By Jim Hagarty
2008
The other day I was standing in an office surrounded by four women and for a moment I wondered whether or not I’d stumbled into a convent and was interrupting a meeting of nuns. I hadn’t seen that much black since Johnny Cash graced music stages with his trademark garb noir.
Standing there in my brown shoes, socks, pants and shirt, I felt like the centrepiece in an adult version of Which of These Things Do Not Belong. If being the lone male in a gathering of five didn’t make me the obvious odd “man” out, the brown would certainly do it.
Traditionally, the colour black, when it has come to clothing, at least for mainstream society, has always signified the slightly sinister or the grief stricken. It’s never had much of an association with happiness, lightness, or cheerfulness, except, of course, for Old Order Mennonite and Amish people who use the colour for its traditional connections and to demonstrate their humility.
But you don’t find the members of biker gangs dressing in blue or violet and neither do those young folk who describe themselves as “goths”. To dress almost totally in black is to signal that you’re a bit of a rebel, bad even. Not someone to be fooled with.
Over the decades, a bit of black has shown up in my closets. A pair of dress pants and shoes here, some boots there, even a pair of black “blue” jeans. The occasional T-shirt and even, when I was still a teen, a favourite vest. However I’ve made no serious effort to use my clothing to make a statement as to my orientation towards the world and where on the badness meter I might belong.
In fact, in recent years, I’ve drifted towards very “neutral” colours, reflecting, no doubt, my status as a middle-class, 9-5, two cars, two cats, two kids Dad. And on those very rare occasions when I have attended events requiring formal wear, I have donned the expensive green suit I bought for a job interview 10 years ago. (I didn’t get the job, but have worn the suit ever since. It cost $600 so I am condemned to wear it till it disintegrates.)
Saturday, once again like an overgrown leprechaun, I dressed to go to a wedding and went outside in all my greenery. A family member discovered stains on one lapel of the jacket and having no time to see if they could be removed, I raced to the stores to get something, anything, for a ceremony due to begin only a couple of hours hence in another city. Panic-stricken in the stores, I was drawn to every piece of blackness I could find and soon emerged a mini Johnny Cash.
At the wedding, I received several favourable comments on my “outfit” but a niece feigned heartbreak at seeing me in something other than my green suit. I didn’t realize what a significant part of her life it was but when I thought about it later, I realized that she was so young when I bought it she could hardly remember me in anything else so this was a bit traumatic for her. I am determined to box it up and send it to her.
Someone else also remarked on the old suit and I heard this person say, “Nobody wears a green suit.” Hearing that comment turned a light on for me and I suddenly realized why, 10 years ago, a clothing store salesperson had been so effusive in her praise for how well I looked in green. She couldn’t otherwise ditch the turkey.
My future is not as a biker, a goth, a Mennonite or a nun, but if you see a bit of resemblance between a young Johnny Cash and me, feel free to point it out. Even an old Johnny Cash. Either way, my green days are behind me now forever – environment movement notwithstanding.
