Don't go all hating on me since I will be referencing Georgi Gospodinov's novel Time Shelter. I swear I do read other books.
Gospodinov's protagonist talks about how, as a kid during the socialist regime in Bulgaria, he was dragged by his mother to buy a suit. Timing is everything. Reading this passage as Easter is right there, I was taken back to my childhood and how Easter meant new clothes: a suit or a jacket, slacks, shirts, tie, and shoes. Spring renewal.
My parents were not of means. I marvel and wonder how they gave us all we had: wonderful Christmases, birthdays, summer vacations to Cape May, a home, food, love, and support. Mom and dad both worked. Mom worked at a time when most moms were stay-at-home moms. It was what they had to do to give us the lives they didn't have growing up, which included new duds for Easter.
Before Easter we'd pile into the Ford, drive to Robert Hall to find suits so we could be presentable during Easter services and beyond. Here's the confession from my childhood that shaped me for life: I refused to get out of the car and go into Robert Hall's. That store shouted déclassé. (For my parents it shouted, “We don't have a lot of money.”) I wanted to go to a men and boys specialty shop. Ya, I was not a grateful child. I wore a Robert Hall suit with a scowl to church.
Fast forward to the three years post–college graduation. Those years my working life consisted of construction jobs, busboy, and bartending at a motel cocktail lounge and a biker bar with go-go dancers. I was still living at home and could scrape by with tips. It was dawning on me it was time for a change, or it was a biblical reference mom shared.
"When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, and I made plans like a child. When I became a man, I stopped those childish ways."
She was right. I needed to give up sleeping during the day and serving cocktails at night to drunks asking where to meet women. Long story on warp speed: a guy was at the bar. He was the sales director of a medical company. I plied him with Old Fashioneds (I was a good bartender), got his business card—you know those paper things with phone numbers, company name, titles, etc. on them. The next day I called. Called again. Pestering him to consider me for a sales job he confessed needing to fill while under the influence of many Old Fashioneds (he didn't want the fruit muddled).
Got an interview. I was earnest as fuck. Was hired. Trained, which is a story in and of itself. Given the keys to a company car, an Air Travel Card for flying, an expense account, and a map of the Northeast. I had to work Maine to NYC. The childish ways were left behind. None of my peers from college had a company car and credit card. Think R. Crumb's famous "Keep on Truckin'."
Of course mom was there, as always, to advise, especially on the sad state of affairs: my wardrobe. Or lack thereof. Another gem quote from her was, "You get what you pay for. Buy quality, not quantity. Buy classic." Huh, the same mom dragging me to Robert Hall's? I guess it was my money now, and I needed to succeed so she could all brag on me at her job.
I was in Boston doing some sales calls, attired in something that was old (think Easter a long time ago). I parked on Newbury Street. Fancy. Walked past a men's haberdashery. Some great suits, shoes, shirts, etc. in the window. Fate.
Back to Gospodinov and his experience with the tailor. He spoke to how the tailor selected a fabric. He measured you. You came back a week later, fitted and measured again. Adjustments were made. The fabric that was just a bolt on a table was taking shape around you, fitting to you. It was the projection of you into the world. The tailor took your measure, so to speak, and created the embodiment of you for the world to see from afar. The shaped, fitted fabric filled you with meaning, purpose, and confidence. The touches of the tailor creating this suit were connection beyond cloth. Bespoken.
I went into the store on Newbury Street, introduced myself to the owner, explained my situation: my first adult job and not making a lot of money. He, like the tailor in Gospodinov's book, looked at me. Took a measure of my person. He saw me as me.
"I think we can do this." He explained, you only need two suits to start: brown and blue. The secret to making them look like more are accessories. People will see the accessories: shoes, belt, shirts, ties, and socks. Each of those items can change what others see. The same suit on different days will look new.
He measured me, fitted me with two suits, measured me for alterations, selected some accessories. I love how ties can really communicate a moment, a feeling, a statement. I came back a week later; the suits were ready. For over ten years I went back there twice a year, slowly growing the fabric in my closet. I was growing around what I was wearing. It was not flash nor adornment. It was the connection with someone who saw me beyond what I saw, became a partner in my becoming and being.
The tailor is a metaphor for how connection is at the heart of our humanity. They look at us, see us in the clearest way. They bring their knowledge, history, experience, and ability to see us for who we are. Their vision and connection to us add to our being, spark our growth, actualize who we are through how we appear to the world. We trust them. And that there is what adds to our lives as we move forward in life.
Connections to others who see us for who we are. Who we see as well. Not just a tailor draping us in fabric. All connections we make improve our humanity, our person within us. And theirs as well.