“Can I try it on?” I recall asking with a mix of excitement and awe during my first visit to Wilsons Leather in the mall. I was about eight years old, accompanying my mother to pick up a Victorian-style leather jacket – collarless, with puffed sleeves and a peplum waist – that seemed to encapsulate grace and chic all at once. It was a defining moment, my initiation into a cherished ritual, a Black girl’s rite of passage.
Wilsons Leather was a haven for those with modest means but a taste for style, offering a layaway plan that suited many Black families like mine. My mother, with her Grace Jones–esque elegance, was an aficionado of finer boutiques, yet Wilsons offered a reprieve from the racial profiling often encountered in high-end stores.
That day was etched in my memory – the potent mix of raw hide and chemicals, the dizzying array of leather goods that filled the store, and the tangible aura of endless possibilities. My fascination with leather began at home, exploring my mother’s closet filled with leather in every hue and texture, each piece absorbing her essence – a blend of cocoa butter, Chanel No. 5, and her unique energy.
My mother’s collection had its roots in her college days, a time of fervent ‘Black Is Beautiful’ and ‘Women Unite!’ movements. Leather was a symbol of this revolutionary ethos. But for her, a leather jacket, especially a black one, was more than a fashion statement; it was a symbol of protest and solidarity with movements like the Black Panther Party. It was a badge of honor she wasn’t ready to claim lightly.
Growing up, I was mesmerized by the allure of leather. My mother’s closet was a treasure trove of fashion and history. Each piece told a story, whispering tales of vibrant youth, Black resilience, and the unapologetic assertion of identity. I recall sneaking into her closet, trying on her garments, and momentarily borrowing her confidence and allure.
By fifth grade, my mother’s collection had grown exponentially, and my fascination turned into an eager longing. I began to borrow her smaller items, secretly relishing the feeling of wearing something that held so much power and history. Those clandestine visits to her closet were my own adventures into a world of style, identity, and legacy.
And then, as I approached twelve, my mother took me back to Wilsons Leather. This time, it was my turn to choose a leather jacket, my very own. The experience was intoxicating – the scent of leather was now a symbol of style and sophistication. I chose a sporty, multicolored jacket – navy with orange sleeves and a white hood – a stark contrast to my mother’s elegant taste, but a reflection of my own emerging style.
Despite its gaudy appearance in her eyes, my mother supported my choice. She understood the deeper significance – this jacket was more than a fashion statement; it was a declaration of my emerging identity, a reflection of my personal style, politics, and beliefs.
Putting that jacket on layaway and diligently paying it off with my allowance was more than just a purchase; it was a journey of self-discovery and assertion. It was about embracing my uniqueness, my place in the world, and the unbreakable bond between a mother and her daughter – a shared love for leather that transcended generations and spoke volumes of our shared history and identity.
