A few weeks ago, getting dressed to take my kids to a comics festival, I put on a pair of tapered maroon jersey pants. My 10-year-old looked at me and said: “Whoa, I’ve never seen you wear tight pants before!”
They were hardly fitted, but it’s true that I favor my beloved elastic waist, barrel leg Ilana Kohn Abe pants, which make me feel more like myself than any other item of clothing I’ve owned.
It’s taken decades to understand that, for me, comfort and style are intertwined. At elementary school, I had to wear a Catholic school uniform: a stiff green plaid jumper with box pleats over a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar. I didn’t mind it, aesthetically, but it echoed my educational experience: comply, don’t ask questions, fit in.
At the public middle school I attended, I could wear anything. For picture day, I meticulously planned an outfit: a slouchy sunshine yellow turtleneck underneath a blue knee-length acid wash denim jumper, plus matching yellow socks. I looked exactly how I wanted to, and it felt amazing.
I began to covet the graphic patterns of Esprit and bright, intricately knit Benetton sweaters. These garments were joyful and bold, and I liked imagining the artists creating the designs, which seemed to me like collages or paintings.
By high school, my clothes matched my darker moods: oiled black work shoes, Dickies denim overalls and pants, oversized men’s cardigans and corduroy pants from the Salvation Army.
One morning my mother stopped me at the bottom of the stairs.
“I risked my life to have you, to have a girl,” she said. Before I was born, her doctor had advised against a third child because of medical issues. “And for what? For you to dress like an old man boy.”
A new era of experimentation began soon after – one of trying to look like myself, but in more “feminine” and “flattering” garments. In 1996, this meant light linen dresses, Steve Madden slides and Rocket Dog flip-flops, knee-high boots and patent red heels. The aughts brought a constricted decade of low-rise Seven jeans over brightly colored mesh thongs. Try as I might with these items to be “sexy”, I paired them with oversize vintage floral and tie-front blouses – a nod to the clothes of my childhood, bringing vibrancy, texture and whimsy.
Then I rebelled against the dictates of my mom and mainstream style. As a retail worker who spent hours on her feet, I ditched heels and platform shoes, opting for clogs and Crocs. Pattern, color and roominess began to rule my style choices, even as I feared accentuating my big bust, round belly and short legs. After I gave birth to my kids, I spent a solid seven years prioritizing elastic waistbands and easy access to my boobs.
Then around 2018, I started seeing ads for wide-legged, tailored jumpsuits made by Ilana Kohn. Everyone in the photos looked stylish but, more importantly, comfortable and at ease. I could actually see myself in some of the people – short, brown-skinned, with hips! – modeling the clothes. The prices were high, so I waited for a sale and bought one of the brand’s black twill rompers – and wore nothing else for weeks.
That was just the first; I now have over a dozen Ilana Kohn items, new and used. I love the elegant way her designs drape over my body, and the structured yet roomy cuts give me freedom to move as I please.
In September, Kohn announced that she was closing her eponymous brand. Like thousands of fans, I was crushed but took comfort in her words.
after newsletter promotion
“I wanted to make things other women would love. One thing I kept hearing is that our clothes fit really well and made people feel good in their bodies,” Kohn said in an interview. “If I could accomplish helping someone feel good in their own skin, I’ve truly done my job.”
More from Angela Garbes’ Halfway there:
There is now a barrel-legged hole in my life, but I will continue to seek clothing that makes me feel at home. I used to think that “flattering” was whatever clothing made me look thinnest. Now I realize it is what makes me feel most like myself.
In order to clear space for a minor home renovation, my spouse and I are going through long-forgotten boxes and bins. I came across my high school yearbooks and texted a friend my old school photos.
“You look really good – your looks hold up over time in a way ‘Bangs and Perm’ do not,” my friend tells me, referring to the ubiquitous 1990s hairstyle.
“Helps to be Asian/an outsider who felt any attempt to fit in was pointless,” I texted back. I was half-joking, but I knew it was the truth.
My middle school photo was in one of those boxes too. I marveled at it and smiled, knowing that I would still wear that yellow turtleneck and denim jumper today. Evidence, and a gift: I have been who I am all along.