on ironic tees and depop rarity

I ran into a past version of me on Depop

I scroll on Depop like it’s a fucking social media platform. I mean it is to a certain extent… How many influencers Depop accounts do you follow? I know I follow a few on the off chance someone who’s style I admire sells something at a low price and in my size. Depop is so well curated, that I spend hours on the platform just scrolling, liking beautiful clothes, sending pieces to my friends and sister that I think they might like as if they were memes. It’s my lotus flower garden and I’d happily waste my life away if it means being surrounded by cute vintage clothing. 

When you manage to avoid dropshippers and people reselling their hyper trendy Shein garbage, Depop is a goldmine for feeding your individuality complex with rare vintage pieces. Depop sellers have caught onto this and the marketability of rarity, so much so that “rare” is now part of the Depop universes lexicon, alongside “vintage” and “archival” as a perfect keyword to match fashion kids with their next piece that comes with an obscure history attached, whether or not that item is genuinely rare, archival, or vintage. But what’s in a rarity? Would a 2000s Ed Hardy shirt described by any other adjective hit as deep? 

The other day, I was scrolling when I came across a piece that played a significant role in my childhood. Up until I saw this shirt, I had completely forgotten I ever even had it. And when I scrolled upon it, it was like seeing your high school crush again years later; a little bit cringey but all the memories of developing an attachment to something for the first time come rushing back. It was a mint green Juicy Couture baby tee that reads “I Can’t Spel” on the front. 

The shirt came to me as a hand-me-down from one of the wealthy ladies my mom worked for at the time. I was obsessed with it for a few reasons, 1. it was Juicy Couture and I was obsessed with the social capital of owning something Juicy, since I never would’ve been able to afford to buy something new from the brand. I remember going into the 5th avenue storefront on my 12th birthday just to feel “expensive”. The only thing I actually bought that day was a Sanrio purse from the Toys”R”Us in Times Square which appealed to the harajuku/scene kid aesthetic I was obsessed with and honestly was equally as iconic as anything Juicy Couture and I wish I still had it. 2. I thought it was funny; a style-coding trait which has followed me into adulthood as I search for a Y2K baby tee that reads “thought daughter” on it (surprisingly no one is selling a version of this without a bow attached to it so I had to get one made). 3. I was a rather plump little kid who felt insecure in most clothing and this shirt, which both fit me and said something funny on it, added a little boost of confidence anytime I wore it, like “hey, even if I look like a baby hippo, at least I’m funny and own Juicy Couture.”

The description of this listing reads “RARE VINTAGE Juicy Couture “I Can’t Spel” Fitted Tee.” For just $65 you can own a RARE VINTAGE shirt with deeply personal lore from a random Substack fashion blogger you subscribed to last week attached to it! Sure the scarcity of copies of a piece make it rare, but I think stories like the one I hold behind this shirt actually make them even rarer. In fact, I think Depop should require us to list all of the lore we know about a piece we’re trying to sell on Depop. Who had this before you? How did it come into your life? What dive bar did you pee in fully naked because you chose to wear this Yohji Yamamoto romper???

When I remember the role of the ironic tee in the mid to late 2000s and contemplate its role in fashion today, I see the same nihilism and satirical outlook on modern life that would’ve been felt by the girl at the club wearing a “Free Snooki” shirt. She doesn’t care if she bought this shirt at a t-shirt shop on the boardwalk, just that she proved to you that it’s possible to be cultured and hot. During a recession, it’s easier to signal your niche cultural knowledge as a form of wealth than to signal exclusivity through a plain white t-shirt that only certain people would realize is worth $400. Being broke and chronically online has reconnected us to the power of the ironic tee, which in today’s fashion climate is like a mating call to others who are cultured in hyper-digital matters.

I can’t believe I found this purse so easily.

Online culture is so permeated into our reality that we feel now more than ever the need to carry our community’s with us on shirts, “Thought Daughter,” “Locally Hated,” “Chronically Online” (I own ⅔ of these). This isn't just a trend… it's a coping mechanism! A way to navigate a world where the past and present blur in an endless loop of references and remixes, a playful and self-aware way to process and communicate our experiences. It also allows us to engage with fashion in a way that feels both deeply personal and detached, exactly how I prefer to experience anything remotely nostalgic.

Ironic tees are part of the fashion cycle that taps into our collective memory. Everywhere I look, I see like-minded fashion kids, whether they’re trying to share a bit of their sense of humor at first glance, participating in Indie Sleaze/Y2K revival culture, or subtly communicating that they’re somebody online, rocking an ironic tee. I might’ve manifested the appearance of this Juicy Couture shirt before me. Maybe it was the universe or maybe it was the algorithm reminding me that every version of myself exists inside of me and sometimes escapes to the surface when I get the urge to build a collection of ironic baby tees.

Playing on repeat while I was writing this:

Have you ever found your past self staring back at you on Depop?