Here’s a photo of my sister’s boutique Ecru on Melrose Avenue in the mid-’80s. That location is now a vintage store called Wasteland. Ah, the irony.

When I was a little girl, my mother owned one of those low-budget wholesale/retail apparel businesses in the alleys of downtown L.A. Every Saturday of my life, I used to go down there and help the ladies dig through the boxes and browse through the racks to find their sizes. The clothes were probably made in sweatshops and ended up in low income neighborhoods all over California. But I took my job seriously. As a child laborer, I sold trendy spandex knit tops, tight Sergio Valente jeans and polyester georgette blouses to the Latinas, Israelis and Koreans who were our customers.

When my mom would get ready for work, she amazed me with how beautifully she transformed herself. She always did the full face of makeup. She’d always wear pantyhose, slips and proper heels. She was a single mom, but she always made sure she looked put together and camera ready. When my mother’s business ultimately failed, she decided to start a knock-off clothing line (kind of like what Forever 21 is now, but on a much smaller scale) with my oldest sister, Elaine. That didn’t last long, because it didn’t do very well. Soon, we were almost out on the street.

Then, when I was about 13, my sister managed to open a really nice boutique called Ecru on Melrose Avnue in Hollywood. It started out humbly enough, but it kept growing and growing. Soon, she was attracting celebrity clientele like Madonna, Oprah Winfrey, Keanu Reeves. Of course, I helped out, too, and sometimes I scored really nice outfits! She was making tons of money, and the architectural grandeur of her boutique was documented in design magazines all over the world. It was truly the glory days of the 1980s before Melrose became such a pit of tackiness.

But like everything else, that boutique went out of business, too. At the dawn of the 1990s, my sister scraped herself off the proverbial floor and relaunched but this time as a fashion designer. Her brand, Product, was really revolutionary: clean lines, basics and just the best fitting pants you could want. She pioneered the bridge niche now populated by lines like Theory, Parallel and Development. All of that came after her. Just like with her boutique, this label skyrocketed to fame and success. She clocked ten million dollars annually with in-store shops at Bloomingdales and Barneys and four of her own boutiques in Soho, Nolita, West Hollywood and Beverly Hills. We were all put to work, manning the boutiques, renting out clothes to stylists and helping at the headquarters. But by 2000, that went out of business, too.

Now my sister is relaunching herself as a fashion designer (elainekim.com). But she has to start from scratch. Few remember her from her glory days. When people see her collections, they have no idea how much history, struggle and sacrifice went into her creations.

These days I’m a writer that reports on fashion. Everyday, I interview Latinas and Latinos who have overcome incredible odds and created success for themselves in this industry. I am constantly amazed at the different ways people who love clothes and style can make their means in fashion. And I try to learn from all of them.

—Serena

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