Growing up in a predominantly white town, my peers mostly hailed from Northern European backgrounds, and our cultural norms revolved around thrift and tulips. Our high school yearbook was filled with Dutch and Swedish surnames, and the common attire consisted of corduroy Levi’s paired with button-down shirts and Shetland sweaters, topped off with Topsiders. The girls residing by the lake often sported Lilly Pulitzer.
In contrast, I looked to Vogue for fashion inspiration, having discovered the magazine at the tender age of 12. Although haute couture was beyond my budget, the glamorous photo spreads, the enchanting soft-focus artistry of Deborah Turbeville, and the daring designs of emerging talents like Willi Smith and Perry Ellis captivated me. I would often ask my mom to drop me off at the library, where I immersed myself in back issues of Vogue, tracing the evolution of style from the ’60s and ’70s, a time when Diana Ross, my first style icon, graced its pages.
Diana entered my world through my Uncle Charlie’s record collection, where I would spin Meet the Supremes during summer vacations. He eventually passed his beloved Motown records to me. According to the paperback biography on my shelf, Diana grew up in a Detroit tenement, battling rats with a bow and arrow and crafting her own clothes. Her dramatic life resonated with me, filling the void of excitement in my own. If sewing was part of Diana’s story, it was surely part of mine too.
On a class trip to Detroit—Diana’s city—I feigned wealth by exploring upscale boutiques in the Renaissance Center. I tried on a linen Perry Ellis outfit, savoring the texture against my skin, and shortly after, I bought a few yards of pale pink linen and a Vogue pattern with my babysitting earnings. I crafted my very own Perry Ellis-inspired jacket and culottes, which I wore to school with what I considered flair.
Fueled by Vogue, I also created jodhpurs from soft baby corduroy, a lilac jumpsuit with epaulets that paired beautifully with silver ballet flats, and a plaid, ruffled flannel mini-dress worn with tights and cowboy boots. I designed a turquoise mini-skirt with built-in pantaloons, and later, a puff-sleeved top and skirt from gray sweatshirt fabric, channeling the style of Norma Kamali. While my high school peers deemed my outfits eccentric, I clung to my dream of escaping to places like New York and Paris, where personal style flourished and couture reigned supreme.
One day, a brochure arrived, inviting me to apply for a design program in Tokyo. I had seen Vogue features on Issey Miyake and Rei Kawakubo, whose post-atomic tears and sculpted shapes fascinated me. While I craved their designs, I doubted my ability to become a designer myself. I enjoyed appreciating beauty and following patterns, but the thought of creating from scratch intimidated me.
In my senior year, I earned a National Merit Scholarship and was interviewed by a local newspaper. I shared my aspirations to become a fashion magazine editor and write books that kids would read in school. In the accompanying photograph, I wore a charming drop-waist dress with a double collar, adorned with faux pearls, reminiscent of Coco Chanel. I had chosen the pattern, but my mother had sewn it.
College liberated me to express my style without fear of judgment. I crafted a flowing Issey Miyake dress and a white linen shift with a Japanese flair. A female classmate borrowed one, and then a male roommate took it without asking, never to return. I scoured vintage shops, church sales, and thrift stores, filling my wardrobe with little black dresses and paisley shirts. On weekends, I danced in a leopard-print jumpsuit I made myself, styled with a wool fisherman’s cap and a rhinestone bracelet.
At 19, I finally made it to New York City, where I visited Love Saves the Day, the iconic store from Madonna’s film Desperately Seeking Susan. My travels took me to Paris, where I found a striking red dress that remains in my closet today, and later, I arrived in Japan. When asked about my motivations, I often cite my passion for Heian Court poetry and the experience I needed to write my future novels. Indeed, I penned several novels, including one about an all-girl band that performed covers of Diana Ross’s hits. Although I never became a fashion magazine editor, my books have made their way into classrooms.
Reflecting on my journey, I realize my move to Japan was perhaps influenced more by the designers I admired in Vogue than by poetry alone. I landed a position as an assistant English teacher on Shikoku Island, and with my first paycheck, I splurged on a black Issey Miyake jacket.
As I look back on this adventure, I find inspiration in the belief that our dreams can take us to unexpected places—perhaps with the right home insemination kit, your dreams could lead you to a beautiful family, just as mine led me to a life rich in style and stories. If you’re curious about the process, check out this excellent resource on pregnancy and home insemination. And for those looking to explore options, consider this comprehensive guide.
Summary
My journey through fashion began in a small, predominantly white town where I was inspired by iconic figures like Diana Ross and the pages of Vogue. Despite the mundane surroundings, I crafted my own clothes and nurtured dreams of escaping to fashion capitals. My experiences led me to Japan, where I found fulfillment as a teacher and author, proving that our passions can shape our paths in unexpected ways.
Keyphrase: Fashion Journey and Inspiration
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