Noor Tagouri On Her Style Evolution And The True Meaning Of Inclusion

When I was in middle school, I had a tradition with my best friend, Hannah… We’d take turns calling each other to discuss what we were going to wear the next day. She lived across the street and we were the first kids picked up by the school bus, so we had enough time to curate our outfits using each other’s wardrobes, and change before the next kid got picked up.

It was a ritual. Who do I want to be today? I could never pinpoint my style to one category. I always felt like there was something wrong with that. Where I grew up, you were either preppy, punk or ‘Aéropostale’ [American casual]. There really was no in between. But I had moods and feelings, and I wanted to express them. I wanted to wear all black with laced-up sleeves and laced-up boots one day, and a pink silk skirt with vintage pumps and a silk headband the next. And I did.

No one else I know – bar Hannah, of course – put in that much effort. My mother had inspired my interest in fashion at a young age, dressing me up in a leopard-print cuffed pea coat and matching beret one day, and overalls the next. My personal style evolution came from somewhere deep inside.

I grew up Muslim. In many Muslim-practicing households, by the time you hit puberty, you aren’t going out in a tank top and shorts – a rule I hated as a kid and swore to do something about.

I decided I would always put more effort into my outfits by layering them. I didn’t want to be basic anyway. I meant it, too. I remember getting to the point where I appreciated the challenge. What I didn’t know then was that I was developing a dedicated form of self-expression. I wanted people to know who I was by wearing pieces people would ask me questions about. I wanted my outfits to be conversation-starters.

But, while I knew that’s what I wanted to do for myself, I felt shame when my mother did the same for herself, making the decision to wear the hijab soon after I was born. She proudly participated in many of my school activities, and I would get a lingering feeling in the pit of my stomach when people asked me why she “wore that thing on her head”. I’d shrug and pretend I was just as clueless as them. I was a kid who loved to show what I was about through the clothes I wore, but resented my mother for doing the same. Why?

Looking back, I now realize the main reason I had disdain for the hijab when I was young was because of the lack of representation of my community and faith on my all-time favorite device: the television.

I was taught to resent my family and my faith because of the media – the same industry I knew I wanted to work in ever since I could speak. I wanted to be in the business of storytelling because I knew the power of stories. I knew how they could comfort and connect; how they could shape the way we view the world – and how we escape it. That’s why I started my new podcast, Rep.

When I was 16, I put on the hijab. I had moved to Prince George’s County, Maryland – right outside of Washington, DC – where, for the first time in my life, the place I called home was ‘diverse’. And it really did feel like home.

It’s difficult to explain why I put it on, because it’s personal and an ongoing journey. What I know for sure is that I was looking for something. I felt broken and I wanted to feel strong – like my mother.

This journey [continues to] teach me new things every day, like the fact that it’s no one else’s business why you choose to dress the way you do; that choosing to wear, or not wear, the hijab must remain a choice – otherwise it is a form of oppression. We should forever protect the right of self-expression. Just because you physically see what someone wears, it does not entitle you to know the reasons behind it. For me, hijab will always be something bigger than myself. I am proud to wear something that immediately lets people know a little bit about me.

It is always better when people are familiar with each other’s stories, so we can support and accommodate each other more. [But] this requires honest conversation and intentional listening, especially by the dominant culture.

There are so many changes being made in the fashion industry for the better. Designers like Phillip Lim using their platforms to speak up about things they care about. Diversity in campaigns and on the runway is allowing so many people to finally see themselves, and feel like they can be themselves. Brands and companies are making commitments, and the people are holding them accountable.

The needle is moving, but the threads only come together when we choose together. Ask the people around you how you can be of service; give people space to share their needs. I used to feel nervous asking for a ‘hijab stylist’ on set, or a private area to change, because often no one considers the fact that ‘diversity’ means diverse needs. We need to make things accessible and accommodating.

This is how we build. This is how we intentionally go from exclusion to inclusion. Investing in this commitment and investing in the people leading this change in the fashion industry is a win for all.