I have a lot of stuff. Shoes, clothes, furniture, kitchenware, knickknacks, tchotchkes, heirlooms, I love them all. They connect me to the people or places they came from and reflect my own identity. In short, it’s show and tell. Nearly everything I have has a reason or a long, unnecessary, boring story (like this essay) attached to it. A friend asked me what the B on my hat meant, so I shamelessly divulged into a history lesson about Brooklyn, baseball, and my family. Marie Kondo’s philosophy of keeping things that spark joy and bring you love was a hot topic a few years ago; I often thought the same and I was relieved I wasn’t the only one who did so incessantly. I also think of the Marxian concepts of use value and economic value. Many of my purchases are because of the object’s use value over economic value (price); if I know I’ll use something a lot and for a long time, the utility supersedes the money it costs. Price is still a factor, since being a sneakerhead requires a lot of mental gymnastics and budgeting to balance it out - I can remember the details of almost every transaction made for all the sneakers I’ve owned since I was 8 (thank you dad). Sometimes, though, the joy of having stuff comes from the peace of mind that the object is simply there.
This topic has been in my head a lot lately since my friend Branden passed away at the end of September 2022. I met Branden when we were about 15, and we connected through what we wore. Branden, myself, and the rest of our friends would go to the city together to shop, spending our last dollars on toys from Kidrobot or shoes from Flight Club. Back then, I was mostly into sneakers so I learned about NYC streetwear companies like Only NY, aNYthing, and ALIFE from Branden. A few other people in our high school were wearing those brands, but Branden put them together in a way that was uniquely him. A button up shirt, sweatpants, and sneakers. Cardigans with Air Jordan’s. His belt buckled to the side. It didn’t always make sense but it made him Branden. After Branden’s passing, his brother Jordan got all of their friends and family together to look through photos and share memories of Branden. Jordan also decided to give away some of Branden’s old clothing and shoes, which I’m eternally grateful for. Having a piece of Branden’s wardrobe, a way that he defined himself and left his mark on us, is how I can continue to keep his legacy and memory going. Every time I wear his shoes, I have a chance to talk about Branden and his meaning to me.
For my entire life, losing a person has always turned into gaining their things. My mom died when I was five years old, prompting a move across the country to live with my paternal grandparents. We took most of our house and my mom’s things with us. I was too young to have many memories of my mom while she was alive so I’ve stitched her life together through what was left behind. Many of these things lay dormant in the house I grew up in only to be looked at once or twice a year, but I feel solace in knowing they’re there. They’re like a volume of encyclopedias - resources I can refer to if I want to confirm a memory or story. I’ve looked through her photos, jewelry, and talismans that showed her eclectic taste; I read her medical records, journals, resumes, and transcripts trying to understand everything about my mom inside and out. Photos showed me the good times with our family and friends, and of her life before she met my dad when she was a young immigrant in the U.S. My mom’s journals revealed to me how grueling every day of her life was when she was sick with breast cancer, and how much that changed her as a person - those were details the rest of my family spared me. I struggled to talk about my mom’s death and my grief for a long time. After my grandpa died when I was 25, my grandma gave me a ring that she gifted him over 30 years ago, as well as a few of his hats and accessories. Wearing their things has given me a way to talk about their lives instead of their deaths, and that’s helped tremendously with coping.
Earlier this year, I turned my affinity for things and objects back onto the people in my life. I thought of the way my family photo albums keep the people I’ve lost with me, so I printed my own photographs and gave them to friends and family, picking one that reminded me of them or a place we had been. I also made a zine combining my photographs with scanned photos from my family albums. The grief that I’ve experienced makes me hyperaware of my own mortality. Understanding that my time here is temporary, I wanted to leave my own objects behind in hopes that others will appreciate them the way that I’ve cherished everything I have.
