The Purchase of Cloth

I had a big realization as I was unpacking during these past few days that the majority of my wardrobe is not at all work appropriate. So, I went on a bit of a shopping spree. And damn, was it fun! For the first time ever, I have extra money to spend on things. And to think I'm working far less now than I did this summer, but making far more! After serious financial difficulty, it feels really nice to not stress out about money.

However, I am by no means a rich woman. Let's not forget about the student loans and dental debts, or the savings account that really should have more than its current (and measly) $3. So when I go on shopping sprees, it's not like I go to expensive stores or little boutiques. It's more like Forever 21, Filene's Basement, Old Navy and the like. But these have always been my stores, and I've always been quick to criticize the woman that spends hundreds of dollars on a single dress. In fact, in my previous blog entry I commented on the ridiculousness of spending tons of money on one article of clothing. But, after a recent experience shopping at one of the above stores, my opinions on such matters have begun to change.

So, I was rifling through a rack of purple-y sweater dresses at Forever 21 and couldn't find my size. I was mumbling to myself, almost at the end and empty-handed, when I came upon one that was missing its price tag. I pulled the collar out to examine the inside tag and saw the "S" I was hoping for. But then I looked a little further down and, below the ever-handy washing instructions, read the words, "Made in Indonesia."

I paused, but then unhooked it and tried it on to find a perfect fit. I felt kind of shitty as I waited in line, wondering what kid in Indonesia worked last week for some unfair, small amount of change to make my fun, flirty sweater dress. I paid for it, stuffed it in the bag and stepped outside, only to be swallowed up by the lively atmosphere of Union Square that quickly switched my mental focus from child labor and underpaid workers to my exciting life in NYC.

There were men dressed in togas, handing out tubs of Greek yogurt. There were Chinese tourists rambling in Mandarin and taking tons of photos. There were college students lounging in the grass, smoking cigarettes (imagine myself as an 18-year-old coming to college here!). Then I stopped and watched some incredibly talented street musicians, a brass band jammin' out on the sidewalk. They were eight black men with dance moves to die for, wailing on their trumpets, trombones, baritones and tuba (I've never seen a person play such a large instrument while moving around in such a smooth, sexy way before). As I walked down the subway stairs, their bouncy tune faded out and the sounds of cellos accompanied by a hand drum faded in. A young quartet with three cello-ists and a djembe-ist were playing in the main walkway. Further below them as I navigated through the underground maze, I saw a tap-dancer working her magic. Then I got on the subway, looked down at the bag I had set in my lap, and remembered.

When I got home, I looked at the tags of my other recent purchases and discovered that lots of my clothes are Made in Cambodia, Thailand, El Salvador, etc. Those women with money and egos spend hundreds of dollars on a dress and then brag to others about the name of their designer. But you know what? Those women actually know the name of the person that designed their dress. And chances are, they know who sewed them, too. Which means that these women who I so heavily criticize know exactly who makes their clothing and where it's made. They know who designed it, and they probably know where the material comes from, too. I don't even know where to begin looking in order to find out who sewed my sweater dress from Forever 21. Or my long-sleeved tee from Old Navy. Or my skirt from Filene's Basement.

So here's my dilemma: I don't have enough money to buy one-of-a-kind clothes in one-of-a-kind, designer shops. I barely have enough money to buy the clothes I need for work from Indonesian sweatshops. And like I said, I'm making more money now than I've ever made. But throw in all my expenses (let's not even get started on health insurance), and I definitely don't have the bucks for boutiques. And if I did buy a $400 dress, would I feel good about it? It seems like a lot of money that could go toward a lot of other causes. And, in ways, it feels a little materialistic and silly to focus so much energy on who and what type and where. It's just clothing!

So that brings me to the second dilemma: should I rag on myself for happily getting distracted from these issues? For wearing these affordable clothes to the amazing jazz festival that's currently happening in Williamsburg, and not thinking about anything but the amazing jazz music? For accepting compliments with a smile from cute little hipsters on my "adorable sweater?" There's a line somewhere between living my life and worrying about others' lives.

But it hurts to read headlines about the increasing civilian death toll in Iraq, or the brutality behind the diamond business, or the latest refugee camp set up outside of Sudan. The hurt makes me want to do something, but I don't know what that something is. Nor do I know if I can even do it.

But you know what else? The hurt also sometimes encourages me to just stop reading the headlines and go on about my happy life. Which clearly isn't the right answer. But nor is it right to continually brood and worry. Where, oh where, is this elusive line?

Aside from these worries, which is just part of being American these days (or should be, at least), I am in love with New York City. I am happier and happier each day. I feel like every corner I turn is a new discovery. I love walking down the street and hearing five different languages and seeing five hundred different styles of clothing. I love passing from one live musician to the next, just on my walk to the subway. I love learning about high society and the amazingly intense pressures that come along with being a working, single mother in the midst of it. I love that I can sit at a bar and analyze the live sound with my drink-maker ("too crackly" we all decided). I love that I come home and talk about art with my new apartment mates while searching for the escapee kitty (who was found, thankfully). It's a stimulating, exciting, adventurous ride here, and I am happily and completely ridin' it.