This week, I’ve felt like junk—stuck in bed, staring out the window at all the beautiful September days, like a sad puppy. I tried everything: turmeric, ginger, mustard baths, meds, and even meditations for “being at peace with not breathing through your nose.” Nothing worked.
Eventually, I had to admit defeat. I had big plans to write an essay, but my brain just isn’t cooperating. My head feels like a balloon, and my thoughts are kind of fluffy.
Here are some scattered bedside thoughts…
With New York Fashion Week in full swing and my schedule cleared, I found myself checking out shows I might not have paid much attention to otherwise.
Rihanna’s dress at the Alaïa show? She looked pretty uncomfortable, as if she were clinging to a towel while a strange man knocked at the door.
Ralph Lauren? White pants and more blazers—nothing surprising. Clean and classic, sure, but more of the same. It got me thinking: what if we lined up every collection from the last ten years to see how different they really are? Then I found
’s newsletter which just exactly that— comparing several collections and revealing how little has actually changed.The majority of what fashion is in the year 2024 is not relatable. A lot of brands don’t have a point of view. They reproduce old designs that have already worked for them. They know it will sell, so why not? But I’m confused by the consumer. Do they keep buying the brand because they actually love it? Or because someone else told them it was cool or good or popular or chic? These shows are the most anticipated of the season—is it because of the clothing? Or because of the community that seems to be built around the brand?
It’s worth considering: Are people buying into a community? What lifestyle and identity do these brands represent?
That’s why I kept tuning into designer interviews and show themes, hoping for insight into what these clothes are signaling. Ralph Lauren’s theme was “optimism” set in the Hamptons—because nothing says optimism like betting your beachfront mansion won’t be underwater before the mortgage is paid off. Don’t even get me started on designers throwing around words like “ethereal” or “futuristic”—my eyes glaze over instantly.
Then I came across Willy Chavarria’s show. He mentioned in an interview that his menswear collection was inspired by “janitorial services and such.” At first, I had some bad flashbacks to The Row— low income aesthetics being sold for $1800?
But Chavarria’s background—his parents were immigrant farm workers—adds a layer of authenticity that made his América show feel more personal. From an interview in PAPER with Chavarria, I learned how deeply his personal experiences shape his work:
The title of the show is América (that is how I grew up hearing the pronunciation of the country name), so it’s America through the voice of an immigrant. I want to tell the story of this country through the voice of the immigrants and the people who have built the country. The people are the backbone, and I just want to really celebrate the power of the people.
The show is very much inspired by farm workers and the United Farm Workers movement in the ‘60s and ‘70s. I would like people to be a little bit aware of United Farm Workers and even go to the website and see what they're all about: protecting the rights of our farm workers, who are mostly Mexican American. They work with the ACLU to fight against global warming, because farm workers are working in like 113 degree heat all day, and also making sure that their hours are fair and all of those things.
Chavarria’s América show spotlights immigrant labor and civil rights, bringing diversity to the runway. Known for casting models he meets off the street, Chavarria dressed them in bold, oversized designs—wide-leg pants, layered shirts, and dramatic outerwear—all influenced by Chicano culture. Inspired by the contributions of farmers, construction workers, and laborers, América partnered with organizations like the ACLU and United Farm Workers to emphasize the essential role immigrant labor plays in building this country.
Models walked beneath a massive American flag, and each seat included a copy of the U.S. Constitution and stickers encouraging voting, courtesy of the ACLU. The show’s clear focus was to highlight the strength, resilience, and contributions of those who keep the country running.
I wanted to be critical, and I still have questions, but there was something grounded and sincere about the show. The models—many of them brown—reminded me of my father, who is half Basque and Peruvian. At first, the ACLU shirts and Constitution printouts felt forced, but the focus on immigrants and their role in building America hit close to home. Even if some political elements could seem performative, I’d rather see an imperfect step toward progress than total stagnation.
This show got me thinking about how people are seeking meaning, connection, and community. Fashion doesn’t always need to be rooted in reality—god forbid—but haven’t we gorged on delusion in recent years? Maybe we’re finally ready to engage with reality and build genuine communities rather than buying into superficial ones. But what do these “communities” really reflect? Are they truly inclusive, or just another layer of elitism wrapped in trendiness? And are we really searching for community in clothes?
Chavarria’s approach does feel raw and sincere. He presents his culture with integrity in an industry that frequently profits from cultural appropriation without truly embracing or elevating the cultures it borrows from. It’s refreshing to see something different.
Was it radical or perfect? No, but that’s okay. Maybe it is naive to push for change in high fashion, an industry entrenched in classism and racism. Maybe it’s not. Can we really justify high prices for designs inspired by working-class aesthetics when there’s no transparency about how those prices are set? Are these looks truly for the communities they honor if they can’t afford them? Should rich white boys in Brooklyn be rocking them while sipping $14 cold brew infused with creatine?
There’s so much more to unpack, but my NyQuil brain (Walgreens knockoff, no less) is limiting how far I can go right now. I’m also aware of my own biases: I’m a Latina woman (not Chicana), and my background shapes my perspective. The timing of this collection feels especially poignant—it launched during a week when misinformation about immigrants eating pets was making headlines, hitting like a punch to the gut. Willy’s collection, however, felt like a glimmer of hope.
We’ve seen the same faces in charge for a long time—wealthy editors, thin white models, and designers with deep pockets, all driven by the same commercial greed or power. Willy’s background, unlike many in the fashion industry, comes from a place without money—a rarity in a job where most can’t survive without wealth.
His ability to navigate sponsorships (like Don Julio Tequila) without sacrificing his integrity, while offering both $29 hoodies at PacSun and $700 pants at Bergdorf’s, shows he’s skillfully balancing a tricky space between accessibility and the industry’s relentless pull toward pure profit. In a space where greed often dominates, it seems he wants to build something genuine.
I may not be a fashion insider, and I might never wear Willy’s designs, but it’s clear people are craving something real—something that connects them to a community. Some brands have heart and reflect the people they’re meant to serve, while others miss the mark—and you can’t fake that.
This hit me as I watched yet another “vision of the future” show—why is it that so many rich designers’ idea of the future just means even bigger shoulder pads? It made me stop and think: Have I ever really admired someone just for their wealth and clout? Honestly, no. Do I admire people who are completely disconnected from reality? Definitely not now.
On the one hand, if fashion isn’t about creating something meaningful or fostering community, it risks becoming the same hollow experience, year after year, just dressed in new clothes. How can an industry built on exclusivity and status ever truly foster community, when its very foundation thrives on keeping people out rather than bringing them in? At its core, shouldn’t it just be about offering clothes? Expecting it to build community might be an overreach—or worse, just another marketing tactic.
So, what are brands really offering? If it is indeed community, what kind of culture or connection are they shaping? Are we drawn to genuine artistry and diversity, or just buying into signals of wealth and status? How can we seek connection, not through the clothes or brands themselves, but in how we engage with the world and the communities we build around them?
What do you think? Would love to hear from you.
I don't know, maybe I'm too old or not fashion-y enough, but the idea of a brand offering community sounds bizarre to me. Genuine and resilient communities are hard work to create and maintain. Brands (like politicians) could not care less about us as people. The whole vibes economy that we're living in now makes me cranky because it's seeped into absolutely everything. And I don't think I'm the only one -- there's probably a reason people are gravitating to all these 70s/90s aesthetics. To me those were the last periods where we were going through messy social shifts, expanding culture gradually on the ground rather than just posting crap on social media and never leaving the house.
I'm going to halt my middle-aged-lady rant there because you're a much better and more nuanced writer about these topics, even laid up doing off-brand NyQuil shots. Thanks for another thoughtful piece. (Also garlic tea was always my mom's go-to for colds; mine is saline nasal washes. Feel better! ❤️)
So appreciate this part: “Are these looks truly for the communities they honor if they can’t afford them? Should rich white boys in Brooklyn be rocking them while sipping $14 cold brew infused with creatine?”
In all my excitement for Chavarria’s show, I completely overlooked that part! I wish one could ask that question directly. But then I feel like one could ask the same questions of Sandy Liang, Wales Bonner, etc. (both designers who’ve shared that their work is inspired by immigrants & their experiences).
But THEN, I also have to wonder, If the dominant culture or white designers are allowed to create expensive fashion lines inspired by their experiences (like vacationing in the Hamptons), shouldn't BIPOC and other underrepresented designers have the same freedom without facing scrutiny about who can afford their clothes? White designers routinely draw inspiration from their cultural backgrounds without question (most of the time)! And yet, I’ve seen more Notes on here questioning Chavarria’s line than I have about Tory Burch or Ralph Lauren. Anecdotally, ofc. Not sure what the actual numbers would be!
In all my earnestness to build community and criticize this industry, I think im also trying to be mindful of this. I wonder if change also looks like allowing Chavarria and other designers from historically marginalized communities to make bougie ass stuff because *we* (BIPOC and other underrepresented communities) deserve that, too. Even if we can’t afford it! Haha.