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For trangender guys and other transmascs, the Jay and Silent Bob auteur—and his huge jorts and hockey jerseys—have become an unlikely source of style inspiration.
Earlier this summer, I was talking with the tattoo artist Mika Cook-Wright about what he wears to work. "I get dressed for a session thinking, 'Okay, this a unique outfit; no one's going to look just like this today,' then transmasc clients arrive at the studio dressed in almost identical clothes. Everyone's Smithing."
If you can't make heads or tails of this statement, you're probably not a 20-something trans guy, and I'm sorry to hear that. But I am, and I can explain! It's a journey through the rocky landscapes of taste, gender, and really big shorts. It's a journey that will seek to answer the question that plagues my community: How did Kevin Smith become a transmasc style icon?
I first found out I was not alone in my sartorial admiration of Smith in a conversation with Cook-Wright. Long ago, we were discussing the impact of Big 5" Inseam and its insidious skies out, thighs out agenda. I mentioned Smith as a stalwart of huge shorts and lawless layers, and Mika's eyes lit up: He was Smith-pilled, too. What I first took to be a funny coincidence, I soon discovered was ubiquitous among my transmasculine friends. Some paid knowing homage, while others had begun to emulate Smith's style through cultural osmosis.
Kevin Smith is, of course, a filmmaker and comic book writer, perhaps best known for his cult classic Clerks: a directorial debut that garnered critical and popular acclaim, introduced Jay and Silent Bob to the culture, and put him on the map as a singular voice in the independent filmmaking landscape where he's remained ever since, crafting funny, weird, off-kilter stories filled with characters who are equal parts repelling and engrossing. Smith is also a distinctive dresser, known for oversized jorts, blazers, graphic tees, hockey jerseys, and backward caps, whatever the occasion. And his irreverent, juvenile sartorial sensibility has, improbably, crossed over to swaths of young transmascs in creative fields. They might prefer the movies of Jane Campion, but they dress like Mallrats.
"I was Smithing before I knew who Kevin Smith was," says model and comedian Sophia Wilson-Pelton. "Just by dressing at the intersection of my taste, my physical comfort, and my nonbinary gender presentation, I was ending up with a very San Diego Comic-Con panel-ready look."
This summer, big shorts are back, but for some of us, they never left. So what is it about the maverick director's personal style that strikes such a chord with young transmasculine people?
Mainstream trend cycles are notoriously brief, but look behind every aesthetic enjoying its 15 minutes of fame and you will uncover a deceptively long cultural gestation period. As I understand it—and I'm not an expert, but speaking with unearned authority and incomplete knowledge is gender-affirming, so humor me—coolness basically works as follows: A marginalized group begins wearing something, tastemakers observe the trend in its nascency, these purveyors of high culture create the "elevated" (read: expensive) version of the look, fashion-forward celebrities publicize and popularize it, then it's mass produced and sold back down to the mainstream, trend-conscious consumer. The influence of content generation-driven social media like TikTok has somewhat democratized (or at least imploded) this process; however, cultural, racial, and socioeconomic hierarchies remain relevant as ever in determining who receives credit and compensation for their role in the creation of Cool. And like most facets of modern society, there is no opting out. Efforts to subvert or circumvent participation in fashion often end up legitimizing the authorities they seek to challenge, and to construct your fashion identity in direct opposition to convention is still to be ruled by convention. Developing a relationship to your clothes that feels fun, perhaps even liberating, is only possible through exploring, experimenting, and discovering what you actually like.
So what does all of this have to do with the filmmaker Kevin Smith? Like his work, Smith's style is iconoclastic, unapologetic, and informed by niche passions. He takes big swings, and they don't always hit, but when they do, they soar. When Chasing Amy came out in 1997, the film was controversial, with some lesbians claiming its plot pushed the homophobic myth that lesbians just need to find the right guy. A quarter century later, the film feels like a cogent exploration of biphobia and bi-erasure within both straight and queer communities, in addition to being one of the most effective representations of fragile masculinity as a driver of bigotry and violence that I have ever seen.
In a similar way, Smith's signature oversized carpenter shorts have also been the subject of controversy and derision over the years—and now Emily Ratajkowski is pairing them with a crop top and Timbs. This is hardly the first time a thin person has been celebrated for wearing the same items for which fatter people are mocked: Culturally, we have been conditioned to only recognize coolness when it is displayed on a body that aligns with normative conventions of desirability and respectability.
Trans people are central among those overlooked by this conditioning. It is generally assumed that trans people emulate cis people in their gender expression and presentation, when in reality, the opposite is often true. This is demonstrated most acutely by trans women and femmes, who originated beauty trends like contouring that have since been adopted by cis women. This interplay between trans and cis gender expression can be seen most clearly among women, in part because this emphasis sustains the myth that femininity is superficially constructed while masculinity is somehow natural or innate. But take one look at the campy breeding grounds of gender performance like comic books, superhero franchises, or horror films (three worlds in which Kevin Smith is steeped), and it's clear to see that masculinity is deeply constructed, and as such, ripe for deconstruction and play. Trans men and mascs, having been socialized female, are uniquely situated to explore our masculinity critically, intentionally, and with a hint of ironic detachment.
Between Kevin Smith and transmascs in my orbit, there is a shared interest in puberty and adolescence. The men of Smith's films amble through young adulthood in a state of arrested development, plagued by crises of masculinity. Unfortunately for them, they are lacking the vocabulary and theoretical frameworks transmascs are more likely to have developed in their own transitions.
"I think trans people often feel like they missed out on presenting how they would have liked to as a kid, while for others, prepubescence was the only time they were able to present authentically before the rigid gender conditioning that coincides with puberty took place" says game designer Lisha Payne. "I also think a lot of transmasc people look younger than their actual age. For example, on a plane, I was once mistaken for a boy child with the pilot addressing me by bending down and greeting me with a soft, 'Hey buddy.' Kevin Smith has a room full of Funko Pops of himself and embraces that younger-at-heart energy."
Though there's a lot to take in here, Lisha is right. The way I dress now is most similar to when I was outfitted in the Kohl's boy section at age seven than any other time in my life. Wardrobe-wise, I think what really ties Kevin Smith and transmascs together is dressing for comfort, with the knowledge that comfort can mean and look like so many different things. Sometimes it's the comfort of slipping into formlessness: seeking refuge from dysphoria or dysmorphia with layers and oversized pieces. And that's okay. It's okay to need a break from your body. Other times, it's the comfort of finally loving and feeling at home in your physical form such that you can throw on whatever you want and still feel like you.
"I'm a short guy like Kev, and he helped me realize that I can rock a baggy, oversized aesthetic without looking like I'm a kid wearing my dad's suit jacket," says stand-up comedian Nico Carney. "I think a lot of times as a trans guy I feel it's 'safer' to blend in and wear something muted. But he helped me realize I can be specific and unique in my presentation."
You know in movies when someone has a brush with death and starts engaging in reckless behavior? Well, I had a significant brush with not getting to be a man, and my gratitude for making it to where I am today manifests as a fairly reckless approach to manhood. Like many trans men, I do feel that medical transition saved my life, and now that I'm so dropped into my body, I find immense joy in doing whatever I want with it. What that looks like can and will change with time, but right now? It's wearing really, really big shorts.
For trangender guys and other transmascs, the Jay and Silent Bob auteur—and his huge jorts and hockey jerseys—have become an unlikely source of style inspiration.
Earlier this summer, I was talking with the tattoo artist Mika Cook-Wright about what he wears to work. "I get dressed for a session thinking, 'Okay, this a unique outfit; no one's going to look just like this today,' then transmasc clients arrive at the studio dressed in almost identical clothes. Everyone's Smithing."
If you can't make heads or tails of this statement, you're probably not a 20-something trans guy, and I'm sorry to hear that. But I am, and I can explain! It's a journey through the rocky landscapes of taste, gender, and really big shorts. It's a journey that will seek to answer the question that plagues my community: How did Kevin Smith become a transmasc style icon?
I first found out I was not alone in my sartorial admiration of Smith in a conversation with Cook-Wright. Long ago, we were discussing the impact of Big 5" Inseam and its insidious skies out, thighs out agenda. I mentioned Smith as a stalwart of huge shorts and lawless layers, and Mika's eyes lit up: He was Smith-pilled, too. What I first took to be a funny coincidence, I soon discovered was ubiquitous among my transmasculine friends. Some paid knowing homage, while others had begun to emulate Smith's style through cultural osmosis.
Kevin Smith is, of course, a filmmaker and comic book writer, perhaps best known for his cult classic Clerks: a directorial debut that garnered critical and popular acclaim, introduced Jay and Silent Bob to the culture, and put him on the map as a singular voice in the independent filmmaking landscape where he's remained ever since, crafting funny, weird, off-kilter stories filled with characters who are equal parts repelling and engrossing. Smith is also a distinctive dresser, known for oversized jorts, blazers, graphic tees, hockey jerseys, and backward caps, whatever the occasion. And his irreverent, juvenile sartorial sensibility has, improbably, crossed over to swaths of young transmascs in creative fields. They might prefer the movies of Jane Campion, but they dress like Mallrats.
"I was Smithing before I knew who Kevin Smith was," says model and comedian Sophia Wilson-Pelton. "Just by dressing at the intersection of my taste, my physical comfort, and my nonbinary gender presentation, I was ending up with a very San Diego Comic-Con panel-ready look."
This summer, big shorts are back, but for some of us, they never left. So what is it about the maverick director's personal style that strikes such a chord with young transmasculine people?
Mainstream trend cycles are notoriously brief, but look behind every aesthetic enjoying its 15 minutes of fame and you will uncover a deceptively long cultural gestation period. As I understand it—and I'm not an expert, but speaking with unearned authority and incomplete knowledge is gender-affirming, so humor me—coolness basically works as follows: A marginalized group begins wearing something, tastemakers observe the trend in its nascency, these purveyors of high culture create the "elevated" (read: expensive) version of the look, fashion-forward celebrities publicize and popularize it, then it's mass produced and sold back down to the mainstream, trend-conscious consumer. The influence of content generation-driven social media like TikTok has somewhat democratized (or at least imploded) this process; however, cultural, racial, and socioeconomic hierarchies remain relevant as ever in determining who receives credit and compensation for their role in the creation of Cool. And like most facets of modern society, there is no opting out. Efforts to subvert or circumvent participation in fashion often end up legitimizing the authorities they seek to challenge, and to construct your fashion identity in direct opposition to convention is still to be ruled by convention. Developing a relationship to your clothes that feels fun, perhaps even liberating, is only possible through exploring, experimenting, and discovering what you actually like.
So what does all of this have to do with the filmmaker Kevin Smith? Like his work, Smith's style is iconoclastic, unapologetic, and informed by niche passions. He takes big swings, and they don't always hit, but when they do, they soar. When Chasing Amy came out in 1997, the film was controversial, with some lesbians claiming its plot pushed the homophobic myth that lesbians just need to find the right guy. A quarter century later, the film feels like a cogent exploration of biphobia and bi-erasure within both straight and queer communities, in addition to being one of the most effective representations of fragile masculinity as a driver of bigotry and violence that I have ever seen.
In a similar way, Smith's signature oversized carpenter shorts have also been the subject of controversy and derision over the years—and now Emily Ratajkowski is pairing them with a crop top and Timbs. This is hardly the first time a thin person has been celebrated for wearing the same items for which fatter people are mocked: Culturally, we have been conditioned to only recognize coolness when it is displayed on a body that aligns with normative conventions of desirability and respectability.
Trans people are central among those overlooked by this conditioning. It is generally assumed that trans people emulate cis people in their gender expression and presentation, when in reality, the opposite is often true. This is demonstrated most acutely by trans women and femmes, who originated beauty trends like contouring that have since been adopted by cis women. This interplay between trans and cis gender expression can be seen most clearly among women, in part because this emphasis sustains the myth that femininity is superficially constructed while masculinity is somehow natural or innate. But take one look at the campy breeding grounds of gender performance like comic books, superhero franchises, or horror films (three worlds in which Kevin Smith is steeped), and it's clear to see that masculinity is deeply constructed, and as such, ripe for deconstruction and play. Trans men and mascs, having been socialized female, are uniquely situated to explore our masculinity critically, intentionally, and with a hint of ironic detachment.
Between Kevin Smith and transmascs in my orbit, there is a shared interest in puberty and adolescence. The men of Smith's films amble through young adulthood in a state of arrested development, plagued by crises of masculinity. Unfortunately for them, they are lacking the vocabulary and theoretical frameworks transmascs are more likely to have developed in their own transitions.
"I think trans people often feel like they missed out on presenting how they would have liked to as a kid, while for others, prepubescence was the only time they were able to present authentically before the rigid gender conditioning that coincides with puberty took place" says game designer Lisha Payne. "I also think a lot of transmasc people look younger than their actual age. For example, on a plane, I was once mistaken for a boy child with the pilot addressing me by bending down and greeting me with a soft, 'Hey buddy.' Kevin Smith has a room full of Funko Pops of himself and embraces that younger-at-heart energy."
Though there's a lot to take in here, Lisha is right. The way I dress now is most similar to when I was outfitted in the Kohl's boy section at age seven than any other time in my life. Wardrobe-wise, I think what really ties Kevin Smith and transmascs together is dressing for comfort, with the knowledge that comfort can mean and look like so many different things. Sometimes it's the comfort of slipping into formlessness: seeking refuge from dysphoria or dysmorphia with layers and oversized pieces. And that's okay. It's okay to need a break from your body. Other times, it's the comfort of finally loving and feeling at home in your physical form such that you can throw on whatever you want and still feel like you.
"I'm a short guy like Kev, and he helped me realize that I can rock a baggy, oversized aesthetic without looking like I'm a kid wearing my dad's suit jacket," says stand-up comedian Nico Carney. "I think a lot of times as a trans guy I feel it's 'safer' to blend in and wear something muted. But he helped me realize I can be specific and unique in my presentation."
You know in movies when someone has a brush with death and starts engaging in reckless behavior? Well, I had a significant brush with not getting to be a man, and my gratitude for making it to where I am today manifests as a fairly reckless approach to manhood. Like many trans men, I do feel that medical transition saved my life, and now that I'm so dropped into my body, I find immense joy in doing whatever I want with it. What that looks like can and will change with time, but right now? It's wearing really, really big shorts.
