This blog was written by our Global Gap Fellow Geneva Jones.
So. Many. Clothes.
I honestly don’t feel like I have that many clothes. Well, you would probably think I have
a lot, but for a teenage girl with a profound interest in fashion and a job at a luxury consignment
store, I think my closet is quite reasonable. All my shirts fit in one drawer of my dresser, same
with my shorts, same with my pants. I know myself well—I don’t buy things I know I won’t
wear, and I don’t keep things I don’t love.
I began packing a day before I left. Probably not my best move. It’s quite impressive how
I continue to find new and innovative ways to procrastinate in all aspects of my life. What can I
say? I’m a trailblazer! As I began to load the clothes I was bringing into my packing cubes, I
began to face the fact that not everything was going to fit. Uh oh. Three months is a long time to
be away from home, and I wanted to bring the clothes I love and wear regularly with me. My
clothes are extensions of myself, and limiting what I brought felt like limiting who I could be.
As I loaded everything into my giant backpacking backpack and hoisted it onto my back,
I promptly toppled on to my bed. Along with some blossoming back pain, the fact that I was
going to have to leave some things behind became more and more apparent. I took all my
packing cubes out of my backpack and I took a moment considering the contents of each one.
My initial reaction was one of bewilderment. I love all of these clothes, and I know I’m going to
wear them! Why would I not bring something I know I would wear? Reality swiftly set in. Do I
really need 5 different going-out tops? Three pairs of jeans for a city that has temperatures in the
mid-seventies every day? Eight pairs of shoes? The answer was no; I did not need those things.
Maybe I don’t need to bring almost all the clothes I own. I definitely don’t need to bring
almost all the clothes I own. My sense of self is displayed through my fashion, and the clothes I
love are comforting and as familiar as a second skin. Maybe I wasn’t clinging to the clothes
themselves, but rather the comfort and familiarity brought by something well worn and well
loved. These are the garments I choose to represent my identity to everyone before they ever
speak to me. I know the messages they impart on others, and they represent a person with whom
I’m infinitely familiar and comfortable. Leaving home for three months is scary, and maybe I
wanted to bring the comfort of home with me in the best way I knew how.
My goals for my gap year are to reevaluate my values, to look critically at my identity
away from my environment of the last 19 years, to push myself to be more secure in my sense of
self through selflessness and risk-taking. These goals are dauntingly complex, difficult tasks that
will be uncomfortable and unfamiliar. To achieve them, I’m going to need to get used to the
uncomfortable and unfamiliar. If relinquishing my vice-like grip on comfort and familiarity
means only bringing a handful of the clothes I have so carefully cherished and curated, so be it.
