Lessons of Heritage
“Buy the best you can afford.”
To this day, my uncle can shoehorn this piece of advice into just about any conversation. Looking back, my family’s emphasis on buying for quality is something I didn’t always understand as a kid; quite frankly, I thought it was corny at times. But now, in the light of just how destructive the fashion industry is, I’ve come to realize that the Midwest has a thing or two to teach me about clothing consumption. As someone born and raised in the suburban Midwest, I can confirm that most people aren’t particularly concerned with being “fashionable.” Not to feed into the corn-fed, blue jean vision of the middle of the country, but when it comes to clothes, many people just don’t care about what’s going on in the world of fashion. My family is no exception to that. That’s not to say that they didn’t care about what they looked like; they just weren’t thinking about whether the things they bought were considered cool by anyone else. They sought out brands that made reliable products, and they were happy to be loyal to any quality brand they found.
He may not know it, but my uncle is a fashion archivist of sorts. Growing up, his love of Orvis was a running joke in my family. His wardrobe is filled with season after season of their printed and patterned shirts (fishing lures, anyone?), beat-up baseball caps, baggy pants, and leather belts. He’s a dedicated customer to Filson, Patagonia, and L.L. Bean, and he’ll happily endorse Bass Weejuns, Alden wingtips, and Brooks Brothers shirts. An avid gardener and lifelong bird hunter, his gear was routinely put to use, and he knew a thing or two about quality. His commitment to quality was one shared by his sister, my mother. My mom’s taste may not always be spot-on, but she always appreciated well-made things: antique furniture, leather shoes, porcelain dishes (“stoneware scratches too easily”), Oriental rugs. When I was home for the holidays, we talked about her Bean Boots and how she didn’t have the slightest idea that anyone thought they were cool. As I scroll through deep piles of vintage Retro X fleeces on eBay that have doubled in value, my mom’s— gray, well over 15 years old, and with plenty of ratty holes from stray bonfire embers— seems even cooler than the one I bought myself this fall.
Needless to say, as a kid, I didn’t appreciate any of this. I thought my mom’s hole-speckled fleece and my uncle’s duck camo hunting jacket were dorky. It wasn’t until I began to be interested in clothes that I realized their buying habits and enthusiasm for great brands and quality products were no different than my own. More and more, I find myself reaching for many of the same things that have filled their closets at one point or another.
It’s 2020, and I don’t think I’m being revolutionary in saying that more and more people are beginning to understand how destructive our society’s consumption of clothing is. Consumers are tired of being peddled low-quality products that barely make a pit stop in our hands between the factory and the garbage and, as a result, we’re starting to be more discerning with what and how we consume. The explosion of web-based resale (clothing and otherwise) has lowered the barrier of entry for smarter consumption for many, and it also creates more opportunities to discover brands that make high-quality goods.
My wardrobe is now filled with brands that my family has been wearing for decades before I decided to: Patagonia, L.L. Bean, Bass, Carhartt. Over the holidays, I discovered that I had unknowingly purchased the same L.L. Bean flannel on eBay that my dad’s been wearing for years. My oxblood tassel loafers have the seal of approval from my uncle whose fashion advice I would have never solicited. However, the older I get, the more I realize that my family’s taste still has a thing or two to teach me. When my uncle calls me now, he doesn’t always include his same nuggets of consumer advice; he knows I get it.
