English Version | To Be Continued: Clothes as memories

Carolina Nunes, Online Fashion Editor 
It was 2009 and I went shopping with my mother. I found a t-shirt, long (or maybe it was me who wasn't very tall), with a graphic of Maggie Simpson with her pacifier. To say that that t-shirt had put me in a chokehold would be to underestimate the whole situation. That summer I had that piece on full rotation. I'd wear it, put it in the laundry basket and as soon as it appeared in my room washed and ironed (well said mommy) I'd be planning the next day's outfit. So it was a no-brainer to choose it when I was packing my suitcase to go on summer vacation with my parents and sister to Mójacar, Spain. In fact, I don't think I even allowed myself to wear it the week before to make sure it would be clean on the day of departure. I finished the suitcase and so it went in the trunk of the car. We arrived at our destination in the torrid heat of 47ºC in the shade. Then we realized that this heat was being caused, in part, by a fire near the hotel. We checked in, went up to the room, and a few moments later the hotel staff came to say that they would have to evacuate the hotel because it was in danger of being consumed by flames. Instant screaming, general panic, lives in danger. We ran out, my father took the car and we tried to go the other way. We continue on our way and at that moment 9-year-old Carolina bursts into tears. Why was that? Was it because she saw the frightened faces of her parents and sister? No. It was because she remembered that she had Maggie's t-shirt in the hotel and that she could lose it forever! Insensitive, I know, but I was just a clueless child. The story ends with us going back to the hotel in the morning, after learning that it was safe, and that the fire had never reached the vicinity of the hotel. The following summer I found that the t-shirt no longer fit me and I stopped wearing it. I never saw it again…

Sara Andrade, Director of New Editorial Projects
I always wear, also as an amulet, a ring that wasn't mine: in gold, of a classic design, with aquamarine that still seems to be the same color as my paternal grandmother's eyes, to whom the piece belonged, the family jewel is now on my finger as it always was on hers. Every time I went out and held it in my bag, every time I saw her pick up a glass, every time I saw her run a tooth comb through her hair and ask me if it "looked good in the back?", every time she gave me her hand, there it was, reflecting the light, but above all, recording mundane moments, now all too special, in my mind. Today, I don't put the ring on every morning, but I carry my grandmother's memories with me every day.

Maria Inês Pinto, Online Editor
When I think of special pieces, there are immediately two that I couldn't fail to mention. As a child, I was known as vain and tacky (I can't deny that) and I had an unconditional love for my favorite clothes and accessories, to the point that, even today, after so many years, I still keep many of them. I remember perfectly the clogs I wore all summer, or the espadrilles with a small wedge (which seemed gigantic at the time) that I tied to my leg and made me feel super grown-up. I remember the blue sandals I wore even to take a nap, so much did I love them. But nothing beats my light denim vest with bright fluorescent ribbons on the chest. I must have been in sixth grade and I was at a birthday party at the movies. As we were leaving the mall, I spotted a vest in the distance that contained absolutely everything I loved - in essence, neon colors and lots (too much) glitter. The store was already closed, but I didn't rest until I went back and took one of those items home. I don't remember if I ever wore it that much - I think I was a bit embarrassed, actually. My friends wore much more "normal" clothes. I still have this vest today; it's stored in a box along with other equally tacky pieces that I cherish so much. As for my Barbie T-shirt, I have no idea where it is. Perhaps it ended up in the garbage can, much to my misfortune: when I was seven, I think, I was at home in my office (where I spent most of my days sticking stickers and drawing dolls and clothes) when I tripped over a pair of sandals I had lying around and hit the corner of a huge piece of furniture. The blow was so severe that I broke my head and gushed blood, leaving my whole family in a panic. I remember seeing the despair in their eyes and, minutes later, I was already in the front seat of the car, on my mother's lap. At that point I had already accepted my fateful fate: if I broke my head and was pouring blood, then it was logical that I was going to die. I remember very calmly (but tearfully) saying to my mother: "Mom, I know I'm going to die. I know. But please wash this Barbie t-shirt . It's full of blood and it's my favorite." I didn't die. I had half a dozen stitches in my head and went home. Today I have a scar but, luckily for me, it's exactly on top of the hairline. As for the sandals... I never left them lying around again, and today they're the first thing I tidy up when I get home. I've never broken my head again (my older brother saved me from the second fall) and I've never owned a Barbie t-shirt again, but I still wear (and absolutely love) clogs, espadrilles and vests - now without neon ribbons - and I still keep my favorite pieces even when they no longer fit. I no longer wear dozens of bracelets to the point where I can't bend my arms, but I'm still obsessed with accessories. More than fifteen years have passed, but I haven't changed that much after all.

Ana Murcho, Features Editor

My relationship with clothes has always been overwhelming. Most of the time, because I romanticized pairs of shoes that I didn't have (I've already written here about my colleague Cláudia's velvet Mary Jane's that almost destroyed my childhood), dresses with balloon sleeves that never made it into my closet and fluffy-looking cardigans that don't appear in the photos I'm in. As a child, clothes and I were semi-enemies, fighting an invisible battle that only began to see white flags when I assumed that I cared, that despite my sinister hair I also wanted to try to be pretty and that it was therefore important to be part of the process that gave me access to my closet: shopping. Between Cenoura, first, and Benetton, later, I remember several t-shirts that still liven up my bedroom drawers at my parents' house - I've always loved t-shirts, the bigger the better. I remember some striped skirts with flower waists from a particularly hot summer. I remember the denim shorts I wore almost every day on the road trip we took through the south of Spain and France. I remember my first Levi's and my first All Star. Now that I think about it, my first Levi's must have been the most special piece of clothing of all, mainly because of what they symbolized at that stage of my life - the entry into adolescence, the stamp of belonging to a "cool" world where my cousins were already hanging out, the understanding of "hip" things, whatever that meant. I must have bought hundreds of jeans in the meantime, because if there's one thing a fashion lover believes, it's that the perfect pair of jeans is always in the next fitting room, but few items make me as happy as finding a pair of Levi's that fit me well. Oddly enough, I'm currently waiting for the post office to deliver some new ones.

Originally published in The Memories Issue, from April 2024. Full stories and credits are in the print version.