When I was studying at the University of Michigan in the mid-eighties, I bought a WilliWear top at Jacobson’s, a midwestern department store in East Lansing. Jacobson’s was not especially fashion forward, and I’m surprised that they even carried WilliWear, not that I knew who Willi Smith was at the time. The top felt truly exotic to me—fitted slim through the bodice with a big bell sleeve, a small wrist, and a big curvilinear Peter Pan collar. It had buttons up the front so you could leave it a little unbuttoned or button it all the way up. The fabric had an unusual black, aubergine, and deep purple stripe. Soft and vibrant. It was gorgeous. It had drama. When I wore it, everyone said it was beautiful and unique.

I cannot express how boring the choices were at the time, so I liked fashion but I was not sophisticated about it. When I was in high school we wore Esprit. Colorful. White K-Swiss. Very white. Like Run DMC. With pegged-legged red cords and sweaters with lots of colors in them. But my WilliWear top was on another level. And it had black in it. In the Midwest you did not wear black unless you were going to a funeral. Black was a New York color.

There is very little in my wardrobe history that I could describe to you in this way. I’m not a person deeply obsessed with clothing. I like it. I’ll wear it. But I wore this top until it fell apart—mixing it with jeans, skirts, shorts. It’s incredible that you could love a piece of clothing that much, wear it that much, and remember it all these years later. It had a magical quality because it made me feel sophisticated, feminine, and strong, but not weird, which would not have been hard in a place like East Lansing in the eighties. What more could you ask of a piece of clothing?