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Every time I pass by my closet, I see the shirts. They’re hanging front and center, as if on display in a department store window. In a way, this is on purpose. I want them to be seen because they represent a very significant “win” for me: discovering my love of fashion as a woman with a disability.
It definitely wasn’t an easy journey. Disability and fashion have never been the best of friends. As a teen, I’d pore over the glossy pages of fashion magazines, always so envious of those who could wear breezy dresses in the summer and cozy cardigans in the fall. Heck, I’d even settle for those boots with the faux-fur trim on the top to combat cold Midwestern winters.
For me, though, being disabled didn't exactly lend itself to enjoying those kinds of luxuries. It just wasn't easy, especially with my deformities — I was born with a genetic bone and muscular disorder, which has given my body quite an interesting shape, to say the least. To give you an idea, I’ve been the same height since the eighth grade — a whopping 3 feet, 9 inches. My hips are fused, as are both my legs; oh, and did I mention that one leg is a tad longer than the other? And since walking is rather difficult, I use a wheelchair to get around. Needless to say, it makes an afternoon of shopping very interesting!
When it comes to my everyday attire, no flashy flats or espadrilles for me. I have to get custom shoes made, the basic, boring kind in standard black. And boyfriend jeans or skirts aren’t an option, either. Standard sweatpants have always been the thing that works best. Being disabled means fashion is typically cumbersome and uncomfortable. It favors practically over pizazz, substance over style, function over form.
When I was younger, I'd see other people my age expressing themselves with their clothes. I’d roll through the mall in my wheelchair and see the hubbub of activity in Abercrombie & Fitch. This was the ’90s, remember, when the quintessential mark of cool was hanging with your friends and sporting your Abercrombie ensemble. Yet as much as I loved that classic LFO song, there was zero chance I would ever be able to fit in any of those clothes; had it been the age of social media and teen entrepreneurs, I could have campaigned for the brand to come out with a line for people with disabilities, but this was still the dark ages.
When I looked at other teens, I could instantly get a sense of who they were. Their personal styles told the world something about them. The introspective poets sat in the lunchroom, looking all pensive in their Jordan Catalano flannel. The pre-Mean Girls (known as the Preps in my day) congregated in the halls to gossip in their new glittery crop tops, usually carrying a mini backpack á la Cher Horowitz in Clueless.
What did my wardrobe, with those boring shoes, tell the world about me? Easy: I was the grandmother of those crop-top-wearing Cher Horowitzes, and I was off to a fun night of bingo! My wardrobe seemed as fun and exciting as Jell-O night at the retirement community. And it was as bland as tapioca pudding, too — lacking in all things colorful and flavorful. I grew up feeling like my disability held me back in a lot of ways, like I couldn’t express myself through my style choices; I had to conform to the clothes that fit my disability instead of being able to choose whatever I wanted.
And then a few years ago, I discovered the wonderful world of polo shirts. It was sort of a happy accident. My mom had randomly picked up some at Goodwill, just a couple in plain colors, and it was love at first sight. Granted, polo shirts are nothing new, but I’m neither a polo player nor someone who spends their summers in the Hamptons, so I never really noticed them before. But for the first time, I’d found a style that really fit me — no pun intended. It was also around the same time I got one of my first “adult” jobs (as a newspaper advisor at a community college), so I thought it was time to take my style up a notch. Polo shirts are all about that put-together, confident vibe. Inside, I already felt confident and capable. Now it was time to match that feeling on the outside.
The polos were super comfy, and the variety of colors matched my personality to a tee — again, no pun intended. They were big enough to conform to the shape of my body and they were form-flattering, especially sitting down, which was obviously important since, hello, I sat in my wheelchair all day. I felt like I could just slip into it instead of contorting my body to fit. I started filling my closet with all sorts of designs: striped polos and yellow polos and bright pink polos. I simply couldn’t get enough of them. In fact, I got so into it that I even began documenting my love of polos on my blog each year. Polo Shirt Season began on April 1st, and I’d sail through the summer in style.
I may have arrived late to the fashion show, but for the first time, I found myself developing a love for all things style-related. I also quickly began to realize that my love of polos went far deeper than that. It helped me start to see my own beauty, something that I'd always struggled with. I was able to focus on something other than my disability and that was such a liberating, refreshing feeling. I was able to say, “This is Melissa,” not “This is Melissa with a disability.”
With my newfound love, I was suddenly curious about this fashion world I'd only ever admired via the pages of magazines. I wanted to learn all about this elusive world. As a writer, part of that learning involved writing, naturally, and that's exactly what I did. I started including more fashion-related posts on my blog — my thoughts on trends, style round-ups, and even shopping picks.
Granted, I still have lots of schooling to do to catch up on all those lost years, but now that I’ve had a taste of this new world, I never want to leave. For the first time, in my brightly colored polo shirt, I finally feel free.