I found myself strolling by the same market stalls for the third time. I was tired and ready to leave to feed my hungry stomach. I had been here before but only once with a local, a friend I made in my photography class. She had said I couldn’t leave the city without having been to the underground vintage market first.  

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I remember that morning as I was getting ready to meet up with my newly made friends, I took a long time deciding what to wear. I guess in retrospect, I felt the pressure of wanting to impress Londoners with their peculiar street-style. I was looking for something to wear that said, “Hey, I, too, belong here.” 

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I folded and unfolded the jammed clothes in my dresser; flipped back and forth through the clothes hanging in my tiny closet with my suitcase stuffed underneath. Nothing but black, white, and grey clothes. I eventually decided on my black cigarette pants with a white tank top tucked in, and for warmth, my grey blazer layered on top of my black cropped hoodie and, of course, my off-white Reeboks. To finish off the look, I put on my black newsboy cap. 

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That afternoon as I looked through the racks of clothes in one of the vintage market booths, I felt self-conscious about every movement that I made. I tried to breathe as quietly as possible. I tried anticipating the way other people shifted through stalls so I wouldn’t get in their way. I didn’t want to take up any unnecessary space.

In the nearly two hours we had spent there, I hadn’t bumped into my friends after we decided to disperse. It felt like I was trapped in a crowded labyrinth or a house of mirrors with each stall selling the same merchandise. 

It wasn’t until I found a small jewelry booth that was wedged in the corner that I hadn’t noticed in my previous rounds. Outside of the stall was a table with a metal stand that had beautiful star-shaped earrings hanging from each slat. There were blue, fuchsia, and red pairs, each with glitter. As I grabbed a red pair, I saw bright orange Nikes approaching me.  

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It was the vendor. He was gazing at me, and so I put them back. It felt like I was doing something bad. Stealing them had never crossed my mind, but the way he looked at me made me feel as if I had just been caught in the act. 

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“Are you all right?” he asked. “You find anything you like?”

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I told him I was only browsing around, that I was okay.

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“Where are you from?” he asked.

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“The States.”

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“Where in the States?”

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“Texas.”

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“Does everyone in Texas only wear black and white?” he asked, smiling. 

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I looked down and examined what I was wearing briefly and exhaled a nervous chuckle. 

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“I saw you looking at the red pair. Why don’t you try them on?” he asked. “We have a small mirror in here.”

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“I don’t think they’re my style.”

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“Is it because they’re not black?” he laughed. I knew he only meant well. I admired how honestly and unapologetically he was being himself. “I think they’re very much your style. I think you’re just used to looking monotonous.”

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“I don’t have anything to wear them with,” I said.

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“Listen,” he said. “If I’ve learned anything in my life is that if I’m not being risky with what I wear, then there’s no point at all. I rather have people look at me and comment on what I’m wearing than be comfortable while I hide in my clothes. You can’t live your life with regrets about what you wore or didn’t wear.” In a city of cold awkwardness, this stranger’s warm sincerity surprised me. It reminded me of the home of my family. “Here,” he said as he handed me the fuchsia star-shaped earrings. “I think these fit you better than the red ones. They’re more you.” As I held the earrings in my cupped hands, they felt like they were glowing – it was magical. 

 

Now, whenever I get ready and open up my jewelry box, I always find myself smiling at my fuchsia star-shaped earrings.