Vol. 12: Something I liked
A Storied Jacket, The Kardashians, My Lamp's New Look and Four Other Things
Hi there,
Lately, I’ve been getting the sense that there is simply too much ballast. In each direction, myself and those around me keep succumbing to the weight of our desires, our circumstantial difficulties and our demons, as well as the weight of the world at large. But, I must hope, and do hope, that flight is still possible for all of us.
After all, in a hot air balloon, ballast is also necessary for maintaining stability.
Within the past few weeks, I went to Maddie’s improv show, a dance performance my friend Purna produced, and Henry’s first gig with his new band. I met three of Ryland’s friends who inspired me to think differently about the world and heard Jess sing karaoke for the first time in too long. Then, I watched 18 people read their writing about the prompt, “over the top,” at a special Writing Under the Influence event that encouraged spontaneity and foregoing perfectionism.
These were all good things that existed in spite of and in concert with the heaviness of being, which I am not trying to minimize or ignore. As always, balance is key. And it’s important to feel what you need to.
Today, however, I grasp for and honor lightness in a small way by sharing an essay with you. I wrote it for a job application process that didn’t pan out, but I liked what I wrote. I don’t want to let rejection change what the piece means to me.
So, I return to this space, both as retreat and as homecoming. Today we’re talking about a special jean jacket. Thank you for being here.
A Study in Denim
My father called me over.
“Do you want this? I saw that those Kardashians have been wearing them.”
He handed me a denim jacket.
This particular piece of outerwear came into my father’s life when he was about 20 in 1980s Boston. The jacket was born in a medium wash and had lightened with age, as we all do. Its leather collar, once tan, bled dark brown from decades of neck sweat — cream giving way to coffee. Somewhere near where the jacket would kiss its wearer’s spine was a mark that looked suspiciously like a splatter of blood. I loved it immediately.
My father’s denim jacket became an element of my wardrobe during my college and post-college years that could be described as cartoon-character-esque. I was enveloped in its comfortably oversized silhouette so frequently one could almost imagine my arms would be invisible if I took it off. I would draw it close while walking alone — first during thick, humid Florida nights and, later, against New York’s biting wind. Its sleeves have been soaked in my tears, and it has been present for countless moments of my joy. It has a pocket the perfect size for my journal.
Like a person who is caught between their second and third decades, denim has a multifaceted identity.
The word is evocative. It draws to mind an image of working people, utility and whatever one’s preconceived notions are about Americana. Yet sometimes something you perceive to be denim hides a dark secret: it’s actually made out of a mysterious blend of spandex and polyester. Other times, true denim items are sold pre-distressed, a shortcut for those who want to project a rough and tumble lifestyle without rolling down any hills.
I think that is why this 100% denim jacket, in all its authenticity and durability, was the perfect tether between my father’s experience of his post-adolescent years and my own. We added each rip, tear and imperfection to it ourselves. It became our shared living scrapbook because denim, as with many relationships, tends to last as long as you treat it with care.
My years of committed wear have admittedly made the jacket thinner.
The collar eventually had to be replaced — a gift from my parents because they knew I would be too afraid to make a change to it myself. This time, the leather is black. The tailor left red ink blotches on the fabric. I’ve added some pen marks to the ever-fraying wrists myself. It desperately needs a new patch on its shoulder where a hole opened up.
Today, it hangs in my closet proudly, semi-retired to ensure its longevity. I slip it on when I want to feel like my dad is closer than a few states away. If my apartment was on fire, it is the item I would rescue first, even before the stacks of journals it has carried all these years.
I have never discovered where the blood stain on the jacket came from. It remains one of the secrets kept between my father and his youth. I have accepted that. After all, he doesn’t know everything about my decade spent in denim either.
And, that was the essay. The prompt urged me to look more closely at the fabrics that have shaped my life. I hope that you try it too. You never know what you might uncover.
Now, here are Four Things:
Something told: Ryland’s movie reviews, as written to his friend Rick. They are short and make me laugh when he is grumpily critical.
Something new: Henry’s band, No Jersey. He makes great faces when they perform.
Something borrowed: This great edition of Suleika Jaouad’s great newsletter, involving a dog named Bear in the second section and a lot of hope throughout.
Something zoo: This young thing. I was so surprised when its face entered my eye-line as I scrolled that I screamed.
As always, it’ll be nice to meet you tomorrow,
—N. Graney I
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