This year, catalyzed by buying my wedding tuxedo, I had an epiphany: I can’t have no style.

Until recently, I wanted to opt out of worrying about clothes or having a style. This was a philosophy engendered by growing up in our immigrant household: impress with your cleverness and actions, not your looks. Who was I trying to influence as a kid anyway, and why invest in clothes I’d outgrow? 

It’s not that I had no style. There is no such thing as no style, which I realize now. My parents efficiently clothed my brothers and me, so I adopted the style of an immigrant son. I was given Taiwanese hand-me-downs, free graphic tees, bargain bin cargo pants, and big jackets. Everything was oversized, and I didn’t think twice. The clothes were comfortable and I liked having pockets everywhere for mechanical pencils and a flip phone.