The Uniform

When I was eight years old, I wanted to be a superhero. I wouldn’t shut up about it. I drew plans for my Fortress of Solitude, which was going to be located on the back of our property, behind the pine trees. I sketched what my costume would look like. I wrote out various permutations of my superhero name – CatMan, Cat man, Cat Man – like a lovesick teenager writing her potential married name over and over in the back of her notebook. I spent time at the library figuring out from what material I would make the claws my costume required.

At 12, I had put away such childish things and now wanted to be a ninja. My friends and I would practice moves we read about in Black Belt magazine, read books by Stephen K. Hayes we bought from the big bookstore in Memphis and tossed throwing stars we bought by mail order from the back of magazines against the side of the barn. Sometimes, they even stuck in the wood siding, but not often. We would debate what sort of ninja suit we would eventually have and the merits of polyester (cheaper, lighter) vs. natural fibers (breathable, not shiny).

By age 18, I had joined the US Marines. I had been heavily recruited by the Navy, but in the end, chose the Marines. The Marine recruiter had me pegged.

“You can be a sailor,” he said, “and have a good career and then move on. Or you can be a Marine and know for the rest of your life that you were once among the best in the world at something.”

My people were not the best in the world at anything. The day I turned 18, I signed the papers. At Camp Lejune, after boot camp, I spent most of my paycheck on a KaBar combat knife, which rode upside down on my left ALICE strap for the rest of my time in the Marines, and which is currently in the drawer of my desk, 32 years later as I write these words. I wore jungle boots instead of the Hershey bar colored speed-lace boots we were issued in those days, and we haunted the army-navy stores for heavy, woodland camouflage utilities rather than the modern, lightweight utilities the noobs wore.

The Marines were a nice place to visit, but I didn’t want to live there, so when I was recruited to be in financial sales, I leaped at the chance. At night I read arcane books on tax law and selling techniques, and during the day, I would have lunch meetings and call on prospects and wore nice ties and watches. I learned which outlet stores had the good clothes at high discounts, and paid attention to the mannequins in the shop windows to learn what outfits worked. I had a Brooks Brothers suit I still miss 20 years later.

Doing street-level homeless work meant dressing down – way down. I famously had a blue blazer and one shirt and tie for when I had to go to court or to wear if I got invited to speak to Episcopalians – but nearly every day of my life was spent in blue jeans and a solid, no-logo t-shirt. That was strategic – in that logos brought attention, and my main job in doing that work was to take the focus off of me. And it’s mostly what the folks I worked and ministered among wore, and they were cheap, and soon, I became the man in gray.

But when I began to do the work I do now – broadly speaking, political work among faith communities – the grey t-shirts and baggy jeans no longer worked. What had been the simple clothes designed to put a day laborer at ease did not have that effect on Bishops and City Council members. So I now wear blazers and khaki pants day to day, and have the charcoal suit to break out for special occasions. The red and blue club tie is for when I need to blend in at the courthouse, and the solid red tie is for when I need to stand out.

The other day I told someone I don’t care about clothes at all, but the more I think about it, the more it’s obvious that isn’t quite true. And I still want to be a superhero. It’s just that these days, the uniform is a little different.

Clothes Shopping

It was just after lunch. I had been at a funeral that morning, and rather than go home and change, I just went back to work at the day shelter I ran at the time, planning to get some paperwork done. I was wearing a dark sports coat, slacks, and a white shirt. As was always the case since 2003, I wasn’t wearing a tie. I do hate ties.

I no sooner walked through the day room on my way to the office than the comments started. As someone who did front-line work in the homeless community, I wore a t-shirt and jeans most days. If I had a meeting planned, I would wear a polo shirt. The sports coat was for funerals and weddings and court.

But this day, I wore the sports coat and slacks to work, and folks didn’t know what to do. One guy came up to me and asked if I had caught a charge. I assured him I had not.

“No offense, Pastor Hugh. But the reason I ask”, he said, “is because when I have to go to court, my lawyer makes me wear clothes that aren’t mine, too.”

Once upon a time, I was in financial sales. And when I was, I was expected to wear a suit and tie to work. As a working-class kid who was making what seemed like an obscene amount of money, I bought good clothes and wore them well. I learned about the outlet stores where I could buy Hugo Boss and Ralph Lauren suits for about half off. I owned three Hermes ties. I wore Gitman shirts. Clothes were important to me.

Later, I would walk away from that whole scene. I had an epiphany where I realized that I didn’t like who I had become and did not like who I had to pretend to be in order to do that work.

The money was nice, but it cost too much.

I sold my watches and ties and nice clothes. I wore scruffy sneakers and faded jeans and t-shirts and would only own one tie that I wore on occasions that absolutely required a tie, but I also learned that those are far fewer occasions than society generally believes requires ties.

Now, I mostly wear the same thing every day. I own at least 10 gray t-shirts. I don’t wear clothes with logos. I don’t want you to know anything about me because of what I wear. I don’t want you to judge my finances, my politics, my relationships. These days, I want my clothes to be a non-event.

For the last five years, I have gotten by on occasions requiring something more than my standard jeans and t-shirt, with two oxford cloth shirts, two blazers, and some khaki pants.

But then I went and lost more than 50 pounds. These days, when I put on my old clothes, I look like I must have driven there in the clown car.

To make matters worse, I am involved in some political work right now that requires me to occasionally attend “professional” meetings. Before it is said and done, I suspect I shall even have to buy a suit.

I feel all sorts of way about this.

In the first chapter of Walden, Henry Thoreau warned us to beware of all enterprises that require new clothes. Henry knew that clothes serve as a cover story of sorts. All too often, we use the quality of the clothes as a proxy for the quality of the wearer. Which is, frankly, classist as hell.

I never liked how when one of my guys who lived outside would get in trouble, my showing up in clean clothes and looking respectable made a difference in how they were treated. The most honest man I know wore dirty clothes home from work every day, and the biggest crook I have ever met wore a suit to work that cost more than my car is currently worth.

So, I am doing serious clothes shopping for the first time in over a decade. I think I can get by with blue oxford shirts and good khaki pants, and a blue blazer, for the most part. This is the South, after all, and we are admittedly less formal than other parts of the country. But then I need a blue or gray suit. And then that requires suit shoes. And I’m probably going to have to get at least two ties.

Crap.