Like many postwar, middle-class kids with older siblings, I seldom had any clothes of my own. What I got were my brother’s hand-me-downs. I never questioned the practice; it made perfect sense. But as I reflect on it now, I realize I was robbed.
The problem—a first-world problem to be sure—was that my clothes didn’t serve, as those of most older or only children did, as a way to express myself. I wore what my brother had picked out to express him-self.
I don’t think that’s had any lasting effect on me, but it’s got me thinking about clothes and becoming more aware of my own and others’ relationship with them.
We live in them. We sleep in them.
We’re buried in them.
This theme has been tentatively poking its head into my consciousness for years, but because it resides at the blurry nexus of the pedestrian and the sublime I’ve never gotten a good look at it.
The pedestrian part: it’s about clothing, stuff most of us totally take for granted. That we put on every day of our lives; that gets wrinkled and dirty; that shrinks and fades and ends up in the garage sale.
The sublime part: the fact that these garments are our most personal of possessions, the items closest to us for more of our lives than anything else we have or even anyone we love. We’re swaddled in them at birth. We live in them. We sleep in them. We’re buried in them.
INSIDE OUT
Clothes are not just close to us physically; there’s this emotional intimacy we share with them. Often making up about 90 percent of the countenance we present to the world, they’re one of the most telling ways we express ourselves.
Another way our clothes emanate who we are is our infusing them with our own unique scent. It’s why bloodhounds can track down fugitives and missing children; it’s why grieving survivors treasure a garment worn by a departed loved one.
But clothing doesn’t just express who we are; it can disguise who we are. Sometimes we dress outside our comfort zone to please someone else. We might don a costume to play a role or fulfill a fantasy. Some days we just don’t want anyone to recognize us.
POOR JUDGEMENT
What happens when you see someone in an outfit you find really unflattering or just plain ugly? Are you aware of what’s going through your mind?
I notice such things all the time. After all, I’m a designer; it affects me when colors clash, when patterns get too busy, when things are out of proportion. But I know there are other factors prompting such criticism. Prejudice, stereotyping, class-consciousness…
Whether they’re wearing Gucci or Goodwill,
everyone’s simply doing the best they can.
Part of my effort to be a kinder human being is to put aside the judgements and see my fellow human beings in light not of my point of view, but theirs. Of their own life stories, their own dreams, the utter innocence of their efforts to be who they are. And to realize deep down that, whether they’re wearing Goodwill or Gucci, everyone’s just doing the best they can.
It takes an extra measure of what I call seeing generously, but I know I can do better. I can look at folks whose clothing choices might at first elicit a shudder, and coax that response into a nod of understanding and compassion. Here are a few examples from my own experience.
SUNDAY BEST
I’m always moved by those local-interest news stories we see now and then about high school girls from low-income families choosing from racks of donated prom dresses. It’s just so sweet to see one young lady’s expression when she holds up a dress she’d never allowed herself to even dream of.
While I might not understand her tastes, here’s a way for her to show off what she considers her best self for a very special night. Maybe it’s a favorite color, a cut that makes the most of her figure, a pattern, perhaps, that reminds her of her abuela. She just wants to look pretty.
Then there’s the aging widower who’s lost or given up on—or perhaps never had—what you could call a wardrobe, but still keeps the one Sunday-best outfit he’s ever owned. Trousers, jacket, tie and maybe even a spiffy hat. And always a pair of well worn but nicely polished shoes.
It doesn’t have to be a marry-‘em or bury-‘em occasion; he dresses up even if he’s just walking down the street to the park. Whether that reflects some life lesson or just basic self-respect, the practice always touches me.
Or the thirty-something dude I keep seeing at the coffee shop, whose ruddy, pock-marked face belies the meticulous, bright-colored suit he’s always sporting. He’s got several: royal blue, marigold, cherry red. All of them double-breasted, with wide lapels, a style that reminds me of the kind of depression-era zoot suits sported by Jim Carrey in The Mask.
I know I could never get away with that look, but for him…well, it seems to animate him. Standin' tall; lookin' good.
Hundreds of millions...live in
the kind of poverty
that renders obscene the luxury of changing one’s
clothes to suit one’s mood.
HEART ON THE SLEEVE
I guess the point is this: Every one of these people got up that morning and pulled from their closet the duds, however modest or flamboyant, they thought would look and feel best.
And, while these characters had some sartorial choice, there are hundreds of millions * of our fellow human beings who don’t. Who live in the kind of poverty that renders obscene the luxury of changing one’s clothes to suit one’s mood. And yet they don what they have with dignity.
I want to remember that everyone, whether prince or pauper, whether or not their look suits my taste, ultimately wears the fabric of their own unique, deeply intimate life story.
Source: https://pickmeuppoetry.org/on-clothes-by-khalil-gibran/
Some of you say, “It is the north wind
who has woven the clothes we wear.”
And I say, Ay, it was the north wind,
but shame was his loom, and the soften-
ing of the sinews was his thread.
And when his work was done he laughed
in the forest.
KHALIL GIBRAN
* According to World Vision 9.2% of the world's population—approximately 719 million people—live on a daily income
of less than $2.15.