Market Research:
Gucci’s “Zumi Sandal,
Ophidia Belt Bag & Snakeskin GG Visor”

In homage to this haughty energy, I’ve assembled the Gucci Aunty Starter Pack, a winning combination of matchy-matchy accessories. The starter pack is a timeless vehicle for telegraphing “LUXURY,” “OPULENCE,” and “GAUDINESS” and a little “IS IT EVEN REAL” to the wider world or at the very least, a 25-foot radius. My personal Aunty Starter Pack consisted of the Snakeskin GG Visor, the Ophidia Belt Bag and the Zumi mule. An illustrious trio. As soon as it arrived, I put the pieces on one-by-one, stared in the mirror and chuckled a little to myself. I sent individual pictures of the visor, the bag, and the sandals to my friend Ray. “Those are timeless pieces!” she exclaimed. I quickly replied “Understated but altogether OBNOXIOUS.”

It's widely held that some of the most daring logo-laden designer items are the bootleg ones—the pieces purchased at Los Angeles swap meets, on the 125th Streets and Fulton Aves of the world. Present-day Gucci is as adept at the bombastic nature of logomania as the counterfeits of Dapper Dan’s 1980 heyday. Since taking the helm at the luxury house in 2015, Alessandro Michele has blown out the brand’s love of logo to the level of absurdity, in the best way of course. Michele understands that the true power of branding lies in the fringe, strongest when stretched to the point of abstraction. He notoriously sent out a collection with the brand’s name spelled “GUCCY.”

The first day that I wore the Ophidia Belt Bag was to a taco spot in the Bedford Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn to get socially-distanced frozen cocktails with my dear friend Jazmine. I immediately flagged to Jazmine that I was trying my hand at a very special sect of AUNTY LUXURY and gestured to the bag. She laughed: “Gucci and Aunty are redundant.”

For me, the Aunty Starter pack was drag. A performance. True to my Piscean nature, my style is characterized by duality, opposing forces. I’ve been a literal peacock in carnival headdresses, beads, glitter. But could also frequently be found swimming in oversized sweatpants and a roomy Supreme button-up shirt. Still, courting this attention felt new to me. Wobbly, just like new mules.

Aunty style is known the world over for jejune hipness and a tendency toward ostentatiousness. It’s adjacent yet somewhat antithetical to Mommy-style, which is usually marked by preparedness, sturdy heels, sensible hemlines. Aunties can be chic and a little out of place. A patent leather mule when the invitation called for flip flops. A sweep of red lipstick for a quick grocery run. A laugh that was a little too loud and dripping in scandal. My Aunty Marilyn is one such woman.

Some context. My parents were God-fearing church folk who would occasionally dip their toes into the reverie of the annual West Indian Labor day parade—watching the stilt-walking moko jumbies, and feathered masqueraders pass by from the pious distance of a relative’s balcony overlooking Eastern Parkway. I was a watered-down first generation American, for whom carnival and soca was nothing more than an old folks tale, third-hand stories of soca tents were tossed around by my dad and my uncles clad in crisp shirt-jackets. Needless to say, I wanted full immersion into any and all Labor Day bacchanal.

Progressively each summer, I was learning how to be “Ah Trini” under the auspices of my two older female cousins, Mickey and Sashel. They had migrated from the island to the US in their pre-teen years. Full of accents, over-plucked eyebrows, and international calling cards so that they could phone their friends “back home.” These girls taught me how to sneak out to BBQs that were rumored to be filled with actual Ruff Ryders—yes, the late 90s bike crew of DMX fame. In the run up to the Labor Day Parade, they taught me to drink warm E&J and Bacardi straight up from a bottle that was stolen and hid under teenage beds. For all our plotting and sneaking, the best grown-up BBQs were held at Sashel’s house, fully orchestrated by her mother, Aunty Marilyn.

Aunty Marilyn was the doyenne of BBQs, CurryQue’s and all backyard functions. An infamous mover and shaker in Brooklyn's Trini-expat scene. She was my aunt by marriage, so obviously the polar opposite of my mother's sisters. The lion’s share of my teenage escapades happened under the guise of going to Aunty Marilyn’s house. She had a pool. She smoked cigarettes which were hidden on top of the fridge. She always had an insane amount of roti, curry, and channa—like she was feeding an army of soldiers that wouldn't get hungry until about 2am. She was stylish; wearing trends that I could never imagine my mother wearing. Her jet black hair sleek and flipped at the ends. Without fail, she’d be wearing a mule, an anklet, and a well-pedicured foot, one reminiscent of Rihanna’s well-documented signature pedicure—you know, extra long, threatening to extend past the tip of the sandal.

Hosting a successful Trini BBQ requires many things: a sizable backyard, a ton of food, music, vibe, et al. The whole night was like staging a performance. The host's outfit must feature some matchy-matchy elements, a cohesive yet superfluous accessory strategy— two phones (house and cell), sunglasses at night, a hat over a silk scarf, a beeper. For the dudes, a flashing BlueTooth headset was bare minimum.

The host is bound to be cooking all day. Taking a second shower as soon as things are all set, hurriedly before guests arrive. The rush is really ill-fated as only a handful of folx will show up within the first three hours. Under the cloak of dust, souped up Nissan Maximas, and Toyota Cressidas haul in the freshly-bathed and powdered. The women dripping in fruity Bath & Body Works splashes (bait for mosquitoes). Men wrapped in Fahrenheit or Polo Sport cologne like an armor.

These nights were pivotal to my teenage summers. They taught me how to be in a party setting, which is altogether different than partying. Dance moves, waistline isolations—of which I’d practiced in front of my bedroom mirror. Now I was putting them to use outside, with an audience. I eventually gained more confidence and owned my slackness. I knew my beverage of choice—dark rum & coke. I had a working handle on both the fast wine and the slow wine.

As I got older, I saw less & less of Aunty Marilyn. Of course, there were still the obligatory family functions, weddings, funerals. Aunty Marilyn would be there. Dressed without a crease, dangly earrings, hair impossibly black & sleek after all these years. Still a glimmer of drama, bacchanal, and commess in her eyes. Like she had a secret in her back pocket that could blow up the whole evening.

The one time—without fail—that I’d see Aunty Marilyn every summer, was at J’ouvert, the pre-dawn celebration of paint, powder and masquerading that preceded the Labor Day Parade. Like clockwork, around 6:00 AM, I’ll be chipping down Empire Boulevard—usually wearing a wig and sunglasses to protect my identity, hair and dignity—I’d bump into her with her respective crew and drunkenly shout “HI AUNTYYYYY!” She really has a way of assessing the scene and quickly sorting everyone out. “You good darlin? You need ah drink? Let’s get some shots,” quickly hailing down the closest nutcracker vendor. Some aunts cook your favorite meal. Some aunts take you to church. Some aunts take you to Lincoln Center for your first opera. And some get you lit at the crack of dawn.

To say this summer has been strange would belittle the uncertainty of life right now. Summer, a time for carefree day-drinking and wanderlusting, has been marked by great caution and overall survival. Laughter is concealed behind masks. Pleasure is fleeting.

Similarly, my personal style has changed. I notoriously change handbags 2-3 times a week, alternating between a black leather Prada satchel, a see-through Maryam Nassir tote and a Black Telfar Shopping Bag. Utility and function became the prevailing sensibility. I immediately traded down this extravagant rotation for one black canvas Stussy crossbody that could hold spare surgical masks, tubes of hand sanitizer, latex gloves, a packet of disinfectant wipes, a lemon-scented chapstick, my keys, and wallet.

Flashy but surprisingly functional, the Aunty Starter Pack has served me well. I downsized even further to the handful of items that my Ophidia Belt Bag could hold; sanitizer, chapstick, debit card, ID & two keys. The Snakeskin GG Visor protects my face from the sun and the Zumi mules provide the slightest lift as I make my way through this very pedestrian summer. This shedding of protective & disinfecting things is a luxury in its own right as New York City made its first steps toward reopening.

With no Labor Day Carnival or Jouvert morning festivities on the horizon, it remains to be seen if I will even cross paths with Aunty Marilyn at all this summer. Last I heard, she was rumored to be back in Trinidad, where she got stuck when the United States border shut down. The fact that the details of Aunty Marilyn’s quarantine are shrouded in mystery seems only fitting. Is it real? Is it fake? Does it even matter?

Deidre Dyer is a writer, editor, and brand consultant based in New York.