Garbage Bags: The Cyclical Nature of Fashion

Garbage bags are very direct in their purpose. A mode of transportation for trash, they serve as smoke screens that whisk away the waste we don’t wish to deal with anymore. This definition holds up only partially in my experience. Trash bags remove hindrances, but as a child I received them with the joy of presents on Christmas morning. Under all-consuming poverty, one man’s trash is a 9-year-old’s treasure. 

Every couple of months, my mom’s church friend, Zora, would pull into our driveway in her scuffed 2008 Audi with its overflowing trunk. By the time she popped it open, I’d be by her side and ready to carry the trash bags inside, my rusty front door swinging shut behind me. 

Once my mom and I completed our two back-and-forth trips, my mom would carefully untie the hefty bags, and my little treasures would come tumbling out: medium-waist bootcut jeans, blue Juicy Couture sweatsuits and oversized “I Heart San Fran” jackets. In her job as a house cleaner, Zora took out the trash in Calabasas, and I still wear those throwaways with a scavenger’s sense of pride. 

When you’re younger, it's much easier to understand that clothing cycles through you, and not the other way around. Every owner breathes life and character into fabric, and that added personality doesn’t wash out. Every skirt I pulled out of a black trash bag had something to say. Every pair of leggings had a point to prove. 

My favorite articles of clothing were always the ones that I knew would outlive me. They had seen the ‘70s, ‘80s and ‘90s, followed my grandmother from Bosnia to Serbia, to Germany, Greece and Egypt. My grandmother’s camel-colored coats are lined with satin and the stories of cities after midnight. When she tossed me items from her massive closet, I embodied her, donning her clothing and her courage. When these treasured pieces traveled home with me to Los Angeles, I wanted nothing more than to further their story. I imagined how they could grow with me, what stories they could whisper to my cousins and friends after I had nothing more to tell. 

The oldest piece I own is a black velvet coat, which often feels like a second skin. It molded onto me when my grandmother first whispered stories intended only for my ears, a parting gift for her first grandchild heading permanently toward America. It retells me those stories whenever I forget. I weave through Northwestern carrying the knowledge it holds: which cut of fish is best (meat closest to the tail) and how to pack your whole life into a small suitcase. 

So many unspoken secrets are woven into the shawls my grandmother has gifted me. 

It’s not just the antique, expensive items that get to live on. Almost every piece I’ve ever owned has a unique ability to transcend the realm of clothing and gain utility in other ways. 

For this reason, I don’t think I’ve ever bought a rag. 

I’ve used my dad’s old t-shirts, huge white masses with mismatching holes, to wipe up juice spills and dishwasher leaks. I’ve laid them down as padding while painting, and they turned purple and green from the runoff of color. 

I went through stockings quicker than socks when I was little. They had jarring runs from toe to thigh within weeks, and they were too ruined for Sunday service. But every spring, my mom dug into my closet and pulled out the messy pile. She then sent my brothers and I out into the backyard to scavenge small leaves and blades of grass. She pressed the greens tightly onto an egg and wrapped it like a present within the stocking. I sometimes helped, holding the stocking as she tied the egg with a little string. This is how your great-grandmother made Easter eggs. Nothing was ever without another purpose. 

As an 8-year-old ballerina, I acquired my favorite dress. It was made of glittery white tulle with a sparkly crown to match. My second favorite dress was a floor-length purple gown covered in flowers, which I wore almost religiously when I was 12. Both dresses are oceans away now, hanging in the closets of my little godsisters. Despite the distance, I know they’re cared for, just as I’ve loved every piece that has passed through me.