You Can't Have Real Style Without Real Lore
Rarely do I let people’s opinions of me online get under my skin anymore. After fifteen years of growing up in front of the Internet, there isn’t much that can be said that hasn’t already, and it’s all old hat. But occasionally, something will cross my threshold that breaks my heart.
One such thing popped on my screen yesterday, when some anonymous (they’re always anonymous) randar commented that she felt like I had entirely left my past behind — that by moving to New York, I’d shed my Southern skin and prior life, friendships and attachments in Atlanta and that I’ve essentially been fashion body-snatched.
Initially it stung — the things that hurt the most are the untrue ones, because they make you feel the most misunderstood and isolated — but after I got over the butthurt, I laughed. I can’t leave that part of me behind even if I tried. And I don’t want to! It’s such an anchor of my identity.
Who in the world has ever been interesting without a past? Without depth, people, roots, and stories to tell? To abandon that would make me about as deep as a thimble. It would untether me in ways I don’t want to think about.
So I’m not ashamed of where I come from. I didn’t wipe the slate clean and begin again, I simply carried on.
Do you know what I really am? Homesick.
I love my life here and have written extensively about the challenges and triumphs I’ve experienced since moving. But sometimes, you miss your people: the ones who have known you for a million years, the ones who remember the dumb pet name you used for your college boyfriend, jamming into a booth at the Salty Dog after another SEC football triumph, being hung over in Palm Beach on New Year’s Day, road trips to Episcopal summer camp, long nights up talking before the Kentucky Derby, those two back-to-back Savannah trips (which one was with Sigma Chi again?), early morning quail hunts, and your high school superlatives (apologies to the real Mrs. Woodrfuff, ykwya — and also, Go Lions). Hey, remember when I fell in love with your brother, and our friendship almost ended? Good times!
They remember snort laughing through three bottles of rosé during what was supposed to be a quick lunch, tearing through Bonnaroo and breaking a new heart every night, dancing at The Commodore, scream-singing “Lochloosa” at Mofro shows, bourbon-soaked social pod dinners during quarantine, opening up a brand new Porsche on Highway ‘98, snorkeling for scallops, diving for lobster, your Lilly Pulitzer phase, your Phish era, sharing the water with grazing manatees in St. Marks, cooking elaborate meals in two-burner kitchens, those “are we gonna be more than friends?” friendships, one million photo shoots and green rooms and restaurant bars, or that one time I had an identity crisis and went to work on an oyster farm in Charleston.
I could go on forever.
All of those people are reading this right now and are still very much in my life and my heart. I would never, ever leave them behind. Are you joking me? Those friendships are some of my greatest accomplishments. There is nothing sadder to me than someone who only has fashion friends. That shit is weird.
I love the new people moving has brought into my life (especially the women!) but the two are not mutually exclusive. If I can get through the hell of planning, I think the best part about my bridal shower and wedding will be having those worlds collide.
That’s what style is, isn’t it? An expression of self? It’s not a good taste contest or a who can take more pictures at parties contest or even a who can spend the most money contest. The people with the best style often have the best lore, and that isn’t a coincidence. Our past informs the person we show the world. This newsletter would completely suck without 19 year old Jess in her Lacoste polos and Sperrys or 25 year old Jess in her Jenna Lyons cosplay glasses or 30 year old Jess in her fly fishing bibbs. So to say I put all of that behind me? Get out of here!
When I feel homesick like this, music helps me go home again. It always transports me, and certain songs act as time capsules. So today, I wanted to send out a playlist and invite you to where I come from. These bands and artists raised me. It’s a playlist of new music with old sounds that are comforting and familiar to me. I made it for myself, but I thought you might like it, too. Gen Z, look away: it’s about to get real millennial up here. Millennials: shuffle it and see if it takes you somewhere.
My New York and LA friends see me all the time now, they know my affection for them. But to all my old friends, from Florida, Georgia, South Carolina, Alabama and beyond, maybe who I haven’t seen in a while: I love you. You’re more a part of my fabric than any fashion show will ever be. Call me.
I leave you with proof of said oyster identity crisis.
as a georgia girl who moved across the country after grad school (roll tide) - this hits close to the heart. i miss the south and my friends and family every day but am also so happy to live somewhere new and different. but damn i wish they cared about SEC football in colorado!
So relatable. I moved to California from Chicago almost 13 years ago… but I’ll never identify as a Californian, and one of my favorite things about me is not being “from here.” You can absolutely hold true to your past, present, and future versions of yourself all at once and don’t let anyone say otherwise.