Dear fashion thinkers,
I’ve been obsessing for at least a couple of weeks now with memories of the first fashion history conference I attended as a Ph.D. student back in 2018. In a way, the conference felt like a rite of passage because I could finally introduce myself as a Ph.D. student after having dreamed about it for years! It was also the first time I went to Switzerland and no less than to one of the most spectacular centers for textile research in the world. And I got to meet some of my favorite fashion scholars—so I was totally thrilled!
But it was also one of the most traumatic experiences of my life. (And not exactly because of what happened in the conference.)
During our pre-conference dinner, I was told with an almost childish excitement that someone was joining from Colombia. When I replied that it must be myself, I was told it couldn’t possibly be. I just didn’t look or sound Colombian enough.
By that point, I’d been living in the United States for long enough to realize that I don’t look like your stereotypical Latina: my skin is too fair, my body too thin, and my manners too “polished” for that. I’d also heard enough wild guesses about where my accent is from, ranging from France to Australia, but curiously never a South American country. And I’d been met with surprise when I told people that I’m born and bred in Colombia. But I’d never been told that I just couldn’t be Colombian because I didn’t fit the stereotype in someone else’s mind.
Curiously, this whole idea of who I am and what discussions I have the right to participate in because I look—or don’t look—Colombian enough was reignited on social media a couple weeks ago.
For some reason I don’t yet understand, I was brave enough to leave a comment on an Instagram Reel about a dress that Meghan Markle wore to her visit to Colombia. Designed by Colombian Andrés Otálora, the dress was a body-hugging specimen with large, green leaves printed on an off-white background. Like many other pieces created by Colombian brands of international acclaim, the dress embraced a stereotypical tropical aesthetic that often features exotic motifs, colorful designs, and sensual silhouettes.
This stereotypical Latin American fashion aesthetic privileges an outsider (and colonialist) view of the region as an unexplored land of natural bounty readily available for foreigners to exploit and benefit from. More importantly—or should I say dangerously?—this stereotype flattens, and perhaps even erases, the true diversity of Latin American culture, artistic practices, and design identities.
And yet, many brands (and people) choose to embrace it because it’s a way of selling and, in turn, benefiting from a global economic system that we just can’t avoid or escape from. (Isn’t this also why I’ve chosen to write mostly in English and assimilate into US hegemonic culture as much as I can?)
But there’s one tiny detail about the dress that still perplexes me: its name. Titled “joya colonial” (colonial jewel), the dress was not just a representation of a stereotypical Colombian fashion identity; it was a full celebration of colonialism and Colombia’s colonial past.
And what I found most troubling was that Meghan Markle, someone who’s praised for being so self-aware of her fashion practices, chose to wear this one dress to attend a festival that celebrates Black culture and resistance—even after centuries of colonialism and oppression—in Colombia.
But when I made this remark on Instagram, I was dismissed because it was “just” the name of a dress or Meghan surely didn’t know about such a “trivial” detail. Then came the statements about national and racial identity: the designer is Colombian, so his design practices can’t be colonialist; or I look white, like “a colonizer’s kid” (someone said) so I’m the only one exerting colonialism here.
You probably guess that I have (way too many) things to say. But I’ll stick to three.
First, that a Colombian designer—or Latin American, for that matter—can in fact engage in colonialist attitudes and dynamics through their fashion practices. This happens, for example, when they perpetuate hegemonic industry standards, unfair labor practices, and replicate dominant hierarchies in their storytelling and communications strategies (including, of course, the names of dresses, collections, and campaigns).
Second, that because Latin America has faced more than 500 years of Western European colonization and the Indigenous population was almost entirely eradicated within the first decades of invasion, a lot of us look more “white” than you’d expect us to. This apparent “whitening” of the Latin American population is also part of a strategy called mestizaje, centered on the myth of a gloriously mixed race to justify the eradication of people of color that began in the colonial period and lives until today.
And third, that in fashion every detail matters—starting with the name of a dress.
Unfortunately, there’s way too much to unpack here, so I just can’t get to it today. It would require at least a book or two to start getting there but, luckily (and unexpectedly) this social media backlash has also fed my research as I try to develop a new research project precisely on the politics of national identity, as expressed through fashion, around the globe. So I’m calling it divine providence and I’ll definitely report back when I have more news about it!
For now, I’ll just say that as I continue to explore the close relationship between fashion, race, colonialism, and identity and try to ease back into the school year (and fashion month), I’ll be hosting a free challenge to redress how we wear, think, create, and talk about fashion. Please join if you’re interested in questioning the fashion canon and, in turn, realign your fashion practices to your values. We’ll start tomorrow along with NYFW.
And if you have thoughts about Latin American fashion stereotypes and the politics of (national) identity, please, please, please share your ideas by leaving a comment, reaching out to me on social media, or replying to my email newsletter. I’d love to know your thoughts!
Thank you for reading, watching, and joining the conversation.
Until next time,
—L 🩷
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