My favorite part of Lunar New Year growing up was the tradition of wearing new socks. “走好运“ my grandma would tell me. Wear new socks for the new year to step into good luck. My grandmother seemed to stockpile new socks for this very moment, and I would dig through her sacred new sock drawer to find something that would turn me into a luckier version of myself. Each time I removed the cellophane and cut the tag, I felt like I was opening a Pandora’s box of auspiciousness.

As time passed, my new socks would become old socks, and I grew embarrassed of the things my Chinese family would choose for me. Every time my grandparents would visit-- they split the year between Los Angeles and China-- they brought suitcases full of goodies for me. They were inexpensive small things, manufactured in China but selected with care and love. Scrunchies with bunnies, hearts, and gems all over. Socks with frills and sparkles. A little lunchbox covered in bubbly Chinese characters. I never used it. By middle school, I had understood a fundamental truth: being Chinese was lame. The models on the runway and the faces of fashion had light hair and blue eyes. That was aspirational. I, however, was embarrassing.

I shed my heritage like a costume. I only shopped at stores where the signs were all in English, begged my mom to buy me crop tops to be like the American girls. Americans didn’t wear clothing with random Chinese characters on them, or backpacks with references to cartoons that didn’t exist in the US. Neither did I. I shapeshifted. I went from ESL classes to devouring novels, looking for cultural cues. I became the expert on all things American; I ordered for my parents at restaurants and called their credit card company when they needed to dispute a charge. I was fortunate enough to grow up in a diverse area, but I still wanted to be the “cool” kind of immigrant, culturally fluent and integrated into the western pop culture. Through intense curation and imitation, I had fashioned an identity where no one who met me could guess that I solely spoke Chinese at home.

Clothing was my tool and my shield. With a hodgepodge of hand-me-downs and clearance rack finds, I started to mold my identity. I did not learn to drive in high school, but I did learn to thrift. I would walk for miles, backpack slung over one shoulder, to the Goodwill stores around town. My feet would blister from the black heeled booties that I wore religiously, but I couldn’t change. My entire outfit was a part of my identity. I was so American, carefree– ripped jeans with a DIY crop top— even though every detail had been scrutinized and curated. With the right outfit, I could be a new person. If I dressed the part, I could live the part. I tie dyed my t-shirts in my bathroom to play the summer camp counselor role for my first job at fourteen. I scored a long black skirt from the thrift to style with a blouse, and then I was a respectable musician in California’s All State choir. In a blazer and pencil skirt, I felt competent and confident enough to lead the high school speech team. Even today, when I put on kitten heels and some perfectly tailored slacks, I am almost excited to play my character of a 9-5 commuter. Ironically enough, when I’m in my pajamas, laying on the floor, twenty hours into sewing a dress, do I feel most like a fashion designer.

It took me a long time to feel comfortable calling myself a fashion designer, because that image was so elusive. In Chicago, the designers I met were so diverse and had a magnetic individuality. There was no pattern for me to observe, no formula for me to apply to myself. As a fashion designer, there is no hiding behind a costume— by partaking in such a presentational art form, you lay your heart bare on the runway. I had to confront the intention of my art. I wanted my art to come from a place of authenticity and sincerity, and I couldn’t do that without acknowledging that every piece of who I am is shaped by my being Chinese. Not just Chinese in the way of drinking hot water and using chopsticks, but Chinese in the way where I believe in collectivism, in community. Underneath the clothing and the costumes, and a lifetime of self loathing, I was just Chinese. And underneath my sewing machine, I can breathe new life into fabric and create art that celebrates being Chinese.

It is both gratifying and confusing to see my culture being celebrated and embraced by the mainstream. Before, every mandarin collar and frog knot I sewed onto a piece, every hair needle tucked into a runway updo, felt like a quiet act of defiance. These little details have grown into the core of my identity as a designer.

This year, for Lunar New Year, I visited my grandparents in China. When my grandmother showed me to the drawer of new socks, I picked a pair that was pink with bunnies on it. I took them back to Chicago with me. I think I’ll wear them whenever I need some extra luck.