Senior Spotlight:

Favorite winter break memories?/Favorite holiday activities?

Every Christmas Eve, my family and I used to bake cookies but we are REALLY bad at making cookies so we stopped doing that. It was for the best, they were really terrible, but now we make chocolate-covered strawberries every year!

At what age did you stop believing in Santa and why/what happened?

According to my mom, I never stopped? Because pretty much my parents and my family have always told us, “If you don’t believe in Santa, you don’t get gifts” so there was never any real a-ha! moment for me. I think I just kind of started to figure it out after I realized I wasn’t able to stay up late on Christmas, but any other night I was allowed to.

Favorite cheesy joke?

WHO’S JOE? I can’t even say it. Every time somebody says Joe now I forget how to function.

College Essay

I can’t stand the dimness of these ceiling lights, I complain, one flickering on and off as if it’ll go out any second. I survey the aisles looking for anything close to what’s “in”. I leave with two items in my bag, eager to get out of there. Now, the handles of my plastic bags rip from the weight every trip. Thrifting began as a way for me to save money on clothes, but with time, my weekly trails into the Salvation Army unveiled my appreciation for originality.

Following no specific path, I chase my empty cart through the aisles of the store. My eyes scan the racks, admiring the wide variety of clothing. Each time they focus themselves on a blouse with an interesting pattern, a pair of jeans whose wash screams the 90s, or a tee shirt with a snarky slogan, I end up needing a bit more strength to push the cart along. The hangers practically guide my hand to the pieces draped upon them. In no time, my cart is filled to the brim with clothes from each section of the store… and that’s only the first round.

Before I discovered the thrift store, I lived at the mall, specifically in Forever 21. However, despite my frequent visits, it took me hours to find clothes I liked. “You’re too picky,” my father said. But one day, a study of the store’s layout caused me to experience an epiphany. Forever 21 pushes two or three standards of style for girls my age, and as customers we’re expected to get in where we fit in. But what happens when the clothes you like to wear don’t fit exactly into any of the three categories? All of this time, I had been searching for clothes that felt most like me stylistically, in places that did not warrant me the liberty to do so. This realization led me to appreciate the authenticity of thrift stores. Clothing in there is genuinely there to be just that: clothing.

The once-dim atmosphere of the thrift store now evokes my creativity. As soon as the low ring of the shopkeeper’s bell sounds behind me, I become hyper-focused upon my surroundings, paying attention to detail. I notice the spot of warmth lingering on the metal door handle. I pause to admire the beam of sunlight washing through the window into the clear display, twinkling a crystal bracelet before landing softly onto the clouded marble tiling. As my awareness heightens, I dismiss expectations of the types of clothing expected of me to wear. I walk in with an open mind, reminding myself that I like what I like, no matter what. I am no longer establishing society’s wardrobe; I am establishing my own.

Thrifting helped me discover my appreciation for having my own personal style, independent of the 3 options presented to me by Forever 21. Though minuscule, my thrifting journeys have offered me a liberating perspective on the world. As a black teenager in a diverse school community, it’s easy to feel restricted personality-wise. I’ve gotten so used to people seeing me and writing their own versions of who I should be, assigning me an entire backstory, wardrobe, set of likes and dislikes, music taste. To have regained control over even just one of those things changed my life. After having my personality characterized by my race throughout high school, I finally began to realize that I am actually capable of defining my own personality. The constant worrying about who the people around me thought I was drained me emotionally. Deep down, I knew I was much more than just a black girl. I knew I didn’t have a bad temper. I knew that I loved to thrift, dance, learn. Thrifting taught me that was all okay, because they made me myself. For the first time ever, I recognized the beauty in my own individualism.