Michiana Chronicles

Friday, September 25, 2009

Bring Back the Dickey!

When it comes to fashion, it is hard to be a Hoosier.  Here it is, a fortnight after the trend-setting Fashion Week in New York City, and we have barely noticed. Heck, we can’t even get our multiplex cinemas to carry the latest movie about Coco Chanel, or the new documentary about the fashion industry, called The September Issue.  In that film, an industry insider says with uber-profundity: “September is the January of Fashion.” Yupright now is the New Year’s Day for clothing resolutions. So, what’s new?

Well, even the newest fashion contains seeds of the old, and so in that spirit I am arguing today for bringing back an unfairly maligned fashion item from the past:  The dickey.  Alright, stop snickering at the name and grow up.  You heard me right: I think men and women alike might do well to re-embrace dickeys, those reviled fashion articles from the 1970s that consist of collared flaps of fabric that work like a false shirt front, adding a layer of modesty and comfort to one’s neckline without bulk and weight.

Now – in the spirit of full disclosureit is possible that my recent dickey fixation might have something to do with having a houseful of teenagers these days who display swaths of flesh that are turning liberal me into a scolding church lady. There’s frontal cleavage, backal cleavage – just a whole lot of body hangin’ out around here.  But I swear I’m not promoting the dickey as a backlash “return to modesty,” a la conservative cultural critic Wendy Shalit. Instead, I’m interested in the way retro fashion can help us channel the political attitude of the moment.  Via the dickey, we might be able to channel the passion for communitarian equality movements that characterized the early 70s.  Think Earth Day, Title IX, Civil Rights legislation, “Free to Be, You and Me.” People fought for those ideals wearing comfortable clothes, remember? Let’s take note!

Lest you think I’m out on a wardrobe limb, the Fashion Week Fashionistas are promoting new/ old hits like the stretchy jersey wrap dress, which Diane VonFurstenberg introduced in ‘72. And I’m noticing more 1970s dickey-themed correctives to the revealing fashions of the recent years, such as the so-called “Winky T,” a contraption that looks like a g-string for the chest, attaching to one’s brassiere and offering a small bib of fabric to fill in a revealing neckline. There are even such things as “wrist dickeys” being marketed to add layers underneath sleeves.  Men – especially young men – could benefit from equivalent treatment, so that we could wave goodbye to the sagging, revealing pants that reduce men’s strides to a shuffle that must surely preoccupy the wearer all day long.  I’d argue this renewed interest in covering up might free us from worrying about tugging clothes into place or risk flashing our flesh, and instead let us focus our energies outwardly, on the comfort and well-being of others.

In arguing for a return to the layered comfort of 70’s fashion, I may be swimming against the cultural current in this moment in which everyone I know is obsessed with the television series Mad Men.  I can’t help but wonder at the significance of our adoration for Mad Men’s early 60s aesthetics – all those oppressed women displayed in tight dresses made possible with agonizing long-line bras and cinching girdles; all those chain-smoking men in their narrow suits and ties, all that elegance, barely masking so much unhappiness.  Why, now, does this show speak to so many viewers?  Why are we fascinated with this time before liberation movements broke open the truth about American inequalities?  Why has there been an eruption of Mad Men costume parties, in which the series’ fans dress like underpaid sex goddesses or repressed business men, and everyone drinks the sweetly numbing bourbon cocktails of that unhappy age?  What’s going on?

Nope – I say: Bring on the dickeys and cozy layers of the 70s, that we might channel a political moment more hopeful about equality, and more focused on the health of the body politic than on the display of our own bodies.  The story I’m floating to the next generation at our house is that nothing says “up yours” to the self-absorbed status quo like pulling on another layer of clothing, getting comfortable, and agitating, together for equity. Sing it, sisters and brothers!

Friday, September 18, 2009

Two Incidents on One Weekend in Michiana

Saturday: tromping. The only sound made by the scores of people walking in the 6 a.m. pre-light was the tromping of athletic shoes on the pavement around the Notre Dame football stadium. Silent, bleary-eyed, coffee-cup-clutching volunteers schlepped toward the yawning (how appropriate) maw of the one open entrance with all of the enthusiasm of gladiators being marched into the arena. It was concession booth clean-up Saturday. From 6—8 a.m., groups of volunteers from various not-for-profits in the area would be removing the winter-spring-summer accumulation of “yuck” from each group’s assigned stand in preparation for the upcoming football season.

Hauling brooms, mops, buckets, rags, cleaning chemicals, and in the case of some knowledgeable veterans, garden hoses as weapons, the crowd of trompers split off into clusters of trompers. Each knot headed toward their designated den down in the warren of cubbyholes, ready to attack the offensive build-up of ickyness that had collected since the close of last season. In just a few weeks, the dim areas would be well-lit and crammed with fans that would be anything but silent—or clean, for that matter. But the trompers were here to begin to fight the good, cleanliness-fight that they would repeat after each of the upcoming seven home games.

As we trompers (Yes, I was a member of that tromping brigade.) came awake and pitched into the task: striving to meet or exceed the posted sanitation and health guidelines, comments and laughter began to liven the job. Exclamations of, “Oh, gross!” and “I’ll clean anything if I have on rubber gloves,” and finally, “There. That’s much better,” punctuated the steady work of disinfecting flat surfaces, pop dispensers, and Domer Dog warmers and cookers. Two hours of cleaning by each team of trompers transformed us into people who left the stadium with lighter steps than when we entered. Exiting into the daylight, there now was a spring in the step of many. Suffering had built character.

Sunday: the long-awaited day of the party. Slicing fruit for the Sangria that I planned to take, I also sliced my thumb. A good, deep slice that hurt a bit, but mostly just left me stunned, starring at the massive blood flow. Rummaging through the junk-drawer for a “sticking plaster,” I wrapped the cut tightly. But, I didn’t really believe that it was a permanent fix. Being from the wait-and-see school, though, so I thought to give it a try. Meantime, just in case, I said in my little, calm voice, “Larry, we may need to go to the emergency room.” Over our years together, I’ve noticed that that little, calm voice gets much more serious attention than my usual, it’s-not-really-a-biggie-I-just-sound-hysterical voice. I wanted him to get his shoes on because I thought that I might need him to drive me there. Sure enough, he was standing by the door, ready to go, in about 10 seconds. I however, remained in wait-and-see mode.

After a few minutes, the unbandaged end of my thumb began to turn blue. Time to loosen the bandage to see what was happening in there. The diagnosis: status quo, still lots of blood. Handy though to do these things in the kitchen; near the sink, clean-up is easy. Also handy that I had adopted the wait-and-see mode. It gave me time to remember that my insurance co-pay for the emergency room was about three times that of an urgent-care center. I had never been to an urgent care center, or “Doc in the Box,” as my friend Patsy calls them, but it seemed to me that in hearing of the exploits of my grandsons, they are there almost weekly with no ill effect, so off I went.

A small amount of paperwork, not too long, minimal pain, five tidy stitches and a co-pay later, I was repaired and sent forth. And, I was sporting a really nifty bandaging job that was so large, it made me feel as though my thumb could cavort around inside it and barely ever touch the actual bandage.

Since it was clear that for that day, I no longer could be trusted with sharp objects, Larry finished preparing the Sangria. We had plenty of time to get to the party to drink it. Sure feels good when the pain stops.

Friday, September 11, 2009

Close Call

I was getting tired of my dog walk routine, passing the same middle-aged houses, nodding back to the usual nodding pedestrians, and surrendering every so often to that terrible canine urgency to water the crucial bushes and hydrants. But wild, unpredictable fellow that I am, this time, when Dogboy and I reached the second corner, I turned us left instead of right and freshened up the route completely.  Different houses came into view, different bits of gossip came to mind –- here is where the political wacko lives; there is the nostalgic house we never visit anymore because our friends have moved to Texas; here is the house we almost bought when we moved to town. And there, the house that held the garage sale where our daughter might have been, or was almost, accidentally killed. Seeing that spot was like finding a sad anniversary marked on the kitchen calendar.

It had been an otherwise completely innocent and beautiful late-summer day, bright and breezy and warm, in a neighborhood brimming with gentle wheeler-dealers who had turned the contents of their basements out onto their lawns. Optimism was in the air; some people were clearing away the chaos of their personal possessions, and others were snagging bargains to add to their own dusty closet shelves. And everyone was chuckling about the odd 8-track tape, the smarmy knickknack, or hopeless exercise machine.  We finished a quick look at one particular driveway cornucopia, then I walked on ahead with our two year old while my wife said goodbye. An ancient wooden ladder on the sidewalk held the hand-lettered garage sale sign. When we passed, our little one looked up at the odd thing. As she turned away, a gust caught the cardboard sign and pitched the whole rickety contraption over toward her. The ladder accelerated and the edge of its top plank flew down like the blade of a well-swung axe. The spot on the sidewalk where it hit had not been empty when the ladder began to fall.

Nobody saw this close call but me. The little one never noticed, and the garage salers only knew that their sign needed to be stood back up. I remembered the first picture we had of our daughter, the ultrasound taken in utero, a profile of her head so perfect that we recognized the likeness after she was born. In that strange and otherwordly picture you could see that the curving bones of her forehead were so thin and fragile.  I realized she would have been helpless under the ladder’s blow. But as she trotted down the sidewalk, her exuberance was untouched.

Every so often we pass a certain place in the road or we turn a certain page of the calendar, and maybe we hadn’t planned to remember, but we do. Whether the loss was personal or widely shared, whether the wound is still fresh, whether it was a tragedy or merely a close call, we remember the fragility and spirit of our fellow human beings. And we remain hopeful about each of the turnings in the road and each of the calendar’s blank squares -– each of those days whose meaning has not yet been penciled in.

WWW Michiana Chronicles

A random pick from more than 460 Michiana Chronicles -- refresh the browser to see another set:

April Lidinsky -- Bring Back the Dickey! / More essays by April

Joe Chaney -- More essays by Joe

Ken Smith -- Close Call / More essays by Ken

Jeanette Saddler Taylor -- Two Incidents on One Weekend in Michiana / More essays by Jeanette

Heather Curlee Novak -- More essays by Heather

David James -- More essays by David

Elizabeth Van Jacob -- More essays by Elizabeth

Jeff Nixa -- Vision Quest / More essays by Jeff

Louise Collins -- More essays by Louise

Jonathan Nashel -- More essays by Jonathan

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About the series

Michiana Chronicles is a series of radio essays by Jonathan Nashel, Louise Collins, Joe Chaney, Jeanette Saddler Taylor, Jeff Nixa, April Lidinsky, Ken Smith, Heather Curlee Novak, David James, and Elizabeth Van Jacob.

Michiana is the region of north-central Indiana and southern Michigan roughly centered on South Bend, Indiana.

Michiana Chronicles airs on Fridays at 7:35 a.m. and 12:30 p.m. on WVPE (88.1 FM), the home of public radio in Elkhart / South Bend, Indiana.

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