. Frankly, the idea that my clothing was worn by someone else doesn't frighten me like it used to. This sweatshirt is not perfect, but it's only because it was loved. The previous owner could have just tossed it out, but they chose to share the love instead.

My clothing becomes me and we both get a fresh start.