From Oprah Magazine
My childhood playground was my father’s T-shirt factory in Yonkers. Instead of asphalt, cigarette butts and snapped rubber bands were underfoot, and in lieu of monkey bars, I could choose from four silk screen machines to climb on. (But of course I didn’t. That would be imprudent.) In the center of the warehouse was an assembly line of folks scrunching fabric into intricate folds, then dosing them with industrial sized squirt bottles of color that would later turn into the tie dyed garments my dad would wholesale—and attempt to outfit me in.
It was the 90s, and tie dye was as ubiquitous as Tamogatchis. If you weren’t cloaked in dancing Grateful Dead bears or a rainbow splattered Absolute Camp shirt, you weren’t part of the zeitgeist. And…I hated it. I thought the fashions my dad foisted on me were tacky, in so much