Things change all the time—laws, governors, our understanding of the truth.... Today I wear the gray of a prisoner; tomorrow, who knows?
"What do you want to wear when you leave there?" someone recently asked me, and I froze, unable to give a response.
Leaving prison after any amount of time is a life-changing event. After more than twenty-four years inside, its significance can't be overstated. The state of Missouri has curtailed my day-to-day choices and provided my wardrobe for nearly a quarter of a century—twenty-odd years of gray pants and white T-shirts. To have my choice restored sounds great, but like trying to order dinner from the menu at Cheesecake Factory, the infinite possible choices intimidate me to the point of paralysis.
Clothing is a fraught issue for me. In school, as I struggled to understand what made things "cool" or "uncool," classmates invariably ridiculed my poor judgment. Once I entered my morbid teen years, every day was Halloween. My makeup and all-black wardrobe attracted not just mockery but violence.
Even without a good understanding of how, I was keenly aware that clothing played a big role in our daily performances. "Every girl's crazy 'bout a sharp-dresed man" aren't just cheesy song lyrics, they're recognitions of a truth: that how we drape our bodies in everyday life plays an important role in how we're regarded by our fellow humans. It's why uniforms and designer labels exist. It's why they use costumes in movies and theater. It's why the term "personal style" was coined.
In short, how we're dressed is who the world believes we are. Asking what I want to wear when I leave prison is akin to asking who I think of myself as being.
So who am I? Buddhist teachings caution against confusing the self with the skin bag we call a body. We're ultimately so much more (and less) than this crass material form suggests. For that reason, Buddhism aims at lessening practitioners' attachment to adornments such as jewelry, clothing, and hair, which reinforce our ego-clinging. (Hence, why Buddhist monks and nuns are bald.)
I don't mind wearing the same uniform day in, day out. In fact, having my identity defined by my character and actions, not by my clothing choices, is nice, in a way. It takes the pressure off. Going back to a world where I'm judged by my wardrobe means that I have to decide, to some extent, who I am.
For as long as I've considered the question, you'd think I'd have an answer by now.
I do know that I'm not someone who wears patterns or a lot of color, and I don't care for leisure wear, being uncomfortable in shorts and sweats alike. I may be closer now to fifty than to forty, but I'm still a weirdo. There's just less of an edge now. Teenage Byron could wear black velvet and thigh-high Docs to dinner; what's the age-appropriate, toned-down version of that look like?
I watch the Netflix series Wednesday and think, Gomez Addams was a snazzy dresser—would there be anything wrong with a pinstriped three-piece suit? Is that too much? Am I too much? And if I am, then what's really the matter with that?
When I brought this question up to a friend, he had some sage advice. "Whatever your raiment," he said, "appear as the person you are. That's not just good. It's better than good."
It's nice to hear that from a friend. What a shame that most people believe clothes make the man.
