Clothes: Strange Symbols of Freedom, by Gillian

I simply do not like baseball caps. Maybe it's no more than the fact that I grew up in a land without them; maybe it's simply that they are, to me, and I apologize to the many of you, including my beautiful Betsy, who wear the things, the least flattering of headgear - though I can think of some very close seconds, like the British flat cap, or those German and Russian military caps of WW11 with the exaggeratedly high fronts. But really, baseball caps are everywhere. If some variety of hat had to go viral ..... no, that's the wrong term: I occasionally become over-excited by modern idiom! ... had to become universal, why not, say, the cowboy hat? Most people are enhanced by a jaunty Stetson. Or a variation on one of many military caps such as the Aussie Slouch or the U.S. army cap with that sexy curved bill? No! The entire world, or the greatest part of it, had to go for the baseball cap, or, even worse, its offspring the trucker hat with that flat bill, high foam front panel, and adjustable mesh in the back. Those are the ones I really dislike; mostly worn by Bubba and guaranteed to make the most modest, most harmless, of men, look like a rapist/mugger and a woman (why would a woman wear one? But they do!) resemble an escapee from the nearest Dickensian madhouse. 

O.K. So the world is, for whatever incomprehensible reason, obsessed with variations of the American baseball cap. But why do they proudly wear them complete with American logo; almost invariably a sports team. Young Russians, Brits, Australians, now even Chinese, strut their stuff under caps proudly proclaiming Red Sox or White Sox or New Orleans Saints, most often accompanied by a t-shirt emblazoned with Notre Dame or S.M.U. If you must adopt American clothes, why not, at least, proclaim the Tchaikovsky Moscow State Conservatory, or the Tsinghua University of Beijing?

I suppose, when it comes down to it, it's all about marketing; the U.S probably takes Best of Breed. But I do get angry when people in other countries sigh, shake their heads, and regret 'the Americanization of everything,' placing the blame firmly on the doorstep of the United States.

I hold our country responsible for many things of which I am not proud, but, please! We don't force anyone to wear these clothes any more than we forced the world to install over 33,000 McDonalds, and frequently in the most inappropriate places. No, we did not invade Poland and force them to put a McDonalds in a historic medieval vault in Krakow, or Russia to impose what claimed to be, at the time I visited it, anyway, the most exotic McDonalds in the world. It's in the St. Petersburg railway station in a cavernous space with polished marble floors, exquisite woodwork, and beautiful chandeliers hanging from a high, arched, beamed, ceiling.

People tut-tut over the amount of 'American rubbish' on T.V. across the world, but we don't hold a gun to the BBC producer's head, and most certainly not to the head of Russian-controlled TV.  Yet, in the early 1990's when I was there, they were glued to already outdated productions of 'Dallas' and 'The Young and the Restless,' and 'Dynasty.' Gazing obsessively at the imaginary American way of life, or at least one experienced by very few of us, they proudly wore their New York Jets ball caps and their University of Michigan tees. I suppose it was all part of the dream. Free at last, they could be anything: anybody.

One universality which puzzles me is the world-wide use of the word fuck. You see it scrawled on walls everywhere, or at least in every country I have been in, and hear it used by people who, apparently, speak not one more word of English. You hear an endless stream of conversation in another language, and it is almost invariably punctuated with the only words you can understand; an occasional fuck or fucking. Why in the world this particular word has become so wide-spread, I haven't a clue though probably some linguist somewhere is, even as I write this, doing his or her Ph.D. on this very subject.

Yeah, yeah, call me old fashioned. but I do have a certain yearning for the days when clothes told a story. (And of course, come to that, when the F word was not so prevalent!) “Clothes and manners do not make the man,” said Henry Ward Beecher. But clothes did make the man, at least in the eye of the beholder. Days gone by, you could tell your bank manager from your milkman from your doctor by his clothes. In that sense, they did indeed make the man. I don't mean only when he was at work, but when he was not. Now, if your plumber, financial advisor, and grocery clerk walk their dog in the park, they probably all wear blue jeans with tees proclaiming Rice University and ball caps bearing the Florida Gators' logo.

Perhaps, I muse, if we all dress alike we will find it harder to go to war against each other, though I confess I have seen little evidence of this so far. And I do regret the individuality.

When I was in school we used to watch, once in a while as a special treat in geography class, an old grainy jerky black and white film released from an 18" diameter reel. It showed workers collecting rubber in Brazil, or farming pineapples in Hawaii, or cutting sugar cane in Jamaica. They dressed very differently depending on their country. If we see a cable documentary about such activities today, chances are the majority will be sporting Cardinals or Dodgers caps and Harvard or M.I.T. tee-shirts.

I have to hand it to the countries of the Islamic world. They are almost alone in refusing to change their traditional dress, for which I admire them. On the other hand, I abhor the way women are, for the most part, treated, and forced to dress. I find myself wishing and hoping that somehow some of these women are concealing a Baltimore Colts cap and bright orange Denver Broncos tee-shirt beneath the burqa - well, it would be a beginning, a tiny hint of freedom, wouldn't it? - but somehow cannot imagine it.

You know what?

In writing this, I have talked myself round! Maybe the universal Atlanta Braves cap and Ann Arbor tee is not so bad. We can all, in many countries and in these times, dress more or less however we please, and after all, knowing a person's social status by the clothes they wear is in fact nothing desirable or positive at all. And being able to identify a person's nationality in the same manner means little individual choice is available. So, now I think it all through, baseball caps don't look so bad after all. If they cover the world it is because individuals have chosen them. I fear I shall never be able to find them aesthetically appealing, but perhaps they can be, to me, a rather unattractive symbol of freedom.

Afterthought

Reading through this I was overcome by the most horrific of visions!

What if the universal love for ball caps and that tiresome F word had collided? The world would be covered in caps saying, simply, and with great lack of originality, FUCK.

© September 2014  

About the Author 

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

Cities of My Heart by Betsy

Denver is where my heart is. That’s because the love of my life lives here--with me. I love Denver and Colorado. I have been living quite happily here since 1970. This is where I came out. This is where I met the love of my life. I have many friends here both straight and LGBT. My three children grew up here and call Denver their heart home. There is much to be said about Denver but not here and not today. So.......

Since my three children have a place in my heart also, I suppose I can say at least part of my heart is in those cities where they reside.

Decatur, Georgia is a small city completely surrounded by the city of Atlanta. From my several visits there it appears that Decatur is young, relatively progressive, and gay friendly. This is where my oldest child, a daughter, lives. This daughter is a professor on the faculty at Emory University where she teaches in the Women and Gender Studies Department. Lynne has been in academics for about 20 years. In that time I have learned that her community of friends and associates is not usually representative of the area in which she resides. I learned from her partner Tamara that The Women Studies Department of Emory University is the oldest (and best) in the United States. Who would have guessed that this, one of the most conservative states and cities of the country is the original home of such a progressive subject as Women Studies. Suffice it to say that academic communities bear no resemblance to the states or regions where they are located.

Before moving to the Atlanta area around 2005 Lynne and Tamara lived in Houston, Texas--another conservative hot spot. I imagined a very difficult time for the couple when I heard in 1998 they were moving from New Haven to Houston. Never mind a lesbian couple living together in Texas, but an interracial lesbian couple. However, I was surprised to learn from my visits there that Houston is in fact a fairly cosmopolitan city--at least for Texas. Even though Lynne was teaching at Rice University, my view of Houston was not distorted by association only with the academic community. Tamara started out working as campaign manager for a city council candidate bent on ousting an incumbent. Lynne was of course somewhat involved in the campaign as well. The incumbent opponent was well entrenched, so the campaign would be hard fought. In the end the campaign was successful, Tamara’s candidate was elected to the city council, and Tamara became her Chief of Staff. Needless to say, the scenes and experiences we heard about during this time gave a very realistic, true vision of the city of Houston as opposed to the college professor’s perspective. We saw a liberal candidate oust a well entrenched conservative. But that was not the only surprise. During their stay in Houston, we saw many other unexpected changes. At the present time the mayor of Houston is a lesbian woman--a former acquaintance of Lynne and Tamara’s. I was pleasantly surprised that Houston was so good to my daughter and her partner.

My second oldest child, a daughter, lives in Baltimore. The nation’s economic problems have badly effected Baltimore--by appearances, much more so than Denver. However, Baltimore has always had a large population of struggling workers.

On one recent visit we found ourselves in the very worst neighborhood of the city. Gill and I were traveling in our camper van from Denver to the east coast with a planned stop in Baltimore to spend a few days there with my daughter Beth.

Beth works in the area of artificial intelligence. Currently she is working for NASA’s Atmospheric Science Data Center. She is a logician and applies her knowledge and expertise as such in her job developing ways to access past meteorological data.

In giving us directions to her home in Baltimore she did NOT apply her knowledge and expertise as a logician. Approaching her area of Baltimore, and carefully following the directions she had sent via e-mail, at a crucial point we made the turn to the left as instructed. Within two minutes we found ourselves in a very seedy neighborhood. Realizing surely something was wrong we pulled over to get out the cell phone. We needed to turn on lights as it was dark. Some unsavory looking characters gave us the once over and approached the van whereupon we locked all the doors and windows. No, we were not in the right neighborhood. We were supposed to turn right back there, not left, Beth admitted. In another five minutes we were in the correct neighborhood of Patterson Park. Not a swanky place, mind you. A very middle class, working person’s neighborhood in transition where we felt ever so much more comfortable and safe.

Beth now works from home and could live anywhere she wants, but chooses to stay in her neighborhood in Baltimore close to her D.C. contacts.

By the way, have you ever driven on the D.C. beltway? One of the most terrifying experiences of my life.

My youngest, a son, lives in Fairbanks, Alaska. Often I hear friends and acquaintances say, “Oh, yes, I’ve been to Alaska.” Almost inevitably it turns out they have been to Anchorage or the coastal area or perhaps Denali National Park. Fairbanks is not typically a tourist destination. I have only been to Fairbanks twice and those visits were in the summertime. It is not an easy place to get to even by plane.

My son John started his practice as a urologist in Fairbanks. Instant success as there are but four urologists in the entire state. Three of them practice in Anchorage.

The city of Fairbanks sits in the interior region of the state. Googling the list of rivers in Alaska did not help when trying to recall the name of the river that flows through the city. There are 9728 rivers in Alaska. Other methods of investigation including my failing memory yielded the name: The Chena River.

A drive from Fairbanks to the nearest city Anchorage is a day’s drive on a highway running mostly beside the rail route of The Alaska Railway. This rail system boasts punctuality and comfort. The dome-topped train offers incredible scenery on its route from Fairbanks to Anchorage with a stop at Denali National Park, home of Mt. McKinley, and fist-clenching run along the edge of the spectacular gorge carved by the Talkeetna River to mention only two of the numerous, magnificent, unforgettable, and interesting sights.

Further on about an hour out of Anchorage the train stops at Wassilla--Sara Palin’s home.

On my first visit to Fairbanks John rented an RV and off to Denali the five of us went--three adults and my two very young grandchildren. Our three day visit was memorable to say the least. Denali is a place of indescribable pristine beauty and awesome vastness.

Anyone wishing to travel east out of Fairbanks will be disappointed. If one travels in any direction other than south to Juneau, southwest to Anchorage, or north to Prudhoe Bay, one is liable to run out of highway. The roads simply stop. Beyond is wilderness. Of course the lumbering and mining operations abound in that state, but the place is so vast it appears to be endless and untouched. It is not hard to understand why half of the population are licensed pilots. Many people live in areas accessible only by plane. Many of these people live on islands off the coast.

Fairbanks is a growing city, currently at around 35,000 residents. Seemingly unaffected by the economic disasters taking place in the rest of the country, jobs are available. Students with a taste for adventure and perhaps the promise of a summer job are drawn to the University of Alaska’s Fairbanks campus.

I have not been to Alaska in the winter. When I checked the January 14 weather report, the expected high for the week was -32 with fog and mist resulting in a “feels like” temperature of -47. Does it really matter which it feels like: -47 or -32?

I do know that in the winter months many Alaskans--the more fortunate ones--fly to Hawaii where they spend a couple of weeks. A veritable exodus takes place in the dead of winter when those Alaskans who can afford it decide it is time for a good dose of sunlight and it’s mood-enhancing effects.

Here is a place where much attention is still given to the magic of the winter solstice. After December 21 it can only get better.

Atlanta, Baltimore, Fairbanks--wonderful places to visit. But I’m glad I live in Denver.


© 14 January 2012 

About the Author 

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.