Lolita is a dream. A conflict of identity in my case.

I was interested in lolita since the late 90’s, when I was a teenager that was obsessed with anime (otaku wasn’t a term that existed back then) and anything related with Japan. I wanted to dress in lolita so badly, but I didn’t even know where to start. There were no lolita communities back then and I didn’t know anyone interested in it, so I had nowhere to turn to. I just looked at Japanese fashion magazines that I would hunt down at the only Japanese book store in my city. They would come in every couple of months and I would go over the pages again and again, daydreaming about wearing lolita dresses. During this period of my life, I started dressing up in costumes. I created a fantasy out of who I wanted to be: a rebel, a super hero, a sexy anime chic or a villain.  I wore costumes because I wanted to feel confident and desired (I was never “the pretty girl”) and to create wearable art. Cosplay allowed me to do this. I was immersed in the lifestyle of a total anime nerd until a Trip to Japan happened when I was 19.

Going to Japan was no longer a far away fantasy. I was there, in Tokyo, the city from the future, the present and the past. I was absorbed in the greatness of its temples, the speed of the luminescent metropolis and the kindness of its people. Manga and resin statues became less valuable to me once I set foot on the land of the rising sun. My fascination with anime was erasing within days of setting foot in Japan, leaving a mere indent mark on the page that was my teenage self.

Then there was the fateful visit to Shibuya where I saw them, the lolitas, walking toward one of the many purikura booth buildings. They wore rocking horse shoes and seemed out of place, but at the same time they fit right in and made so much sense. I was walking with my sister toward the gargantuan Tower Record store and I couldn’t help but stare at this trio of girls; with their headdresses, knee high stockings, dresses, their matching purses, their parasols, their smiles and the absolutely perfect time they were having. I had hoped that I would run into lolitas during my trip, but this encounter caught me by surprise. My brain was flooded with images of me sitting on my bed, slowly turning Lolita Bible pages and gawking at Baby brand JSK’s. As I stared at them, I wondered if I would ever wear those types of clothes and pull them off like they did. I felt absolutely under dressed in my chucks, t-shirt and blue jeans. I told myself that one day I would dress in lolita. I was already parading myself around in cosplay at conventions, so why not?

That trip to Japan is just a distant memory now. I grew up and found love and mentors and matured out of old concepts about myself. I continue to cosplay, but not out of fear anymore. I owned it and improved my sewing and crafting skills. It was liberating and continues to be. But after all this time, my desire to wear lolita remained.

In the city where I used to live, there was a lolita movement that I wasn’t aware of. Many girls who were a few years younger than me were beginning to educate themselves on lolita and started wearing it, and they grew up beautifully into it. At the age of 24, at a far away goth convention where no one knew me except for the people I was with, I decided to wear my cheap replica lolita dress. I purchased it from ebay. That’s how lost I was as to how to purchase lolita items, what was considered lolita and what wasn’t. It was ill fitting and made out of horribly thin cotton fabric, but appropriate to the atmosphere: all black and very Moi-même-Moitié. When I put my dress on for the first time, with petticoat, accessories and all, I looked into the mirror and thought: “I’m a grown woman. What am I doing? This is ridiculous.” But the dress was so cool and I was giddy about having the guts to finally put it on. I dressed this way for the rest of the convention. I felt splendid and received endless compliments. When I returned home, I was ready to create a lolita closet.

I can go into the details about the very few items I have purchased and how these pieces are just barely a wearable lolita wardrobe, but that is not the purpose of this confessional. The purpose of this is to recognize my inner conflict with lolita. All of my life I struggled to fit in and I still do. I desperately try to conceal my passion for cosplay and I don’t like to admit that I am eccentric and have odd taste because I don’t like being judged by those who don’t know me. Wearing lolita makes me feel unique and its aesthetic appeals to me. Words cannot describe the joy I find in wearing bows and feminine things because bows and feminine things looked matronly on me as a little girl. I never felt pretty. These clothes fulfill the desire I always had to be girly. Yet, there is something within me that repels lolita. I dislike it’s association with precociousness and its infantile name. I dislike that those who do not wear lolita assume that the clothes are worn just to call attention to one’s self or because we are immature. I hate how people stare when I wear it. I don’t like that it makes me feel guilty for coveting a $200 dollar skirt, $200 dollar purse and $400 dollar dress when most people can only afford to shop at Good Will or when people are trying to survive when their country is devastated by a natural disaster.

Lolita, I resent you for all of this, but I adore you because you make me feel elegant and fair; because you embody rebellion in macaroons, bows and rose bouquets.

I wish I had the valor to wear you everyday, but for now, I will indulge only every once in a while and hope that one day, I will be able to be completely comfortable in my own skin. With lolita, or without it. Or without anything on.

My heart is yours.