The Devil Wears Patagonia

By: Ashwini Deshpande

Miranda Priestly, played by Meryl Streep, elegant in The Devil Wears Prada

When I first arrived at Kellogg, I wasn’t particularly worried about the cold. I was worried about the clothes.

Before business school, I was a fashion designer living in London. My life revolved around clothes. Every week, I attended fashion events in experimental silhouettes and outfits that felt daring even by London standards. Still, I often felt I wasn’t pushing my style far enough. The people around me dressed boldly and unapologetically, setting a bar I constantly tried to meet.

Evanston, to put it gently, does not operate on the same aesthetic wavelength. And yet, even at Kellogg, what we wear says something about us.

In The Devil Wears Prada, Vogue Editor-in-Chief, Miranda Priestly, famously dismantles her assistant Andy’s belief that she exists outside the fashion system (fans of the movie know these lines by heart):

“You… go to your closet, and you select… I don’t know, that lumpy blue sweater, for instance, because you’re trying to tell the world that you take yourself too seriously to care about what you put on your back, but what you don’t know is that that sweater is not just blue, it’s not turquoise, it’s not lapis, it’s actually cerulean.

You’re also blithely unaware of the fact that, in 2002, Oscar de la Renta did a collection of cerulean gowns, and then I think it was Yves Saint Laurent, wasn’t it?… who showed cerulean military jackets. And then cerulean quickly showed up in the collections of eight different designers. Then it filtered down through the department stores and then trickled on down into some tragic casual corner where you, no doubt, fished it out of some clearance bin.

However, that blue represents millions of dollars of countless jobs, and it’s sort of comical how you think that you’ve made a choice that exempts you from the fashion industry when, in fact, you’re wearing a sweater that was selected for you by the people in this room… from a pile of stuff.”

Her point is that no one is exempt. Even opting out is a choice that has already been curated for you.

So if fashion is a language, what exactly are Kellogg students saying?

Over the past few months, I’ve studied the sartorial tendencies of students at the Global Hub. Several archetypes emerged.

Mr. Always in Shorts He treats hypothermia as a mindset rather than a medical condition. It is twelve degrees outside, there is a blizzard warning, and he is walking to class in basketball shorts and a light hoodie. This man is the greatest unsolved mystery of the present day.

Ms. New York She treats the sidewalks of Evanston like the runway of the Meatpacking District, refusing to acknowledge that heels and ice are natural enemies. She can usually be spotted shivering in a very chic, very thin $700 leather jacket. She’s here to “push herself” to make new friends and live in a different environment (the suburbs). She’s not recruiting for anything that’s not in New York.

Ms. Always in Merch

Her body is a walking billboard for the institution. From the Northwestern beanie to the section sweatshirt, to the Kellogg-branded CIM water bottle, she is a true Kellogg leader… or perhaps she just hasn’t done her laundry in ages.

Mr. Always in Black

Is he an aspiring tech product manager, a minimalist architect, or quietly mourning his bank account? No one knows. He moves silently through the corridors in layered shades of charcoal and noir, looking like he’s about to drop a techno album or launch a stealth startup.

Mr. Always in Formals

He wears a suit on a random Tuesday for no reason. While the rest of us debate whether jeans are too formal, he appears in a full Windsor knot, always dressed for an interview he already aced three years ago. You know he lives at the Albion.

Ms. Classy Trust Fund (trust fund… sponsored by MBB)

She is the embodiment of quiet luxury: creams, beiges, and cashmeres that cost more than the tuition. She dines in the West Loop every weekend and looks like she just stepped off a yacht in Succession, even though she’s headed to a Strategy lecture. She’s definitely on CAB exec.

Mr. Midwestern “Don’t Care”

He owns one pair of jeans or cargo pants and three flannels, and he is the happiest man on campus. Probably an MBAi, or on the exec team of Brew 'n' Q. 

The Verdict

After seven years living in London, I expected to struggle with the visual quietness of Evanston. I thought I would miss the adrenaline of getting dressed.

Instead, something unexpected happened. When temperatures dropped, I pulled out a pair of ill-fitted (but extremely warm) black pants from my “to donate” bag and wore them every single day for three weeks. My Burberry and Vivienne Westwood scarves got stowed away and rarely see the light of day but my $15 Amazon one that’s surprisingly warm accompanies me to the hub every morning. My makeup started lasting longer than ever. I created a whole section in my wardrobe dedicated to Kellogg merchandise, and some days, you’ll find me wearing the CMC socks.

I quickly began to lean into the Evanston uniform. There is a sort of freedom in waking up 30 minutes late and putting on something that is simply comfortable before rushing out of the door for your 8:30am lecture. I’ve learned to appreciate the luxury of utility and of dressing to live rather than dressing to be seen.

I still keep my archives. There’s a wardrobe waiting patiently for my post-graduation New York life. And every so often, when the grey sky feels especially depressing, I pull out a piece from my former life: a bold print, pants baggy enough to fit all the alcohol consumed on Big Ski, a black mesh top that no one knows is Alexander McQueen.

On those days, walking into the Hub, I’m usually met with a shower of compliments. It’s fun to be the peacock for a day.

But it’s just as fun to go home, take it all off, and put on the sweatpants.