The first time someone told me I didn’t look ‘gay enough’ was the summer after I graduated high school. Looking back on it, they really weren’t that wrong. 

This third-party proclamation of my sexuality was false— and was not the only time my appearance lead those around me to make assumptions about who I like to spend my time in bed with— because I am queer, and I’ve self-identified as such for nearly four years. The way I dressed before, however, didn’t exactly make that outwardly clear. 

In short, I looked like your average, everyday cis straight woman. Not to say that there's anything wrong with slapping on a gray crew neck and sports leggings every morning, I just want to make it clear that my fashion sense was not at all impressive or notable. My taste extended as far as the discount rack at any chain clothing store, and I gave little to no effort into further shaping my style. 

For nearly 12 years, I went to school with the same group of 300 or so kids. My hometown was close-knit, and the people I went to kindergarten with ended up being the ones standing next to me at graduation. This made it almost too easy to maintain the normalcy our heteronormative town brought me—if someone dyed their hair an unnatural color or got a facial piercing, we all noticed and probably didn’t stop talking about it for a week. And if someone got a tattoo? It would elicit at least two social media posts and a lot of comments. Anything outside of the box was either picked apart or not easily forgotten.

At Emerson, everyone seems to wear their sexuality on their sleeve, as they rightfully should. I, however, was hesitant to even tell my first roommate I was attracted to women, and during the start of my internal style battle, I was dating a man. There was no room for me to express whatever internalized confusion, repression, and anxieties I was having about my sexuality through my clothing.  Dressing in a confident, slightly outlandish, and expressive way came in dead last on my list of priorities. Nonetheless, when my queer friends disapproved of my lack of “gay aura,” I figured implementing some minor fashion changes would do nothing but good for me and my adventure towards “outward gayness.”

Two years later, here I sit with a completely revamped wardrobe, long blue hair, bleached eyebrows, seven tattoos, and a nose ring. I’ll admit that, yes, I do feel a lot more comfortable with myself now than I did two years ago. In a way, rethinking the conventionality of my looks has forced me into examining my sexuality; now that I’m “dressing the part,” I’m acting the part, too.  But amid this newfound self-comfort and the serotonin-boosting rush of excitement that comes with getting complimented on my outfit by a stranger on the T, I can’t help but be hyper-aware of the fact that I only changed my look because I felt like I had to. 

Yes, when I get complimented on my style, it feels good. In a way, I feel cleansed; released from the confining walls that box of normalcy I was placed into built around me. No one cares what color my hair is, if any of my jewelry ‘matches,’ or if I wear every single color in my closet at once. My issue lies in this feeling that my fashion change is just a cover-up for some deeply-rooted issues connected to ‘proving’ my sexuality to anyone who might be doubtful of my identity. It’s almost as if I’m presenting a different ‘version’ of myself— a hyper-queer, noticeably ‘different’ woman— even if I’m still the same person that grew up presenting in a totally opposite way. Hello to the joys of outside-world validation, goodbye to any and all sense of self-knowing.

This intersection of fashion and sexuality has slipped into my subconscious, and there it will inevitably stay. I have been convinced that the only way to really claim my sexuality is to show the world who I am— not tell. I’ll no longer be the punchline of heteronormative jokes, the token barbie-doll pin-straight blonde, or the friend who didn’t look her part in a group of proudly queer young adults. And although it was nice to trade in jeggings and volleyball sweatshirts for chic vintage St. Michael sweaters and torn Carhartt cargo pants, I can’t help but think about how I’d look today if I didn’t feel the need to dress the part.