It was August 2008 and no one was traveling—except my family, it seemed. We were jetting off to Italy to celebrate my mom's birthday. On the plane I lay out on my stretch of three seats, in jeans I'd borrowed from my brother under the guise of comfort, a cheap fleece airline blanket thrown over my head as I discreetly watched pre-downloaded episodes of The L Word on my click-wheel iPod. Below, in the luggage compartment, awaited a selection of hideous shorts I had packed for the trip: a particularly memorable olive pair that was more like two tubes that draped down to my knees (with removable matching suspenders, naturally), multicolored pastel-hued plaid roll-up khakis, and silky basketball-style ones that were hopelessly large, no matter how tight I tied the waistband. These were my lesbian summer clothes.
That was the first summer I felt confident—not necessarily proud, per se, but self-assured—in my identity. Yet I was terrified (and rightly so, at the time) to tell nearly anyone. At that point, the select people I had come out to had no connection to my family or my high school friends, a privilege curated via extracurricular activities and summer enrichment programs. Travel away from home involved planned outfits that felt more like costumes. I’d hope they would announce who I was by lazily copying from a random archetype of what a lesbian looked like, so I wouldn’t have to come out with words. The words were much scarier than a pair of ugly shorts. Multiple pairs, really.
I wanted to immerse myself in lesbian culture, whatever that was. But outside of the canon of L Word episodes I illegally downloaded, some coming-out-themed novels borrowed from the library, and maybe a sitcom cameo by a stereotypical lesbian foil character, I had no idea what being a lesbian meant, culturally. In my 17 years, I had yet to encounter a lesbian in real life (that I knew of). Instead I ignorantly believed outdated tropes regarding women who liked women. I had no concept of femme-ness or butchness or queerness or self-awareness, so I didn’t realize that I, who had always been a leader and fiercely independent, didn’t need to mimic—or, truthfully, mock—my concept of lesbian stereotypes to be a lesbian myself.
Queer, feminine women are better represented than ever before in the media. In shows like Younger, The Bold Type, and Vida, lesbian and bisexual characters dress like their straight counterparts, demonstrating to the masses that there’s no singular way to look like a lesbian. Still, the concept of femme invisibility—that feminine-presenting women are often perceived as straight because we don’t match the cultural schema of what a lesbian looks like—is very much prevalent. Even now, and especially a decade ago, recognizing queerness is impossible when we resort to certain archetypes.
My summer of lesbian shorts was studded with polo shirts (sometimes, yes, multiple worn at the same time, layered in one outfit), weird hats, and rainbow-ish accoutrements—any accessories I felt would communicate the identity I was too frightened to speak out loud. I would wear khakis with lacy tank tops, horrible cut-off yet somehow just-above-the-knee jean shorts (maybe they were capris?) with men’s undershirts. I was exploring a new part of the world as a new self—or the same self, but with a fresh exterior, open and hopeful for people to understand me.
I felt good in my lesbian shorts. I was not yet an adult, and my abilities for self-expression were limited to what I could (a) buy in babysitting cash and (b) not be completely obvious about. Cutting or dyeing my hair, getting piercings and tattoos, or wearing anything obviously gay (like a Pride T-shirt) were all strictly banned. Too creative, self-determined, and honestly desperate for some type of visibility or affirmation, I found that my knee-grazing khaki shorts became the wardrobe item that said, “Hey world, I’m gay!” without spelling it out across the butt of a pair of Soffe shorts. In reality I was just an awkward, spoiled, poorly dressed teenager sweating through a Jewish-themed tour of the Colosseum because I needed to wear those horrendous leg tubes and look like a lesbian—something that, I knew, was fiercely forbidden.
Fast-forward to my first year of college. I quickly formed a tight-knit trio with two other dorm mates—one a Young Republican, the other a free spirit fresh off her gap year. Both were quite different from me but, on the surface, very alike: feminine presenting, Jewish, bookish. These two didn’t react when I brought a woman home from a frat party; they were supportive and interested in attending queer events, not to gawk, but to be there for me. Their lack of judgment taught me about allyship. We instantly bonded.
Soon enough we were running our outfits by each other before every outing, swapping clothes, commiserating over our small dorm-room closets. I lugged several duffel bags filled with clothes to college. There was no lack of options to choose from. Yet my friends only wanted to know what lesbian clothes were, especially when they’d be attending queer events by my side. Lesbian Clothes, of course, didn’t exist—something I was slowly starting to relearn as I embraced my own style and new life in New York City. But, jokingly, the term became essential to our little clique: My collection of tight black tank tops I’d been told all women in college needed multiples of, tiny sequined dresses, and designer jeans purchased at Brooklyn thrift shops all received the esteemed moniker of Lesbian Clothes as I shed my deep-pocketed khakis and began to figure out what I actually enjoyed wearing.
I'm celebrating my 11th summer in New York—of navigating through subway cars with failed air conditioning, shilling for overpriced artisanal ice cream that promises temporary sweet reprieve from the heat, avoiding garbage bags leaking out trash soup. I’m wearing an all-white jumpsuit, like the type of person who can wear an all-white jumpsuit and definitely not stain it with salsa on one leg and tinted lip balm on the other. I still think about my shorts a lot, and about the summer of 2008, when I electively moved here alone. I wasn’t poorly dressed because I didn’t care—it was because I cared too much. I was trying to tell a story through the oversized pockets, masculine shirts, and ill-fitting shorts. It wasn’t me, but it was a version of me that was trying to come into its own.
I still wear shorts, of course. But now my "lesbian shorts" look a little different—light pink ones (a gift from my wife!), denim cutoffs, tiny pull-up jacquard-pattered shorts that aren’t necessarily stylish but are cozy…. I’m reflecting what I like to wear and what I feel good in, not projecting some exaggerated version of someone I’m not. Still, when I leave the house in my Lululemon tennis shorts, Tegan and Sara concert T-shirt thrown on, hair pulled back under a backward Yankees cap, I’ll smile at a nod of recognition I get from a tattooed woman in a Sleater Kinney tee holding hands with her partner. I don’t notice her shorts.
Melissa Kravitz is a writer based in New York City. Follow her at @melissabethk on both Instagram and Twitter.
