I once caught my reflection in my parents’ bathroom mirror: a pair of high-waist women’s jeans sculpted to fit like a second skin, a sharply tailored blazer, a glossy patent clutch nestled confidently beneath my arm, and pointy-toe loafers tapping assertively on the hardwood floor. I laughed out loud—not because the look faltered in execution but because the boy who had grown up within those very walls would have never dared to wear it. And yet now, with every return to my hometown in Germantown, Maryland, I arrive dressed not simply with style but with purposeful intention.
In high school, I leaned into a preppy aesthetic: button-downs layered under sweaters, crisp chinos, boat shoes that said just enough but never too much. It was polished, acceptable, and, most importantly, safe. I admired fluid silhouettes and bold flourishes from afar, but I feared that softness—too bright, too queer, too loud—would cost me something I wasn’t yet ready to pay.
I still remember the first time I dressed like me in my hometown. I wore high-waist women’s jeans, a slim-fitting knit top, and boots that clicked with every step. It wasn’t for anything major—just a family function—but the stares told me everything I needed to know. Older generations scanned me from head to toe, their expressions unreadable but heavy with judgment. Some of the men looked confused, others a little uncomfortable. No one said anything directly, but their silence was its own kind of commentary. In that moment, I realized this look wasn’t just fashion; it was a boundary pushed, a version of myself revealed. I know I’m not alone in that experience—of showing up in a space that once made you shrink, now dressed in something that demands you be seen.
Joce Blake, a fashion editor and writer, cultivated her distinctive flair in Memphis. The choice stood in contrast to the muted neutrals and traditional silhouettes favored by her peers. “Memphis had its own style code—think southern belles in polished neutrals and classic silhouettes—but I was always drawn to bolder choices that pushed beyond that mold,” she says. “I knew I’d be talked about. But I also knew I looked good.” Raised by women, Blake’s style flourished within the safety of her home, but school presented a different set of expectations. “Fashion was an extension of my spirit,” she reflects, “even if it meant serving time in in-school suspension.”
Rodney Williams, stylist and founder of Closet Six, found his style journey through sports in Burlington City, New Jersey. “My early relationship with fashion was expressed through athletics—rare Jordans, modified uniforms, wristbands that matched my mood. Confidence on the field mirrored confidence in my look.” Though he admired daring fashion choices on others, he lacked courage because he feared the kind of scrutiny that came with standing out as a young Black boy in a conservative environment. Then came the DIY era: jeans distressed by hand, repurposed pieces turned editorial. Friends laughed. Months later, they imitated. That was the shift.
“Returning home now is humbling,” Williams explains. “People knew me as an athlete, but they now see the layers—stylist, entrepreneur, storyteller.” For him, clothes are only the surface. The deeper revelation is identity. “What I wear, and how I help others dress, has created conversations about self-presentation, style in sports, and Black expression in the fashion space. That’s what matters.”
In New Orleans, fashion and beauty editor Robyn Merrett’s early style education came in the form of Sunday bests and debutante gowns. Raised Baptist, she had a church wardrobe of bishop dresses, bows in her hair, and diamond earrings that sparkled beneath stained-glass light. When it came time to select her debutante gown, she resisted the glittering, over-the-top options. “I wanted something classic, something that felt like me,” she recalls. “Fashion has always been such a central part of who I am.”
For Jodie Taylor, who grew up in a small, predominantly white suburb in Massachusetts with Jamaican Christian parents, fashion once felt like a tool for assimilation. “The unspoken dress code was head-to-toe prep—polos, cardigans, boat shoes,” she says. Even her first job at Abercrombie reinforced a preppy uniformity. She admired bold fashion through magazines and Tumblr but feared becoming a spectacle in her hometown. “I wasn’t afraid of style,” she explains, “but I was cautious about visibility.” Now, returning home in expressive, feminine silhouettes feels both freeing and complex. “There’s power in being fully expressed in the same place I once muted myself,” she says. “People still clock me when I walk into certain rooms, but I don’t shrink anymore. What people see now is the result of giving myself permission.”
Rachel Bell, who grew up in Birmingham, Alabama, says her relationship with fashion came with boundaries—especially outside the house. “If it looked like I might be ‘too grown,’ it wasn’t happening,” she says. In a city where style often leans traditional—polished, matching sets, natural makeup—Bell’s layered looks and fearless accessorizing have always set her apart. “I mastered the art of the outfit change real early,” she jokes. Over time, her personal style became a mashup of influences: her mom’s closet, TV shows, moods. Now, she describes her aesthetic as “a well-dressed identity crisis that somehow works.” Friends hype her up to go bolder, while her mom gently suggests she tone it down. “But I’ve never heard anyone say I can’t dress, at least not to my face,” she adds. “And if someone did? I’d probably ask for a slideshow and bullet points.”
Both Taylor and Bell have messages for those still finding their voice in places that lack room for self-expression: “You’re not too much,” Taylor says. “You’re just ahead of your time. Fashion is proof of self-trust.” Bell adds, “Your location doesn’t limit your imagination. If it ruffles feathers, let it. Be a disruptor.”
For each of us, style is a memory, a meaning, a reclamation, and a resistance. Dressing up when I return is no longer about eliciting reactions; it’s about honoring the version of me who once had to hide. It is a gesture of self-compassion, a nod to the boy who watched runway shows on mute, dreaming of the day he could wear what he loved out loud. And yes, people notice. Some smile with curiosity, some linger longer than necessary. Like the time I wore a jumpsuit and got a ton of compliments but just as many side-eyes. If you see me gliding through my hometown in clothes that aren’t on trend, know this: It’s not just an outfit. It’s a manifesto, a love letter, and a homecoming.