“If the shoe doesn’t fit, must we change the foot?” — Gloria Steinem

Mr. Kilroy was our dedicated high school DJ, and as far as teachers went, Killer was cool. Before my senior year, I knew Killer from afar as our spin doctor. Killer mashed impossible-to-blend ’80s music: Run-D.M.C., The Go-Go’s, Frankie Goes to Hollywood, The Ramones, Madonna, The Beastie Boys, Guns N’ Roses, The Police, MJ and The Clash, to name a few. We gyrated and jumped in rolled-up jeans and off-the-shoulder shirts while slipping on the thin red floor covering. Killer delivered on fun, fast music, leaving your skin slick and a few squishy slow songs so you could remind partners that back pockets were for your hands, not theirs. Frank Sinatra belted the end of our gymnasium soirees with “New York, New York,” and we trooped downtown to our version of the best pizza anywhere — Owls Nest.

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Best Days?

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High school was a four-year uphill bushwhacking slog through self-doubt, wearing the wrong outfit. I wasn’t popular or brave enough to be alternative, so I hung out with other sporty misfit types on Outlier Island, where we all loved to dance.

Sadly, my ability to canonize high school dances as the “time of my life” is prevented by one snag: what to wear was a week-long prostration in front of the meager contents of my closet. Deep in my adolescent miasma, fashion functioned as social armor, with a focus on accessories. Belonging boiled down to bangles, which followed this equation:

Number of Bangles (B)=

Height of Bangs x Sock Scrunches

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Notice Me x Popped Collars

To alleviate stress my sophomore year, my mom made my dress for The Drag. I loved it — until I put it on. “Dresses are stupid. I can’t move my legs,” I said. “We wore dresses every day — to school, to dances …” “You went to dances?” I asked. “Of course! Teen Canteen every weekend, the Daisy May Drag with vegetable boutonnieres and the Prom –” she got a wistful look. “Every day?” I gasped. “You must’ve had a dozen dresses.” She smiled. “Thirty-one. One for each day of the month.” My friends adored my dress and arm full of clanking bangles, but I felt trapped in my own skin, out of sync with myself in every way. Then I found a place where I belonged: a classroom.

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Top of the heap

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My senior year, I was assigned to Mr. Kilroy’s homeroom, which was the capstone of my high school career. For the first time, I was a Chosen One, although I had no clue why. For years, I sat behind Bruce Callaghan and in front of Trina Cheress, but Killer’s non-alphabetical homeroom included names like Fina, Wild, Blanchard, Goodrow, Lester and Lambrechts. We were the envy of many with access to cutting-edge box-shaped computers, a decent radio and on Fridays, we had donuts.

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The power of powder

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I’ve never loved donuts — even before concerns about refined sugar, simple carbs and Red Dye No. 5. Yet every Friday morning, I ate one powdered donut because nice was scarce.

Senior year, I skipped loser laps down the halls and went right to homeroom. We hung out with Killer instead. He was normal, he offered no judgment, no lectures, just a nice dude with great taste in music. Somewhere in the powder-dusted kindness of Killer’s homeroom, something shifted. No, I didn’t have a transcendental moment where Killer and I bonded over David Bowie, but I was accepted. Maybe it was maturity, maybe just fashion fatigue, but halfway through senior year, I finally let go of the constant pressure to get it right. I stopped trying to outfit myself in someone else’s approval. Comfort wasn’t the enemy of style — it was the beginning of self-respect.

For years, I thought acceptance meant shrinking into whatever version of myself would get the nod. I shaped, edited and packaged myself for belonging.

Gloria Steinem asked, “If the shoe doesn’t fit, must we change the foot?” I spent a long time trying to change the foot. Real belonging meant learning to come as I was, no bagels required.