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How I Became an Expat
In 1492, you know who did you know what. I commit this gem this memory, then look out the window as teacher
repeats & repeats & repeats--each time slower and more carefully than the last.
A trouble maker at six, I meet with the principal, Mr Siriani who throws around some code words.
(The American Counter Reformation is in full swing and boy was that fun!)
He says:
It doesn't matter how intelligent, or creative you are, what really matters is how well you get
along with others. But don't worry, someday you will meet people like you.
Here's the translation:
intelligent: too clever, difficult to control, Jewish but not in the generally hippity happy way.
creative : homosexual, possibly Communist, likely to try & enjoy spicy foreign foods.
getting along with others: easily corralled into buying larger and larger (or smaller or smaller) appliances.
How wonderful to have so much freedom that you don't even need to use any; I leave the country as soon as I was able.
It's not what he meant of course, but then again, maybe it was, you never know.
My Father the Fashionista,and the Suits
When I graduated from University my father gave me a dozen Armani suits. This—I know—sounds like a good Dad thing.
Let me explain.
The suits came in ice cream colors: blueberry, lemon, and mango. Wholly inappropriate for—well anyone—besides
a fashion designer like dear old dad. (Don't tell him I called him old—he'd bust his stitches—literally-- bust them.)
And they were too expensive. When I wore them for stupid entry level jobs the poor interviewer spent the
whole demoralizing fifteen minutes calculating: how many months he'd have to work, just how spoiled I must be,
just how his life had gone so very, very wrong.
I couldn't even afford to dry clean them.
And—at size 40 -- they were too small. Dad said, Go on a diet, and keep the suits. But this is how I got
the suits in the first place. This is the cycle; dad lost weight, bought suits, gained weight back and gave
the expensive, useless things to me.
I went to the gym instead and quickly became: a 42, a 44, a 46, and for a brief and for a shining moment
a 48 inch chest.
I had two looks back them (still do, exactly). The first, Marlon Brando: Levis, white t-shirt, black boots.
The other look is East German Army grunt, which is pretty much the same except in green. I did not wear these
things specifically to irritate my father, but I was not displeased with that response.
Finally my step father, a garmento from way back, gave me a clothes horse, which made it easier to
transport these suits when I got evicted from smaller and darker apartments.
What, you ask, is the difference between a garmento and a fashionista? Excellent question:
My father is a fashionista, a fashionista works in the fashion industry, but this—alone—would make someone
a garmento and not all garmentos are fashionistas, no.
A fashionista is a breed apart. Theay care about clothes, to the exclusion of all things besides accessories.
They care about clothes more than food (naturally, body mass ruins the line), more than their children (ditto),
more than their grandmother (unless she comes with vintage Chanel, and is generous.)
Finally, there was nothing to be done but leave. After New York every place seemed affordable—so
I started travelling—in search of my true self and affordable housing.
(I gave the suits to my brother, I hate him.)
It Happens All The Time
It's 1984 in New York: Reagan is president, Gotti is boss, people have large, fluffy hair and say things like,
"Greed is Good!" and no one jumps up to correct them. I'm uniquely unqualified to live in this world, so I bartend.
The sexual revolution peaked a while back—here's what's left: boys in khakis doing coke.
You have to love coke: you're both grandiose and disconnected, it's clean and antiseptic and oh so white.
Even the black boys are white; they speak of arbitrage and of the Hamptons.
Some of the old warriors stumble in by accident. They lean their leathery bodies against the bar
and let out the dramatic sighs of Queen Dowagers. Signs meant to be attended to. So, I say,
"Want a beer?"
Adam Jeffries Schwartz is a writer, photographer & traveler.
To see more of his work check out his column, Observations, After.
Observations After Site
Email: Adam Jeffries Schwartz
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