Vintage Marlboro Denim
Vintage Marlboro Denim
A personal essay about memory and clothing
Like many others, I have a denim jacket in my closet.
On the hanger, it looks worn- the hem stitching of the sleeves a much darker shade of yellow than the rest. It reflects memories untold, but that live peacefully in my consciousness. On my body, it hangs in a perfect oversized silhouette that leaves much to wonder about what’s styled beneath. Sometimes I’ll wear it on its own, the 3 middle buttons closed and paired with a gold necklace that ties in the warm toned leather collar.
My dad wore it differently. It fit him properly, but he never buttoned the brass Marlboro hardware. He hated the cold and was convinced the heavy denim trapped in his body heat, but, alas, the jacket remained undone.
I liked when he wore the henley-neck long sleeve underneath. The hugs were softer, aided by cotton, not so rough as denim. He never thought about the colors that complemented him, but that shirt was a rust red that felt warm enough to pull every hint of olive tone in his skin to the surface. I tried to explain color theory to him once; he sat his reading glasses at the edge of his nose, and viewed what I showed him with a comical seriousness. He asked inquisitive questions to digest the material, just as any stellar student would. He dropped out of high school after becoming orphaned at 17, but there wasn’t anything he couldn’t learn and repeat with a swift vitality. He loved listening to anything I did at school, but I found him stopping to watch the work done on my art projects the most. I sketched, outlined, mixed paint, blended graphite, erased, ripped things up, reimagined, started over, and he followed along in awe.
Last week I wore his denim jacket to a fashion show in New York City, my permanent address for multiple years now. He would’ve hated it here, but loved the subway. I’d have to answer a million questions on how it worked and if there was a YouTube video explaining it. He’d wear the denim jacket at the first breeze of autumn and remark on the skill of the heavy equipment operators on such narrow streets. I’d tell him denim is trending right now, that he fits right in with the city crowd; he would tell all his friends in Small Town, USA about his daughter working in fashion in the Big Apple. We’d people-watch, remark on how different our opinions are on lots of things, eventually get irritated with each other after too many days in a row spent together, and then forget all about it over a fast food hamburger; mine would be vegan and his with an extra onion slice. I think he’d have a hard time leaving me here.
It was my dad who taught me how to sew. After a childhood in the deep south, raised by his Granny, he knew more about running a home than most of my friends’ mothers- traits I didn’t think twice about until becoming conscious of gender roles much later. I learned hand stitching, biscuit making from scratch, the rules of laundry, and how to drive a tractor all before age ten. Besides the farming equipment, I still use all of these skills in my adulthood. Now, in an environment as dissimilar to my hometown as peaches to a taxi cab, sewing and creating are anchoring familiarities. If my younger self would’ve known the fashion-centered career path I was destined for, I probably would’ve paid more attention to those hand stitching lessons. I’ve mentally prepared myself for the day one of the stitches come loose on his jacket, or a tiny tear comes out of its hiding place. Denim is a difficult material to repair.
“Put on an old t-shirt and a pair of blue jeans.” I knew this was my invitation- rather, my cue- if I wanted to play outside with my dad and brothers, as this was the required uniform. My dad always had a fear rooted in getting grease or car oil stains on my clothes. My t-shirt of choice was a provided one from my Kindergarten field day. When first given to me, the yellow hem hung down to my knees and came home covered in paint and dirt and memories of a tug-of-war. While luncheons and award ceremonies were harder to come by, Dad never missed a field day. I don’t know when I stopped wearing this particular t-shirt for outdoor play time, but I remember falling off a dirtbike and my upside-down view of Dad running towards me. My brothers didn’t blink twice while I was rushed inside to clean up my wounds. I knew they would later receive a homespun lecture on the importance of watching their little sister. I find myself keeping old t-shirts now, reaching for them when things might get messy, in tandem with paints, my sketchbook, or anything of the like.
I liked rummaging through my dad’s closet to borrow his clothes- like untapped potential waiting to be styled with my own. I’d wear something of his and he always seemed so impressed I was able to arrange it in the way I did. I never felt the pressure my friends seemed to feel from their parents, and it never occurred to me that my creative choices would be negatively perceived by others. One morning, I told my parents I wanted to paint my room orange with zebra stripes. My dad had the orange paint mixed and brushes ready for me to freehand the stripes that night. Eight years later, I won an art scholarship for college with a giant portrait painting I completed with a freehand technique. I like to think I started developing that skill right on my bedroom walls.
I only got to borrow the denim jacket on the weekends. During the week, I bounced from uniform to uniform, from school to practice. My school uniforms remind me of my mom, but my sports uniforms remind me of my dad. I’ve always enjoyed sports and I’ve found I thrive in a strong community. In high school, be it cheerleading, swimming, track, or soccer- dad would be there in the bleachers. He’d bring an extra coat, sometimes the denim Marlboro; the uniforms provided never seemed to be weather appropriate. There was usually food involved after the events, and it almost always included Taco Bell or Burger King. The car rides home were never filled with much talk about the game or meet, and I don’t particularly remember what we were chatting about, but I know it always felt warm. I put too much of my faith in stain remover and narrowly avoided attending one too many Friday Night Lights with creamy jalapeño sauce on the white lettering across my uniform’s chest.
Sometimes I convince myself I can still smell his cologne on the jacket- the scent of Axe body spray in the blue bottle and his hair damp from a shower, freshly ‘combed,’ never ‘brushed.’ His accent bled into his dialog and sounded like honey- sweet, thick, and comforting all the same. I hear it in my own words on occasion. I’ll never succumb to ‘you guys’ over ‘y’all’ and one glass of wine will expose my comfortably slow cadence of speech. The smell of his cologne was almost the same as the air freshener in the pick-up truck in which he taught me how to drive down dirt roads until I graduated to pavement. My friends in New York may never see me operate a vehicle, a funny thought for something so central to life back home. I can drive just about anything thanks to Dad’s- sometimes unconventional- instruction. He loved Nascar, so I blame him for each and every one of my speeding tickets.
When lockdown came about at the tail end of my sophomore year of college, I had become particularly intrigued by second hand fashion; I managed to sneak Dad’s (now considered vintage) jacket into my closet while back home with my parents. The three of us, the most dissimilar peas in a pod you’ve ever seen, inhabited our little house together for weeks. Surroundings crept in around me- to someone so ready to leave it, my hometown felt like the middle of nowhere. My internship study abroad had been canceled. My mom sat in virtual meetings at our kitchen table discussing disease counts and public health matters. It was only my dad’s work and lifestyle that remained chiefly unaltered due to landscaping’s outdoor nature. When I took to selling upcycled thrifted clothes, he took to setting up my ‘factory’ outside where I could bleach, rip, tear, distress, and create how I pleased. Once, while experimenting with a new bleach-dying method, I accidentally threw one of dad’s custom company t-shirts in the wash with my samples. It came out tie-dye-esque and I came up with an entirely too long dialog to break the news. One wide-eyed look at the unexpectedly redesigned shirt and I knew he loved it. That was his go-to shirt for some time after that incident.
I wear his wedding ring everyday. Amongst the stack of my other pieces, it blends in as a simple gold band, but I feel like something is missing now when I leave the house without it. Sometimes, when I’m filming silly ‘outfit of the day’ videos for my social media, I consider including that anecdote about his ring, but always stop myself before talking through details of my jewelry. Maybe it's too personal or maybe I hate making other people feel uncomfortable. I’ve talked about the jacket before, stating it’s ‘Vintage Marlboro denim’ and leaving it at that. Some days I want to say more; on others, I want to slip into the denim jacket and say nothing for hours.
It’s been four years since we lost my dad. There is a great divide in my story- a before and after- centered around his departure. I am who I am because of the original owner of the denim jacket in my closet. I am who I am because the jacket hangs all too differently now when I borrow it. It’s impossible to reckon with the kind of finality tied to grief, but some intangible gap seems to bridge internally as I summon the courage to pull the jacket off its new hanger and bring it back to life. Cloaked in armor, I face people and places I don’t want to confront alone. Concealed in familiarity, I navigate the unclear of whatever lies ahead.
Like many others, I have a denim jacket in my closet.
x,
KR
