A Red Bag

Like all good stories, this one started with a girl and her bag.

Me and said bag as we arrived in our new home for the first time. Also pictured: a pair of matching red sunnies that was frequently seen in acquaintance.

 In 2003, a new job opening for my dad had positioned my family to move to a small island in The Bahamas. At the time, I was almost four and my brother not even 18 months. We had packed up boxes and boxes of our stuff, ready to transition from our cul-de-sac in Orange County, California for a whole new life in Exuma. It was then during the moving process that a red bag embroidered in white and black paisleys caught my eye from my mother’s trash bin. My little brows furrowed. “TRASSH?” I contested in disbelief. My mother saw me standing there and with a laugh she said, “If you like it, you can take it.” And with those eight words, I scurried up the stairs eager to try on my new find in the mirror. It was beautiful. That, my friends, was my classic Hollywood meet cute; my meet-cute with a very cute red bag. 

The bag and I take on the world! I don’t know who put me in this double duty denim look, but I am in love.

This bag magically checked off all my specifications (that I didn’t even know I had at four years old). It’s versatile square shape, soft quilt-like texture, playful print, and of course, zip-top flanked with one large adjustable strap. Bonus: it could comfortably house my Tamagotchi. What’s not to love? 

You know, it’s funny. As I skimmed through my mother’s iCloud storage for photos, I realized exactly how obsessed I was with the bag. I wore it to trips to the grocery store, the dry cleaners, around the block during my bike rides with my brother -- and on top of that, I made sure people knew about it. As seen in the hundreds of photos, my mom was used to documenting the bag and my various adventures. It didn’t matter where the bag and I headed, the endless possibilities made it exciting. The margins were wide, and so was the bag.

Then, after one of our regular Saturday night dinners at CPK, I left the red beauty strapped to the back of the chair. By the time I realized the mistake I had made, we were already home. The mourning was so prolonged and deep that my kindergarten teacher felt the need to express her worry about my “unhealthy obsession” with my mother. Now six years old, I still think of it as my first love and loss. I continued to mourn the loss for over the next few weeks. Then Christmas came. 

News of my bag tragedy spread across my family like a funny wet-the-bed-at-six-years-old story that my mom loved to retell (with special emphasis on the teacher intervention). When my uncle heard he decided that like all good loves lost, this one must be met with an adequate, if not better, replacement. And with that Hello Kitty Messenger was born.

The joy! The exhilaration! If Bottega Veneta BV Jodie owners don’t make this face when they get their bag, they don’t understand true retail joy. This is the first photo of me and my new bag (still in bag, too excited to tarnish its new-ness).

I cheered and screamed and kissed and hugged and kissed some more. A new bag to fill with all of my Lipsmacker chapsticks, temporary tats, and dreams of womanhood. The possibilities! They were endless. 

 It was not so much that these bags were designer or expensive — as a child, I didn’t know any different — but they radiated a kind of energy that when worn, made me feel different. They made me feel stronger. With the red bag, it was the first time that an article of clothing amplified my inward joy and confidence to the outside world. Cue a dramatic flashback complete with me and the bag walking home from school as the wind blows my hair and the whole neighborhood gasps. I always had a flair for the dramatic.* 

 Those bags provided me with my first exposure to the “Damnn” punch that hits deep in the gut, the kind so good that you feel it in each and every nerve. Every day since that first look in the mirror, I have tried to recreate that feeling with the clothes I put on. 

 I still rummage through my mother’s things looking to breathe new life into beautiful, under-loved pieces. Actually, just the other day I found her collection of colorful scarves that I can’t wait to turn into bandeau tops (with the help of a quick TikTok tutorial). 

 My love of the red bag and its effects ignited a desire in me to use clothing as a method to self-express; its ability to lift me up and make me feel good and whole. And that alone will probably make me never stop appreciating the power of style. 

*Honestly I still do.