Simar Soni | Does looking rich make us belong?

My first year at Penn, a drawer in my dorm was dedicated to dormant loungewear. My friends could not have been more wrong when they told me to buy more sweatpants for college. Like any unsuspecting first year, loyal to the laws of my local state school, I obeyed. Soon, however, I realized that most girls at Penn carry handbags instead of backpacks, cardigans instead of sweaters, and trench coats instead of cheap puffers. So, of course, the first time my mom visited I begged for her thrifted designer bags and cardigans.

As someone involved in political organizing, I remember going on an off-campus excursion and telling my roommate I had to change. After all, what would people think? Worse — what if one of my coworkers or friends outside of Penn saw me? I was sickened by my unconscious desire to signal status through prep-inspired outfits.

That is because prep is exactly that: a style dripping in privilege. According to video essayist Mina Le, the style is derived from White Anglo-Saxon Protestant Ivy League students from almost aristocratically wealthy families. In the 1920s, these students rejected formal suits in favor of casual wear. Trend strategist Anu Lingala explains that brands like J. Press and Brooks Brothers capitalized on this shift. Today, companies like Madewell, J.Crew, and Zara have revitalized the style among middle and lower classes.

In his book “Old Money: The Mythology of Wealth in America,” author Nelson Aldrich explains how, as time has evolved, these social classses grew to disdain flashy fashion. To distinguish themselves from the nouveau riche, they opted for simple, timeless looks. This style preference was fortified by the Great Depression, as families wanted to avoid judgement from the struggling general public. That’s part of the reason why Locust Walk is a sea of navy blue and neutrals.

But the shift towards plain clothing isn’t exclusive to Penn. Today, many Americans see “old money” as an emblem of character. As the wealth gap widens, the logo mania of West Coast celebrities is tacky — no longer aspirational, simply distasteful.

Further, there’s a vague difference between how elite Americans and Europeans dress on campus. Columbia University student and TikToker Nabihah Ahmad observed a similar trend, noting that Americans dress trendier, while European old-money style feels more timeless because of its aristocratic roots.

But if you look at the most recent “old-money” trends, they are often derived from Europe. Even before Penn, I remember our generation’s country-club tennis skirt evolved into the French girl, Cambridge dark academia, and Stockholm aesthetics. These are all variations of old money — just more distinctly foreign and epochal. At the time, many Americans were tired of flaunting wealth through fun colors and silhouettes. To cope with economic challenges, instead of creating art or reading, we reimagine our lives as an artist in the 1900s in Paris or an 18th-century University of Oxford student.

This is the case at our University as well. Every fall, our University welcomes a class of first years, accepted because of their excellence in writing, performing, designing, and more. Over the course of four years, many of us enter the creatives-to-consulting pipeline. In a University where you have to apply to write poetry or try out for comedy, where academics is always second to your career, of course we would cosplay as academics, artists, and writers. We use fashion to reimagine ourselves, not necessarily because we lack the economic means to explore creatively, but because that side of us is stifled by the culture. Ultimately, we are a society of financial aesthetics, and I’m just as complicit as any other Penn student.

Note that this is not all assimilation — I’ve worn some of my quintessential “Penn” outfits back home. Old-money aesthetics have been in style for years, and I dress like an Ivy League student because, after all, I am one. Regardless, gone are the cargos and colorful acrylic nails I used to wear. As Penn students, we tend to limit ourselves to one sole facet of our identity through our style. Every time we do this, we deny ourselves the complexity of identity, forcing ourselves to value wealth and prestige over love, friendship, and individuality. So, every time you wear your cardigan or contemplate buying a new bag, remember to ask yourself if this is a performance or your truth.

SIMAR SONI is a College sophomore from Danbury, Conn. studying political science. Her email is simars@sas.upenn.edu.

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