What’s the Big Deal With Frye Campus Boots?

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To a specific group of very online Zillennials, “the boots” means only one thing: Frye Campus boots. The style has become the hottest commodity amongst the TikTok fashion girlies, especially in the shade “banana.” They’re currently sold out in multiple sizes and colorways at nearly all Frye retailers, and used versions don’t last long on resell sites like Poshmark, eBay, and The RealReal. As a result, the boots are being duped at an alarming rate at places like Amazon and Target. They are everywhere and they are nowhere.

On TikTok, a search for “Frye Campus boots” yields hundreds, if not thousands, of videos about the style. Some show off their collections of rare vintage Campus boots, while others just lust for them in real time. “They are slowly becoming my personality, and I have worn them with every outfit I could,” says one influencer to camera, cradling her boots like a newborn baby. (At $500 a pop, they are, arguably, worthy of the cradle.)

I was not ready for the cultish level of obsession over this 50-year-old style from a brand which had, at various points during my three decades on Earth, been heralded as both the epitome of cringe and the zenith of cool. My 30-something colleagues and I all remember our own Frye-boot eras—the chokehold the knee-high side-zip riding boots had over the girls in my high school was unparalleled—and were bewildered as the 20-something women in our lives spoke of setting restock alerts on their phones and scouring their hometown vintage stores for a stray pair.

So what’s the deal? What is causing this massive resurgence of Frye Campus boots?

Piera Onorati, senior vice president of merchandising at Authentic Brands Group, which owns The Frye Company, credits “social media buzz and organic VIP placements” for driving the trend. Onorati says the brand has seen a 35% increase in sales of Campus boots in 2024. And it’s true—Gen Z icons like Olivia Rodrigo, Addison Rae, and Zendaya have all been photographed in Frye Campus boots lately.

But to me, this trend seems to go beyond idolizing celebrity style. Many of the boot’s biggest champions on social media tout not just its cosmetic features—its hefty stacked heel, its blunt, squared toe—but its history. Frye is no Louis Vuitton or Gucci, but the name carries weight.

The brand has long been associated with an all-American image, something Frye’s marketing team has been keen to capitalize on by fondly referencing vintage ads and the boot’s “Made in the USA” legacy. (Per the Wall Street Journal, the boots are now crafted and manufactured in Mexico and China.)

“The Campus boot was first introduced in the early 1970s,” Onorati says, adding that it became a “symbol of rebellion and freedom and remains so even today.”

Both the Campus and its sister style, the Harness, align with the mainstream resurgence of the working-class aesthetics of the American frontier—think cowboy boots and Levi’s, Carhartt coats, and, most recently, barn jackets. With Beyoncé and Pharrell leading the charge, Americana fashion has also played an important role in liberals’ reclamation of patriotism from the far right. Now everyone wants a piece of the aesthetic.

But you don’t need to buy new to participate. Vintage Campus boots are still floating around in the backs of boomers’ and Gen Xers’ closets, and that’s a major part of the style’s appeal. On social media, the holy grail of Frye boot finds are the pairs that have been passed down over generations. “I’m supposed to be a goddamn Frye boot nepo baby but my mom is a size 9,” laments one TikToker, her arms full of her mom’s old boots. Others talk about the shoes as heirloom pieces they wish to one day pass on to kids they haven’t had yet, presuming a future sentimentality to justify their spending.

For those less patient or lucky consumers, dupes from Amazon and Steve Madden have filled the void. On TikTok, the discourse largely centered around Target’s version, which no longer appears to be available. As you may have guessed, not all reactions to the dupes have been positive.

The Campus boot has become a lightning rod for conversations—or more accurately, arguments—between consumers who claim to have the moral high ground about fashion’s waste problem and its lack of inclusivity. There are two camps: Some urge potential buyers to carefully consider their need, not just their desire, for the boots before biting the $498 bullet. “Because of the [pace of the] trend cycle and fast fashion and capitalism, we as consumers have been led to feel entitled to owning anything we want, beyond basic necessity,” says Caroline Tucker, a content creator whose video on the subject of Frye Campus boots has been viewed 848,000 times since it was posted last month. Tucker notes she spent over a year in search of a secondhand pair before she came across her current boots on TheRealReal. She discourages buying dupes simply because an item is of-the-moment, referencing the human and environmental costs that go along with copycat culture.

Frye Campus Boots

$498.00, Nordstrom

Frye Campus 14L Boots

$498.00, Nordstrom

“I wanted this to be something that I added to my wardrobe for years to come, which I think is how we should look at clothing,” she explains. “It has a life before us, it has a life after us. And those are things that should matter, right?”

On the other side, some fast-fashion consumers rail against these critics and say they are “gatekeeping” the trend by insisting that shoppers who can’t afford the real thing pass them up. In a critique that went viral with more than 2.8 million views, Chicago-based creator Mauricio says that to dismiss dupes, and the people who buy them, is to deny the reality most people live in. While he concedes that copies will not always last as long as the “real” thing, he adds, “we live in the world we live in.”

More than ever, personal style matters. Whereas clothes in previous decades may have served a primarily utilitarian purpose, they now serve the purpose of communicating who you are. “Maybe you want to have fun with [fashion],” Mauricio says of consumers who buy dupes so that they can experiment, style-wise. “Maybe you want to have a permanent sense of style because that will enrich your sense of self.”

Tucker and Mauricio are far from the only people discussing the subject at length on platforms like TikTok and YouTube. Essentially, the “Frye boot discourse” has become shorthand for any discussion of the ethics of shopping in 2024. But, as I always say: Don’t hate the player, hate the postindustrial capitalist hellscape. People are going to buy expensive boots and inexpensive boots, and it’s not any one individual’s fault.

Like all trends—including the Frye boot crazes of yesteryear—the Campus boot will be bought, duped, and special-editioned to death until the very sight of the silhouette (especially in the “banana” colorway) will make you want to puke. We’ve seen this fatigue again and again, especially with shoes and accessories. Think of the rise and fall of the Adidas Samba and the Onitsuka Tiger—two heritage pieces whose legacy extends far beyond their flash-in-the-pan moment of TikTok glory—which nonetheless, for a moment, were the ultimate symbol of being “in the know.”

For those who purchase the Frye Campus boot (Onorati says the company has made restocking their priority), or even a pair of the dupes, I hope they last far beyond this trend cycle. If history has taught us anything, in 20 years they’ll be at the top of every teen’s wishlist.

Originally Appeared on Glamour