What Happened to Mr. K-Mart?

Today my mom asked, "What happened to my high school son? When I threatened to hide all your clothes and buy you designer jeans and izod shirts you said you'd go to school in your underwear, Mr. K-mart." Mom is right, my general attitude toward clothing was a shrug of the shoulders if not an outright hostility to looking presentable. My senior superlative was, "Biggest Bum Dresser." Is it any wonder that I only had two girlfriends in high school?

College wasn't much better as far as fashion went. I at least decided to wear shirts that fit, but most of the time you'd see me in relaxed fit jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. After my junior year, it was rare for me to be seen without a baseball cap. That was my fashion statement, a backward hat. Luckily, most college kids dress like they fell off the back of a Good Will truck, so I wasn't too terribly out of place. My hostility to fashion had turned to indifference.

The party ended. I grew up and got an adult job teaching. I resigned myself to having to wear button ups for work. I dutifully put on dockers and large billowy shirts that could double as sail on a windy day. My shoes came in brown and black, mostly plastic and compressed cow scraps. Sometimes I polished them and my roommate Mark was nice enough not to ask me why I bothered with that farce. He was fairly non-judgmental for a guy with a good sense of personal style, and he endured my sartorial jabs when I maligned boating shoes without socks.

Like most of my hobbies, my interest in fashion started with an idle thought. I told myself I was going to improve my wardrobe with a nice pair of shoes, a new suit, and a watch. It was a New Year's Goal. It started with a new pair of shoes, a pair of 300 dollar Magnanni cap toe Oxfords. As it turned out, I had some good instincts about shoes, but I also had a lot of advice from Mark and my other friend Ben. I still pester the two of them for feedback on clothes and shoes.

From there it snowballed. I bought a pair of Sperrys which my students obsessed over. I am a believer in boating shoes without socks now.

Good will was kind enough to provide these Cole Haans for 12 bucks. I stuck them in the freezer, got them resoled, and they're a nice pair of cap toes for the price.

Eventually, it got to this level. This isn't including the three other pairs of shoes I've bought since this picture was taken.

At the moment, I have a pretty fierce interest in clothing and shoes. I taught myself how to dress and learned what looks good and what doesn't. Is it perfect? No. Is it better than how how I used to dress? Yes, by leaps and bounds. 

During this process, I've started to develop my own personal sense of style, something beyond hooded sweatshirts and baseball caps. Is it vain to take this much interest in how you look? Of course it is, but I make no apologies for it. I've discovered a lot of advantages to taking an interest in how you dress and I'll focus my next blog post on why it's worth it. 

Where are you from?

For as long as I can remember, I've had strangers ask me about my ethnic background. Some do this in a rather pointed fashion. Others ask in a round about way. The other night I was at a Cardinals game and the man sitting behind me tapped me on the shoulder. The following conversation ensued. 

Man: Do you speak Mandarin?

Me: No (I turn away)

A few minutes go by. 

Man: Are you sure you don't speak Mandarin?

Me: Pretty sure.

Man: Oh... So where are you from?

Me: Kansas City. 

Man: Where are your parents from?

Me: Chicago. 

I understood what he was asking, but I'll be damned if I was going to satisfy his curiosity. It's been a while since I've been asked these sorts of questions. It happened more in small town Kirksville than it does in St. Louis. From strangers, I find the inquiry rude and invasive. I suppose, what I find offensive about it is that the guy just wants to find a label for me, and with that label, whatever other assumptions he has. 

Most of the time, I don't think of myself as Asian or Korean. It's not part of my identity and it holds little value to me. It's something I stick on a census form. Perhaps one of the reasons I find the ethnic background question from strangers so off-putting is because it's asking me to assume an identity that I don't identify with. I don't mind answering the ethnicity question when asked by friends, because they already know me. They aren't seeking another label. It's just something that naturally comes up. 

I grew up in overwhelmingly white communities raised by white parents and I am happy with my upbringing. The values of hard work, integrity, and curiosity were instilled in me by my parents. My love of writing was nurtured by many great English teachers. My love of reading comes from my mom. My politic beliefs grew first from my Dad and eventually changed in college much to his chagrin. Those characteristics and traits define me. I own them. 

This is not to say that ethnicity is the only sort of label people can place on you. Gender, socioeconomic status, sexual orientation, language spoken, and religion are all used to define others wrongfully. However, ethnicity is the label I've had the most experience dealing with, so it's what I decided to write about tonight.