The Black Picks Me
Dressing for warrior-mode: a meditation.
All day the air has been heavy. All week, even. On my way to work, I pass other slow-moving commuters, glaring at each other through a haze of humidity. I am reminded that in West Side Story, a musical I’ve done three times, the heat is a character unto itself.
I’ve started a new job. It’s a good job. It will also require me to move out of my home for a year. I tell people, when they ask me about my variable career, that I enjoy new things. I have always liked the idea of a fresh start. Adventure makes me hopeful.
But I have forgotten all the hard edges on a new beginning. There is the quiet, slow search for your people, the bumpy learning and the constant study, the unpredictable waves of insecurity from a screaming, semi-conscious ego, the fear of falling behind. All the spaces between the highlight reel.
I get through seasons of uncertainty by imagining myself as a warrior.
She is available to me no matter the size of the task. I was a warrior as I carried each too-heavy box up flights of stairs, alone, moving into my first solo apartment. You can do this by yourself, she said, because you are a warrior. This moment is not stronger than you.
She is there, years later, as I stand in the wings, adrenaline racing, about to step into a new role I have learned for the first time earlier that same day. Here we go, I say to her, silently, gratefully.
I am her on the Very Long Days, and she is me in every plank or push up, staring at the floor between my hands. She stood me up straight those times I got stinging, subjective feedback, and then she walked me home. “How do we do it?” a friend asked me once. “Because we have to,” the warrior replied.
Sometimes my warrior mode slips in before I have thought to ask for her, announcing her arrival with the same tells. The lists—on my phone, on post-it notes in my pocket. Certain joys, suddenly irresistible: sleep, long showers, my journal (unless I am hiding from myself), random and specific cravings for blueberries, pasta, poke, chocolate. There are plenty of reasons to laugh, but an accidental careless comment or probing question could hit a secret, raw emotional center. And then, of course, there are the clothes.
The color black picks me, before I’ve said out loud that I’m overwhelmed, or afraid, or feeling sensitive or small. This time, the omnipresent heat informs—I am wearing short-sleeved or sleeveless, cropped, black tops. They are simple shapes; not frilly or showy. They have slim fits, a softness to the fabric, some stretch, and strong, clean necklines.
It’s a few days before I notice the pattern, reaching again for that same section of my closet, my black tops hanging on thin black hangers. Black is forgiving, capable, flexible. It plays well with others. It is honest. How are you? I am okay, it says, or I will be, as soon as I finish this next lap.
Outside my window, the humidity bubble is about to burst. A man stands on the street corner, just under some scaffolding, and holds his arms out to the sky. There is wind. Finally, it rains.
Costume Change is a weekly newsletter on personal style—as it relates to this actor’s life in the theater (hi!). It is a styling newsletter (vs. a shopping newsletter). As always, I hope that CC first and foremost provides you with inspiration to re-style inside of your own closet. Thanks for reading, and remember to keep those comments kind!
Sublimely good read - that you have the capacity for this & a full rehearsal schedule is ample evidence to your point!! Warrior Queen!!
So beautiful, Kristin ❤️🙏🏻