Defending Distinctiveness: Patagonia v Pattie Gonia

At first glance, a major outdoor brand suing a climate activist for one dollar appears to be a public relations misstep in the making. That is roughly the story now unfolding between Patagonia and Wyn Wiley, the drag performer and environmental advocate known as Pattie Gonia. Yet beneath the headlines sits an ordinary question of trademark law and a useful reminder that defending a trademark is not a courtesy a company extends when convenient; it is part of what comes with owning the mark in the first place.

A trademark is, at its core, a source identifier. It tells consumers who stands behind a product, so that a shopper reaching for a fleece sweater or wool socks knows whose reputation, quality, and values they are buying into. Trademark law does not exist to reward clever branding for its own sake; it exists to prevent confusion in the marketplace. That is why the central legal test for trademark infringement is the "likelihood of confusion”: whether an ordinary consumer might reasonably believe that two products come from the same source, or that one is affiliated with, sponsored by, or endorsed by the other.

This matters significantly for a company like Patagonia. Their name is not just a label on outdoor clothing; it carries with it decades of association with environmental activism and a particular set of corporate values. When that name, or something close enough to be confused with it, appears on merchandise the company did not make, the value built into the mark begins to blur. And once a mark blurs, it becomes harder to defend against the next user, and the one after that.

For years, Pattie Gonia operated largely as an online persona, reportedly raising more than $3.7 million for environmental causes. Few would argue that a drag character riffing on a famous name causes consumer confusion. However, the trouble, from Patagonia's perspective, began when Wiley filed a trademark application seeking exclusive rights to use "Pattie Gonia" for apparel, merchandise, marketing, and events.

Pattie filing changed the legal picture. Parodying a brand is one thing (and even this has it limits), but a registered mark used to sell branded outdoor products in the same commercial category as Patagonia is another. As trademark attorney Josh Gerben put it, the line gets crossed once you begin selling your own branded merchandise under a name that closely mirrors an established mark, because at that point it is no longer simply parody, it is a competing commercial enterprise. Patagonia has framed its suit in exactly these terms, arguing that the application reflected a move from "discrete use of a persona" toward a wide-ranging commercial brand.

Patagonia has also leaned on a consistency argument that deserves to be taken seriously. The company has said that if it enforces its trademark only against parties it dislikes, it risks losing the ability to defend the mark at all, pointing to past instances where consistent enforcement let it stop counterfeiters, hate groups, and others from misusing the Patagonia name and logo. There is a real principle underneath this: trademark rights can weaken when owners tolerate widespread,

unchecked use of confusingly similar marks. A company genuinely cannot pick and choose based on whether it agrees with a particular user's politics.

Additionally, Patagonia alleges that Wiley breached a 2022 agreement restricting Pattie Gonia from selling branded products or using designs substantially similar to the Patagonia logo. If that agreement exists and says what Patagonia says it does, the company's position becomes considerably stronger, as this would not be a brand bullying an activist, but a party enforcing terms it had already negotiated in good faith.

In fairness, this is the main point contested by Pattie Gonia. She denies any broad agreement ever being reached, characterizing the 2022 terms as limited to a specific collaboration with a third party rather than a permanent restriction on her own brand. Ultimately, it will be up to the court to decide whose account holds up. But the existence of earlier negotiations, whatever the scope, suggests Patagonia did not rush to litigation. The company maintains it spent years trying to find a workable path before filing suit, an account consistent with how trademark owners are generally expected to behave.

None of this means Pattie Gonia is without arguments. Some trademark scholars caution that the "duty to police" can be overstated, and that declining to sue a single parodist rarely jeopardizes a mark. Others note that Patagonia still bears the burden of proving genuine consumer confusion, which is not a given. And the optics, a large company suing a queer activist during a politically charged moment, are undeniably uncomfortable.

But discomfort is not the same as overreach. Stripped of its viral framing, this is a textbook trademark matter: an established mark, a newcomer seeking to commercialize a confusingly similar name in the same market, and an owner choosing to enforce rather than let the line erode. Patagonia may yet lose in the court of public opinion. However, in the court that actually decides trademark rights, it is doing exactly what the law expects a trademark owner to do.

Disclaimer: This post was prepared by law students at WIPILC. The information provided is for informational purposes alone, shall not be interpreted as legal advice, and is not intended to provide advice or recommendations.