Back to School, Part Two
It was truly a wonder that I learned anything academic at Boarding School, let alone have any time to peruse any interests that I might have had, because the conspiracy of the elders was to keep these 200 mischievous, innately troublesome youths, so busy changing clothes, that at the end of the day who could have any time for anything but sleep. The theory must have been, keep them so busy, so active, who could have time to fall out of Grace.
This whole theory melded perfectly with the fashion of the times. We were the young masters of the universe, and we had to dress the part. There was a uniform, or perhaps better expressed, there were at least three uniforms to be worn each day.
It started like this. We were required to wear a grey suit with brown shoes and tie to classes. So each morning if I was not a waiter (which I will discuss at a later date), I would dress in a beautiful grey suit with a Paul Stuart tie and brown highly polished Brooks Brothers shoes. My parent’s fashion preoccupation must have worn off on me, because I began to love clothes. The worsteds, glen plaids, charcoal flannel stripes all of a well made suit, made me feel as worthy and proud as the clothes would allow. I would vary my tie to fit the occasion. I was a true preppy. The odd thing, and perhaps the most embarrassing thing to admit today, being totally isolated in this 10,000 acre prison, I imagined that the whole world would want to be like this. It was not until I graduated and out in the real world that I realized how lost in translation I was.
So off to classes I went in my attire, carefully examining the twill and the tweeds of my contemporaries, noticing the ties, socks, learning my craft to perfection. Who cares about world history when right there before my eyes was the American dream, the American elite. I could tell if the suit was hand made by it’s buttonholes and stitching and how adventurous and audacious one might be by the lining color of his suit. I grew to love color, not on the outside where it was forbidden but on the inside linings of suits.
Anyway, enough about my sartorial perception, this story is really about change. So as I said before I interrupted myself that off to classes we went dressed in our grey suits which we wore until after lunch.
After lunch there was an hour and a half study hall in your rooms, where we would all take off our suits and ties and dress in jeans, khakis ect. for study hall.
After study hall, there was always sports football, soccer, cross-country, hockey, and lacrosse, etc. each having it’s own uniform, which we would have to dress appropriately for. In the spring I would play tennis and the white of my shirt had to match the white shorts, socks and beautiful converse white sneakers. Never mind I could barely get the ball over the net; I still looked good. Too bad there were no girls to impress. Just a group of reject boys like myself who couldn’t make junior varsity.
After sports came the big event, of course any normal 15-year-old boy would eat dinner by candlelight in this mammoth hall with long wooden tables. For dinner it was required we wear a blue suit, with white shirt and black polished shoes. It was truly amazing how 200 boys wearing the same thing could be so different. The personality of each boy shown through, but only subtly, and I loved it. The choice of tie and how it was tied, initials on their shirts, their choice of shoes, all showed the mark of the man. Some very casual, the European’s emasculate, all expensive, exclusive, out of reach, and horrible and glorious all at once.
I don’t know what I made of this; I must have loved it. I wanted to fit in with my classmates, my family, my life, but…there was a point of some return. We would return home from dinner, change from our suits for study hall, and then two hours later change again to go to bed. Exhausted by how many clothes one person could wear in one day.
Today you can still see the vestiges of those years, but barely. I have though learned to love the uniform. I dress the same almost every day. A proper beautifully pressed shirt, a pair of khaki pants and the same brand of Brooks Brothers tassel loafers I wore back in school when I was 15.
Attention to detail has never left me. I see more now than ever. I see the same things on people but much more. I look at what makes them beautiful. This is very complicated. I see it in everything. Although in those years I desperately wanted clothes to make the man, I learned in my senior year that a man is far more than the clothes on his back. Stay tuned.
