More than the professors I met or the student/teacher ratio, more than the save-the-world slogan or the small-town feel, even more, perhaps, than the ultra-hippie-liberal reputation, what first drew me to Oberlin was the style.

Three years ago, when I arrived on campus as a prospie, I was greeted by mohawks and jerry-curls, vintage western boots and short-healed pumps circa 1950; green stockings and tired leg warmers; a rainbow of thrift skirts penciled and flared; dresses a-line and empire, hour-glass and mermaid, in floral prints, wide stripes and quarter-sized polka dots; sun-shades from every era and thick plastic glasses—horn-rimmed to exaggerated cats-eye—worn as badges of pride; Chanel-red lipstick and faces without make-up; breasts without bras and feet without shoes; dread-locks without religious implications and fashion without gender.

I was envious. I was ecstatic. I was in shock. Never had I seen such a clash-happy variety of clothing eras, patterns and trends together in a single location, except, perhaps, my closet, but even those pieces of my collection which I considered most bizarre, most daring, and most-likely to elicit the ostracism of my small-town-Ohio peers paled in comparison to the brazen creativity and self-expressive nonchalance of the scene before me. I glanced down at my fake-snake boots and thought: I could be normal here. And normal I was.

I became so intimidated by the fashion-extremes in my midst that my first few months at Oberlin I suffered from what could be labeled fashion-block. Not only that, but I was still too broke to shop at the bead-store basement.

Humbled by my sudden transition from standing out in the land of Abercrombie zombies to standing in the same pair of sneakers owned by four other girls in my dorm, I sucked it up and began to look around. I was not alone: eight out of ten kids I passed on my way to King were clad in T-shirts and jeans, my friends shopped at stores like Old Navy, Urban Outfitters and Sears, and those guys in my dorm who seemed to have fallen out of GoodWill were not attempting irony, but settling into ennui.

These kids were NOT hippies, NOT hipsters, not any identifiable breed of fashionista; they were just doing their own thing. As far as our attire was concerned, I decided, most of us were normal. We were simply co-existing with a brightly-clad few. Since then I’ve set my apparel-anxiety aside and come into my own. Some days I go all out and flaunt the sparkliest, pinkest thing in my closet like I’m the prettiest princess in Tappan, while on others I’m content to lounge in jeans and an over-sized tee.

But not everyone is so calm about the state of their wardrobe: I recently over-heard a girl in Birkenstocks, tye-dyed skirt and a white tank lamenting the pressure she felt to “dress-up” on a daily basis. This prompted me to re-examine the fashion intimidation I felt as a first-year and wonder if it wasn’t, after all, warranted. Is Oberlin, as on and off-campus publications often tout, a fashion haven for ironic consumers and the hemp-friendly? Or are we normal, t-shirt loving college-kids hidden behind—and occasionally intimidated by—a dazzling stereotype? Does the myth of Oberlin style bear any truth?

In a way, evidence suggests both that campus style has been consistent and diverse, over time: the flailing first-years I encountered as a prospie are now seniors, and the fashion demi-gods I first spied on campus have mostly graduated, yet the staples—stiletto pumps, dreadlocks, excessive accessorizing—remain all-too-present, and last spring I heard a visiting alum comment that students dress the same today as they did when she graduated in the early ’90s.

Even the “normal” kids on campus are far from fashion-bland. Drop any random Obie in J-Crew uniformed suburbia, and he or she would turn a few heads. So, while not every Obie in the bubble fits the blurb in Hipster Handbook, the presence of those that do lighten the atmosphere just enough for the rest of us to don the occasional eye-patch with pride.

Which makes this community ripe for commentary on all things we wear, a need I believe will be best met in the form of weekly rants on the most prevelent to the most puzzling Obie trends, written by yours truly, aided by the suggestions of you and my dearest friends.
 
 

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