The End of an Era
When I was a kid, I used to wear my mother’s US Navy uniform on Halloween, I used to go to parties wearing her Pleather Nehru jacket with her orange and brown micro-mini and platform boots. I loved the fact that by the time I was in my early teens I was the same size as her and could wear her clothes*. I still wear her costume jewelry, as well as the rhinestone masterpieces I inherited from my grandmother.
*Disclaimer, my mother was a teenager when I was born, so she was not some old hussy trying to look hip, she was young and hip!
At a certain age, after I found my own fashion sense, family and acquaintances used to laugh at the way I looked and wonder what my children will think of me with my orange mohawk, tattoos, white face and eye shadow that matched my lipstick, and most of all my collection of completely black clothing, completed with my requisite “leather”. For those of you who don’t know any bikers or punkers, that would be my black leather jacket.
I knew at 15 that I had to have a leather. I used to borrow my friend’s jackets, but my wardrobe would not be complete until I had my own. Even in the dark ages of the 1980’s a good leather jacket cost more than $100, and there was no way I could ask any of my family to help, all of my mothers and fathers had quit giving me money for clothes as they knew I would only buy something black or buy something to dye black.
So, after much scraping and saving, I bought one. I got quite a bit of advice as far as how to make it look worn, but I liked the fact that it looked new, that its smell filled my car and my bedroom. I loved that because I was such a small girl, it was so much larger than I was. I loved the functionality, tied around my waist on hot days it looked cool, and I could then throw it on during a chilly California night. It also was the only jacket I needed on trips to Canada and Europe; layered properly it was a fashion-forward statement that could keep me warm during the cold, blistery winter days.
And, I was cool. Not in a, “I wear a leather and therefore I think I am cool” way, but because I lived in a time and a place where a black leather jacket defined me in my community, and defined an entire generation of my friends and peers. And, as I wore the jacket into the 90’s, it became more of a statement. I was older, and the jacket was a sign to my younger peers of my social status, that the tattoos and the attitude weren’t newly adopted as the punk lifestyle became socially acceptable, but a sign that they, along with my leather, had been a part of my life for years and years.
And, what a way to weed out men! Wearing the jacket to concerts, restaurants, clubs, wherever men might try to speak with me, the jacket was either a barrier or an attractor; a barrier to those who felt that they type of girl who would wear such a jacket was to low-class or too scary, or to those who were too shy to overcome the perceived toughness of the jacket. An attractor to those whom I wanted to talk to, guys who knew about foreign films and jazz music and literature and philosophy and all the heady cultural references and touchstones that defined my life as a young woman. It not only kept me warm, but kept me interesting and kept me safe.
But, now I am married. And, I am older. The jacket doesn’t match well with the Armani dresses and Indian Saris that I now wear when I go out at night. The zipper is a struggle to close, decreasing its previous functionality.
It has rested, unworn, in my closet for more than a year. I had always hoped that someday my children would find it in the closet, put it on along with the Exploited or Damned concert T-shirts in the dresser drawer and, that my daughter might take pleasure in looking fashionable in my large, silver earrings, homemade jewelry constructed of safety pins and beads, and jewelry made out of small plastic toys bought from so many gumball machines back in the days before Archie McPhee’s. I always figured my children would find the remnants of my eccentric youth and connect with it by wearing my clothes, the same way I did by wearing my mother’s clothes.
But, I live in a space too small to accommodate all of my clothing. And, the bug infestation has caused me to take a second look at what I keep in my closet and what gets donated. The little worn jacket didn’t make the cut; I sold it at Buffalo Exchange this last week.
I am heartbroken that something that is so meaningful to me, something I loved and cherished, something that defined me, is now gone. But, my children are not yet born and keeping physical belongings is more expensive than not at this time. By taking it to a place where I know some young kid just learning to define him- or her self through clothes and music will shop, I know that the jacket will now create a second generation of memories. I hope that the love and goodwill I gave to that single piece of clothing will infuse its new owner with the same. I wonder if someday I will see it at some show at Chain Reaction or The Smell?
Selling that jacket is the feels like the end of an era.
