These things sneak up on you. One day you’re all about that vintage jacket that looks like a face (when done up) because it stands out, because it’s ‘art,’ because it acts as a conversation starter. The next you’re shopping in the ‘Men’s Big & Tall’ section of OldNavy.com because only they have the sweaters that let you hide good and deep within protective polyester and cotton blends. 

I had just locked my door and walked out into the hallway of my building, pausing in front of the mirror to put my toque on just right. “You look crazy,” gawked my best friend as she gaged my outfit in the mirror. It was mid-February and it was no time to let the harsh conditions outside touch the delicate skin that lay buried under hats, scarves, and coats — I took a step back and looked in the mirror again: where was I?

The ‘one size fits all’ H&M for Margiela coat, my prized possession from a lucky pre-shop, hid every angle of me from my neck down past my knees. My knit circle scarf, the biggest I could find (of course), did its job of covering me from the neck up, at least until it met an equally oversized toque. With my short hair tucked into my scarf and hat, and little other indication of anything feminine adorning me, I certainly looked androgynous to say the least. In fact, it went beyond that– not a man, not yet a woman, more likely a walking laundry monster sans the stench (or with the stench, I can’t really smell me.)

We entered the elevator, and I heard a snap. Thanks for the picture, BFF. When she turned her phone around to show me the result, all I could make out that belonged to me were the ends of eyelashes poking out from underneath the garments that seemed to have eaten me whole. When we reached the ground floor, I stopped in front of another mirror, “Do I really look crazy?” 

“Yes,” she didn’t miss a beat with her reply.

“How crazy?”

“You look homeless.” I tend to disagree with my dear friend’s analysis, mostly because not all homeless people are crazy and vice versa, but I’m just being difficult since I understand what she was trying to say. The clothing I tend to wear looks as though it could double as a home, that’s how big it is. I saw a size 10XL t-shirt on Instagram the other day and I felt jealous of the poster, then the urge to track it down and make it mine (/my home) — that’s how big I’m talking.

It wasn’t always this way. There was a ‘before’ time, when clothes fit and garments weren’t sought after for their immensity, but then I moved back to Toronto. I had spent 3 blissful years in the safety net that was Kingston, Ontario. Walking around the ‘student ghetto,’ seeing people you know at every turn, constantly feeling comfortable and at home — I was completely clueless to the culture shock I would experience upon my return to Toronto.

I left the city for Queen’s University when I was 17. I came back with some adult-like experiences under my belt at the age of 20, not quite a full-blown person, but certainly further along than the child that left for her freshman year. I had spent summers in Toronto, but it was different moving back here, to live in the city as I did in Kingston. I had visions of living downtown and walking everywhere, making Toronto my backyard as I had made Kingston, but little did I know there were those that would stand in my way.

Waiting at Spadina Station for the train doors to close, a group of us girls were going to a bar in the West End. I wore vintage, as had been my penchant for years since it did the talking for me. I may not have much to say (to some people), but when your top’s a mix of electric blue faces or your skirt is a sequined argyle print then the conversation is directed towards that, and you can breathe easy having survived another episode of small talk. In this case, he walked on right as the chick sitting next to me made a comment on my shirt.

“So, you like vintage?” He had put all his attention on me, leaning in nice and close so I could practically smell the lack of shampoo in his too long, grey locks. I tried to converse as pleasantly as possible considering my serious aversion to TTC strangers, and then he started shouting. Yelling. Screaming. Hollering. I don’t even know what about anymore, but I do remember that some men sitting across from us helped out by forcibly removing him. I still see him almost every time I’m at Spadina Station — and that’s not overly dramatic trauma talking, he’s always there.

That was the first incident that really stuck with me. It shook me up far more than I expected it to, and I couldn’t believe that something like a stranger getting heated in public transport would affect me so. Unfortunately, it didn’t get easier for me with every TTC trip or walk home in the evening, it got harder. With every man (I’m sorry, but they were always men) that called me a bitch when I ignored him, or that would follow me into the TTC, or one specific instance when a guy hiding around the corner popped out as I walked by to grab my arm to do who knows what with it/me, I became more and more skittish to the point that I didn’t want to leave my apartment.

I received some flack for how I reacted to these situations, perhaps I succumb to anxiety too easily, but it was beyond being nervous or scared to go outside, I was tired. I was tired of trying to figure out how to deal with someone so a catcall wouldn’t turn into a sling of insults and threats. It was tiring to learn that sometimes the best bet was to smile and nod when a stranger on the street tells you they’d like to take you home. It was tiring to see how these aggressors would move from woman to woman as they spread their vile brand of sleaze.

Then I realized the pattern. The women being approached stood out. Not necessarily due to their attractiveness or age, but because they were carrying themselves or dressed in a way that drew attention. It wasn’t just the short skirts and low necklines that were on the receiving end of unwanted attention, but those that dressed in a manner that seemed fashion-forward or alternative, and the women that walked around with their personality and confidence on their sleeve. Perhaps it took me too long to crack that code, but for years I saw my outlandish way of dressing as a means to face small talk at parties or the like, but that tactic wouldn’t work here.

That’s when I started collecting the pieces that would make up the hobo-chic chapter of my personal style journey. It didn’t happen overnight, but at this point I’m in deep. The people at the Old Navy website definitely think I’m quite a large guy, and if you were to run into me on the street in that coat of mine, you may think the same thing too. The search for bigger and bigger and bigger clothing is now second nature for me. Friends and family I shop with are well acquainted with my catch phrase, “Always the biggest size.” My best friend knows to only borrow clothing from the ‘Queen’s’ section of my wardrobe as to not show up to work swimming in whatever it may be.

Now I can weave through the streets with ease. I can make it all the way through a TTC trip without my heart beating right out of my chest, because I’m no longer approached. I can go outside again. But I do so at a price. I may have tricked myself into thinking this new style of dress is just me, but it’s not — it was molded by my environment. I have learned that if I am as hidden as possible when I’m out then there’s no allure, no want or need to approach me.

I realize that, in a way, I have let them win. They were able to affect me, to change me– but for now it’s my defense mechanism. 

____ 

Hallae Khosravi is an intern at Toronto Standard. Follow her on Twitter @hallaek. 

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