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| Copying our Chicano parents' 1940's style into the '60s |
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| Even cassettes still available at la secunda |
I’ve been going to thrift stores since the
1970s, when my generation didn’t want to get caught wearing anything new or
trendy, rebelling against the establishment's department stores. Teenagers and young adults, rich and poor alike, dressed like laborers, farmers, and grannies.
We went for faded jeans, khakis, sailors' bellbottoms, t-shirts, tank tops, worn Pendletons, army or jean jackets, cowboy or
work boots, stuff like that, pretending we were “all country,” even in the suburbs. Of course, many Chicanos weren't pretending, except maybe the guaraches and sarapes went a bit too far. That was us, unapologetically introducing our culture's working-class garb onto college campuses.
The segunda carried plenty of that, including
furniture, books and records, at the lowest prices. That it was all “truly
used" didn’t make any difference. Once you washed the clothes, they were good as
new. A 1960s-70s apartment, for instance, wouldn’t have the newest furniture or
consoles from Sears or Montgomery Ward, like our parents’ generation, proud of assimilation. My generation wanted to keep a certain Mexican identity, whatever that meant. We weren't really sure. A lot of us were barely able to speak Spanish correctly.
We recycled milk cartons, cinder blocks, and
pine planks for end tables or wall and book shelves. We liked sitting on old,
comfortable sofas, sarapes draped over the back, large pillows tossed on a rug, rattan chairs purchased
at Pier 1, Imports, a colorful charro sombrero on the wall, potted plants in woven
macrame hanging from the ceiling, making a statement. What? It wasn't really clear.
Of course, all that changed when we got
real jobs, a decent salary, married, and started having kids. Me? I hung on to the old ways into
the 80s. Today, I still go into thrift stores. I recently picked up a pair of JBL
book-shelf speakers, perfect sound. Seems like everybody is getting rid of
their stodgy stereos and big-ass speakers and streaming music through devices smaller
than a tissue box. A lot of thrift stores are filled with quality stereo
equipment.
That got me to thinking about the time I
landed a position as dean at a local community college. I’d already paid my
dues, working in administration at two UC’s and a state university, as well as
five-years of teaching. My go-to clothes were beige khaki’s, polo shirts or powder
blue dress shirts, tie, and dark blue blazer.
So, I was hanging out with a friend, a painter
by trade. I’d done my time with manual labor in my youth, before I finished my university
degrees. We were talking and watching a game on television. Who knows what
game, depending what was in season. I told him I had to go to Washinton D.C.
for a conference and visit legislators who sat on the Higher Education
Committees, to twist their arms about letting loose of more funding for colleges
and universities. I told him I needed to go buy a suit. A blue blazer, tie, and
kakis wouldn’t cut it on the "Hill."
I asked if he wanted to go with me, to
keep me company while I looked at suits. He agreed. We hopped into my car and headed out. He asked
where we were going. I retorted, “La segunda.” He burst out laughing. I told
him why spend hundreds of dollars on a suit when I’d only wear it once, maybe
twice. I hated suits. I wasn’t in the Willie Brown, Antonio Villaraigosa camp,
wearing form-fitting custom-made Italian suits. It wasn’t even about the money.
If I wanted, I could spring for a $1,000 suit, but it went against my values.
He listened, chuckling the whole time, thinking I was jostling him. “Come on,
really, where are we going,” he asked, “Nordstrom, Macy’s?”
He thought I was taking the joke too far
when I pulled into a thrift store parking lot on Santa Monica Boulevard, in
West L.A., near where he went to high school. When I stepped out of the car, he
stayed put. “Alright, I get it,” he said, or something to that effect. “You can
stop with the joke.”
“No joke. They’ve got suits, and cheap.”
Reluctantly, he followed me into the store,
suspicious, not wanting to get caught up in my teasing, the butt of my joke, like
waiting for me to say, “Ah! Got you.”
Once you get past the musty smell in the
clothes area, they really do have some nice clothes. I even saw a few Mercedes,
Lexus, and BMWs in the parking lot, hip shoppers coming down from Brentwood to
find bargains on named brands.
Each time I pulled a suit from the rack,
he kept his eyes peeled, waiting for me to pull the trigger, to catch him in my
trap. It didn’t take but fifteen minutes for me to find a dark green suit, made
in New York, a brand I knew carried some weight. “I’m going to try this on,” I
told him.
I found a changing room, and, even to my
surprise, it fit perfectly, pant waist and length, like it had been waiting for
me. I came outside and stood in front of the mirror. “What do you think?”
He cocked an eye, afraid to commit.
Eventually, he said, “Looks good, actually.”
“Yeah, right. I’m taking it.”
I showed him the price tag hanging from
one sleeve, $12.00. “How can you beat that?” I said, more of a statement than a
question.
He shook his head, still not getting
himself to believe what he was witnessing, like I was about to say, “Fake! Let’s
get out of here and go to a real suit store.”
I walked to the cash register and placed
the suit on the counter. I took out a twenty-dollar-bill. The woman at the
register said, “Ah, your lucky day. It’s on sale, fifty percent off." She folded
the coat and trousers and put them into a plastic bag. She gave me back
fourteen dollars. We made a quick exit to the parking lot, passing people entering the store, and got into my car. On the drive home, my friend kept shaking his head, not
sure what to believe, that I'd drop six bucks on a joke and still go to a real suit store, that I was cheap, and lucky.
I wore the suit to D.C., met with
legislators and toured the capitol, attended a conference, lunches, and dinners,
proud as punch in my snazzy dark green suit, looking like it had been tailor
made, not one other suit in the bunch “out-suiting” me. I even got a couple of
compliments.
It stayed in my closet for years. I never
had the need to wear it again, as I switched back to khakis, powder blue
shirts, and dark blue blazers. Somewhere along the line, I guess I took it back
to la segunda, to give someone else a shot at wearing it.
