Fashion has always been used to send messages, or to exhibit social status or wealth. In many cultures, black at a funeral shows you’re mourning, just as a bride in white at her wedding represents purity. Victorian women wore corsets to exemplify their high societal stature. During the Vietnam war, military uniforms were worn first by veterans, and then by non-veterans, as a form of protest. And recently, during Melania Trump’s notorious visit to detention camps, where she donned an Army-inspired jacket with the phrase “I Really Don’t Care Do U?” scrawled across the back, the same item spread a completely different message.

But perhaps no item of clothing has gone through as many semiotic changes as the bell bottom jean. The pants have been worn for their practicality, to make a political statement, simply for the sake of fashion, and, when they were shamefully out of style, not worn at all. These days, the humble flared pant seems to be enjoying something of a moment: Forever 21, the Mecca of all things trendy and popular, currently has a laundry list of bellbottom options on their site. The comeback of bellbottoms coincides with an intense political climate, and a particularly involved generation of youths. This year, bell bottoms were especially popular at Coachella—a festival where the main demographic is millennials, people roughly aged between 21 and 35.

For lack of a better word, bell bottom pants are loud. When you wear bell bottoms you can’t help but take up space, and people can’t help but notice you. In a time when young people feel unheard and underrepresented, it’s important for them to be seen.

Bell bottoms are so aggressively associated with the sixties and seventies, it’s nearly impossible to imagine their origins have un-hippie roots. According to Encyclopedia.com, bell bottom pants have actually been traced back to the 17th century, when wide-legged pants were intended to be practical uniforms for boat workers. The pants were then introduced to sailors in the U.S. Navy in 1817, and they still rock wide leg pants to this day. The extra loose fabric offered by bell-shaped legs serves as a safety measure—in the instance that a man fell overboard, he could easily take his pants off and allow the wide bottoms to inflate with air and used as a life preserver.

Messy jobs on board a ship, like washing the decks, also meant there was a need for a pant that could easily be rolled up and kept out of the way of water (a problem you know all too well if you’ve ever tried getting a pedicure in skinny jeans). Of course, sailors think of wide-legged pants in terms of practicality, and it wasn’t until the 1960s that bell bottoms started being rocked as socio-political symbols. 

While the fifties were (and still are, for some reason) remembered fondly as being a time of good old American wholesomeness, sixties’ fashion defied those virtues completely. Youth countered the buttoned up, conservative look of the decade before and opted for clothing that made a statement. 

The bell bottom pant worked as a symbol for two reasons. Politically, a lot was happening in the late sixties and early seventies that warranted the younger generation to sharply retract from the mainstream. The biggest offender was, of course, the Vietnam War—a war that left the country incredibly split in terms of opinion on whether or not the US should even be involved and, to make matters worse, this young generation was still being drafted and forced into the war they so despised. Naturally, this left people angered and upset, and if the fifties represented post-World War II, buttoned-up patriotism, then the decades that followed turned completely against it. Instead of opting for the fitted pencil skirts of the more conservative generation prior, young people chose to literally wear their distaste for the current social climate on their sleeves. Thus, bold pieces like wide-leg jeans were adopted—defying the mainstream as a statement against the very unpopular involvements of the government.

Of course, sailors think of wide-legged pants in terms of practicality, and it wasn’t until the 1960s that bell bottoms started being rocked as socio-political symbols.
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Fashion historian and educator Sarah Byrd hesitates to impart too much power on singular fashion choices, such as choosing to wear a bell bottom pant. Even though clothing has a very physical effect (like I said, they take up space), Byrd explains that “many factors go into the things we wear at any given time as a consumer: what’s available, your cultural lens, how you feel that day. Like the people wearing the clothing, it’s a nuanced and complicated statement.”  

But what is often forgotten about bell bottoms is their role in popularizing unisex (or simply, gender nonspecific) styles. Brands like Levi’s made flared jeans for both men and women (marketed separately, though they may as well have been the exact same pant) and they became a part of typical wardrobes for men and women alike.

Perhaps the greatest example of this gender non-conformity is Sonny and Cher. The duo didn’t have traditionally gender-specific personas on stage: Cher’s contralto vocal range often hummed below Sonny Bono’s softer singing voice (and the fact that Bono was four inches shorter than his wife played into their almost “gender-swapped” stage presence). And at the time, they both were known to wear bell bottom pants during performances. Increasing access to color TV allowed people like Sonny and Cher to wear brightly colored, eye-catching outfits, showing their fans that one style could be fit for them both.  

The previously harsh contrast between male and female threads began to blur, which also coincided with a boom in other social movements. The Stonewall Riots had just happened in 1969, launching the LGBT Movement into action full-force. The adoption of bell bottoms into the contemporary style of the flamboyant sixties and seventies paralleled this movement. Not only were they marketed toward both women and men, but they were also regularly in the style lineup of pop icons. David Bowie, Elton John, Liberace, and their contemporaries were redefining how (specifically men) dressed and represented themselves.

Even Elvis Presley, whose style adhered to traditional gender roles through the 1950s, found himself in bell bottoms. Previously, he was an all-American man who was drafted to war, donned suits when he dressed up, and despite his somewhat eclectic taste, managed to maintain his rugged, womanizing demeanor. But he adapted the newfound fluid style in the sixties and seventies, often wearing his iconic wide-legged, bedazzled jumpsuits. For many, seeing pop stars in gender-fluid clothing meant feeling comfortable with their own sexuality.

It meant that maybe men don’t have to dress traditionally masculine if they don’t want to, and women aren’t bound to skirts and dresses. It forced the general public to come to terms (or at least, more so than before) with the fluidity of it all. Instead of adhering to strict, specifically gendered clothes (ladies in skirts and men in suits) bell bottoms jeans were made for everyone. Even the straightest, greased up American man was now sharing pants with Liberace. 

Sarah Byrd agrees that the exposure of trends by means of the celebrity has always had an impact on fashion. She points out that in the early twentieth century, the fan culture around celebrities gave birth; theatrical actors and performers were followed and documented in magazines, just as celebrities and influencers are on social media today. Byrd explains: “In many cases [the celebrity] serve to ‘normalize’ more avant-garde styles to the public.”

Even the straightest, greased up American man was now sharing pants with Liberace.
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In a 1969 New York Times article, writer Judy Klemesrud discusses a conversation she overheard between two teenage girls on the New York City subway, regarding what they planned to wear to an upcoming Janis Joplin concert. From their conversation, she learned about the role bell bottoms played in teenage fashion:

There are the ‘safe’ fashions that can be worn without scorn anywhere. For the girls: bell-bottom blue jeans topped with an antique fur coat (never a new fur coat!). For boys: bell-bottom blue jeans worn with a suede fringed jacket.

Klemesrud notes the irony that the “rock crowd,” which shouts about individuality, tends to “march to the same drummer” when it comes to fashion.

But one could argue quite the contrary. Young people do tend to dress like each other or, in the case of the Joplin-loving girls, dress like one of their idols. The music one enjoys and the people one idolizes are clear reflections of their own ideologies. When someone mirrors a celebrity trend, it can also be an association with what the celebrity stands for.

A lot of current trends continue to ignore gender-made style, again seen in the ever-popular “boyfriend jean” and even the male romper. But more importantly: bell bottoms are back, and their resurgence in the midst of an unsettled generation is similar to that of the sixties and seventies.

On one hand, one could question whether the resurgence of the bell bottom is actually a conscious link to the seventies. Perhaps the revival of styles is the natural ebb and flow of the fashion world; in a May 1980 article for the New York Times titled “How Pants Shape Up: Something for Everyone; Question of Acceptance” Bernadine Morris writes:

…Any fashion loses its punch after a bit of exposure, and women who had felt like pathfinders when they first donned a pair of pants to go to lunch or to work were to discover the same sense of adventure when they returned to a skirt or dress. To stimulate the interest, trousers changed their shape over the decade, passing from straight-legged to low-flared or bell-bottomed.

But on the other hand, the popularity of bell bottoms once again could have a connection to the seventies, whether it’s a completely conscious connection or not. Byrd points out that millennials are not old enough to have “originally” worn the style and therefore have enough distance to romanticize the references into a narrative that suits their current culture.

While not everyone who dons bell bottoms in 2018 is trying to boldly demonstrate a political opinion, it makes sense that the trend would return in such politically radical times. Though unquestionably stylish, sporting a pair of bell bottoms echoes  an interest in the social climate and acceptance of an evolving revolution. After all, clothing is never just clothing.

I was editing an essay when the first email notification came in, but I ignored it. Then came a second, and a third in quick succession. Curious, I switched tabs to see three emails about Trump’s trans military ban. Editors were emailing to ask if I would cover it for them, but I had missed the news when it first broke. When I do my writing, I keep my cell phone off and in another room to avoid distractions like Twitter, so I hadn’t seen the tweets from Trump declaring the service of 15,000 trans people in the military invalid.

I had missed most of the previous two work days because of personal stuff, like meeting fellow trans Establishment contributor Sam Reidel in person for the first time. Wednesday was supposed to be my day to catch up, so my first instinct was to focus on my existing deadlines and sit this news cycle out. But as I tried to connect back to my editing, I couldn’t dispel a nagging thought: Who was I to sit this one out? My followers and regular readers look for my opinion and reporting because they put value into what I have to say. How could I not write about such a major trans story, possibly one of the biggest of all time?

Once I made the decision to cover Trump’s tweets, I immediately jumped into action, pitching several websites with article ideas. Slowly the assignments started to come back in, from ELLE, GO Magazine, and The Washington Post. Everything happened so fast, and the deadlines were so tight, that I felt like I had no chance to breathe. I had no time for Twitter or Facebook. The story was all that mattered. I dove completely into my work.

How could I not write about such a major trans story, possibly one of the biggest of all time?
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I quickly churned out an op-ed for GO, which the editor published immediately in the early afternoon on Wednesday with very little editing, then shifted my attention to my piece for WaPo. Not having any time to make myself lunch or go out to grab anything, I actually called my mom and asked her to come over and help me out. (It is a little embarrassing to admit, yes.)

Through it all, the emails kept coming in. Editors who had ignored my pitches for months were suddenly changing their tune and seeking out my work on the ban. I felt like their token. I’ve struggled with being labeled “the trans writer” for awhile now. While I’m blessed to have had my work on my own identity open so many career doors, it’s also difficult to be continuously pigeonholed into writing only about that identity. Even now, I’m aware of the fact that editors are much more likely to say yes to me if my pitch is about a trans issue. I’m painfully aware of my typecasting, and was reminded of my place in the media landscape once again as the requests for work came pouring in on Wednesday.

The Real Cost Of Donald Trump’s Anti-Trans Military Stance

I took a break that evening and substituted an evening job and a shower for my dinner, then came back to my work to edit and add citations to my latest piece. Somewhere around 10 p.m., I finally collapsed in my bed, after 13 hours of writing and reporting work. It was easily the longest continuous output of my career so far.

When the election happened, my manager at my day job made a chilling comment that has stayed with me: “Trump getting elected will be good for your writing career.” There’s a degree of cynicism to this that bothers me, but in essence, my manager was correct. Months later, here I am, essentially profiting off of Trump’s bigotry. Intellectually, I understand that I should be fairly compensated for my work, but at the same time, so many trans people are going to get hurt from Trump’s ban. Who was I to make money off of that?

Yet, Thursday morning, I went right back to work, trying to catch up on the work I was meant to do on Wednesday before completing reporting on my piece for ELLE. My partner, herself a trans advocate, came to visit later that afternoon. We quickly dropped into a rhythm, her taking calls from reporters while I pecked away at the keys on my laptop with moments of conversation peppered in between.

I decided to go to bed earlier that night after about 10 hours of writing, and as I lay there scrolling through my Twitter timeline for the first time in what felt like days, the momentousness of Trump’s tweets started to viscerally hit me.

Covering trans issues as a journalist often makes me feel disconnected from the community. I work alone, at home, mostly interfacing with others through social media or with my editors through email. Covering trans issues as a professional means I need to maintain a certain distance in the name of journalistic integrity. But no matter what, these issues affect me as an individual, as a citizen. In order to survive, and to deliver stories for the greater good, I’ve had to learn to compartmentalize my own fears and anxieties as a trans person.

Covering trans issues as a journalist often makes me feel disconnected with the community.
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And the ban that had so thoroughly demanded my professional effort the previous few days was profound in its personal implications. It wasn’t just targeting trans people serving their country — it was a symbolic blow against every trans American. The Family Research Council, an anti-LGBTQ religious organization, has laid out a five-step plan to make it impossible for trans people to exist in American public life, and step five is a total ban on trans people serving in the military. Since Trump’s election, the FRC has made significant progress on completing its list, a terrifying prospect for myself and all of my trans friends.

Despite my dogged writing, I couldn’t help but feel completely powerless to stop the continued hate campaign that Trump’s ban represents. “Should I seriously look into moving to another country?” I thought as I saw the despair and anger coming from the trans community. My work combating Trump’s transphobia is crucial, I realize, but it can also feel like not enough in the face of such unending attacks. Despite my platform, I often feel helpless to exact real change.

These feelings are compounded by the fact that I don’t fully trust our allies — who make up much of the audience I’m serving — either.

The Left’s Long History Of Transphobia

Sometimes I get the feeling that allies who read my work aren’t really interested in helping to improve the lives of trans people. While the right seeks to eliminate us from public life, so often the folx on the left meant to protect us are arguing with us or making their allyship conditional on the tone we use in our advocacy. What good is having a platform in The Washington Post if those likely to read my words end up arguing about ancillary topics like whether a trans woman’s sexual partners are gay or not, or whether we’re “biologically male”? Plenty of liberal publications have covered detransitioners like Walt Heyer, who the White House cited in an official memo justifying the ban. Whether they feel like it or not, those outlets are complicit in thwarting progress for trans rights.

While I’m professionally engaged in emotional labor with the hope of telling trans stories that enable people to learn, I still see the constant Twitter threads and the comments sections calling me a man or mentally ill, or both. And there are always trans stories from well-meaning cis allies that unknowingly end up hurting my community in how they frame and handle trans stories.

Sometimes I get the feeling that allies who read my work aren’t really interested in helping to improve the lives of trans people.
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At the same time, I’m thankful for the platform that I do have. I’m lucky to be able to speak to so many people about my community’s struggles. I constantly get messages from people who tell me that my work changed their life and honestly, the feeling I have when I hear that is indescribable. When it comes to the nasty comments sections, well, there’s a reason why my name is at the top of the article and not the bottom. Being a self-employed writer is a tough gig.

My precarious existence as a trans freelancer came into full focus Thursday night as the Senate prepared to vote on the “Skinny Repeal” of Obamacare. As a self-employed writer, I depend on the Affordable Care Act for my health insurance, and as a trans woman, I depend on Planned Parenthood for my hormone prescription. After the anti-trans politics of earlier in the week, the vote was the final push my emotions needed before breaking. After almost 24 hours of work with only sleep breaks in between, I openly wept.

The next morning, my words would go out to thousands, and yet, in that moment, I felt so utterly voiceless and alone.