Ukay-ukay knows best

By Herman M. Lagon

Not all fashion lives on runways. Some of it breathes in places like Mary Mart Mall in Iloilo—where survival meets style, and heart beats louder than any brand. It was there, surrounded by dusty racks and my daughters’ excited nudges, that I stumbled into the joyful mess of ukay-ukay. Before that, clothes were just either formal or functional. But in that dusty, laughter-filled maze of nameless labels, I realized: this was not just shopping—it was storytelling.

Ukay-ukay, from hukay (to dig), goes beyond thrift. It digs into class, culture, and identity. What began as practicality is now a quiet revolution—students in secondhand velvet at prom, professionals mixing vintage with luxury. In Iloilo’s 1688 Mall or Manila’s Divisoria, it is not about designer names—it is about pieces with soul.

What struck me most? The patience. I once watched a teenage girl fresh from school spend an hour picking through jackets to find one perfect Nike windbreaker. It was not about the logo—it was about how it made her feel: confident, seen, new. In a world of sameness, ukay-ukay offers uniqueness without the price tag.

The shift is real. According to Carousell’s 2024 index, Filipinos are among Southeast Asia’s top secondhand shoppers—helping cut thousands of tons of carbon emissions. The UN says fashion accounts for 10% of global emissions. Ukay-ukay, as Biana (2020) puts it, turns waste into wearable sustainability.

But let us be real—this is not all romantic. Ukay-ukay lives in legal gray areas. RA 4653, passed in 1966, still bans used clothing imports, citing “dignity.” Meanwhile, the same clothes confiscated at Customs are sent to disaster victims by the government. The irony is glaring. And livelihoods hang in the balance.

There is also class bias. When a poor student thrifts, it is survival. When an influencer does it, it is “eco-chic.” I have heard people gush over ₱25 finds for being “so Chanel” without acknowledging the labor behind them. Style is praised, but struggle is ignored.

Still, ukay-ukay thrives because it is a space for everyone. For queer youth, it is gender freedom—no “men’s” or “women’s” sections, just possibility. As Rappler’s Zero Candelaria and AJ Raymundo note, it is where identity becomes wearable.

I see this in some of my students, too—arriving in thrifted gowns that steal the spotlight during their acquaintance party in Barotac Nuevo. It is not just affordable—it is bold, brilliant, and deeply personal. They are remixing fashion into self-expression, crafting looks that say, I made this work. And often, they do—better than anything off the rack.

My daughters, both professionals, taught me this firsthand. One weekend in Divisoria, we spent hours hunting for a faux leather jacket, a pair of branded jeans, and a set of high-end swimming gears. When we finally found the ones, my eldest said, “See, Pa? Sustainable and stylish—without the markup. Barato na, branded pa.” She was right. Those jeans, jacket, and trunks still hang in my closet, proudly outlasting shirts I paid thrice as much for.

Clearly, ukay-ukay for all ages. I have seen titas haggle like pros in Lapaz Market area, and office workers sneak into thrift stalls after work. One law grad I know took her bar exams in a secondhand Calvin Klein suit. “Embarrassed?” I asked. She laughed. “Only when I pay full price.”

Of course, some have turned thrift into trend—repackaging ukay-ukay finds for quadruple the cost. Nothing wrong with enterprise, but when accessibility turns into exclusivity, we lose what made it special. Affordability should stay at the heart of it.

In its purest form, ukay-ukay is hope stitched into fabric. It is what happens when people refuse to be boxed in by budget and instead lean into creativity. It is not about labels but about layers of meaning, history, and intention.

I tell my students this often: clothes do not define your worth—but how you wear them can reflect your values. I have met teachers who wear ukay-ukay not to make a statement, but because they know that value is not about logos—it is about living with intention and heart.

So when someone dismisses thrift shops, just say: that is where cast-offs become keepers. And if we can do that with clothes, we can do that with people too.

That, to me, is real style.

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Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.