Mid-Century Fashion Explosion- From "Raven Red"

In a South Bronx of the 1950’s, as in many towns throughout the country, teenagers were not usually perceived as “adolescents,” that is, humans in the process of becoming, with biologically defined mood swings positing understanding and/or sensitive counseling; rather, they often were simply regarded as lost, lazy and loutish annoyances, flaunting their young bodies and immature souls with a whiff of toughness, sex, and general wrongdoing. Competition among the teens themselves was also quite fierce. Consequently, there was a strict dress code for those wishing to survive this precarious stage of life without being victimized, horribly scrutinized, merely ostracized or worse, ignored, and it was was unyieldingly conformist.

The word “denim” was not in use at the time, but dungarees were an essential item, preferably Lees, as they were believed less “faggoty,” than Wranglers. Dungaree jackets dominated the fashion scene for spring and fall, draping the thin shoulders of children along with “shiny” jackets for summer, wardrobe items that comprised the staples of any self-respecting street teen’s after-school and summer couture. These same dungarees (perhaps a nod to farmers who cleared dung in them) when worn by girls often had red embroidery patterns trailing down the side of each pant leg, possibly in a row of small, rosettes on connecting vines; the flowers were sewn onto the stiff cotton fabric right at the moment of purchase, on the spot as it were. What we now refer to as “jeans” met their crimson curleques of magic thread by way of a jet speed, electric needled Singer sewing machine that stood guard at the front of the “dry goods” store, awaiting the next assault on the material.

The dry goods store, a neighborhood fixture, was a small, cave-like enterprise, surprisingly well-lit but long and narrow, containing shelves up to the ceiling on both sides, piled thick, high and disorderly with sweatshirts, polo shirts, shorts and other staples of teen apparel; the proprietor wore one of those tiny, bristly mustaches that looked like an attachment for a vacuum cleaner, the small, plastic thing-a-ma-jig part that does blinds. In essence however he really was more of a one-man band than an appliance salesman and he kept the place in perfect tune- selling, buying, ringing up purchases on an imposing, noisy cash register with large, round keys; continually busy folding and refolding, tidying up the shop, sewing rosettes onto the sides of dungarees for impatient kids, he also kept the books along with a keen eye out for Kleptos.

The complete dungaree outfit, a vision in what we now call denim, though much, much sturdier and never pre-washed, from top to bottom included a matching jacket and was the real flash point of style. When eventually fitted to satisfaction and paid for in cash, the final touch or piece de resistance was the dry goods proprietor stitching the kid’s first name onto the back of the jacket in matching crimson thread, floridly scripted in oversized and cursive artistry. Sashaying down the block in her brand new uniform, the typical thirteen or fourteen year old never failed to be amazed when a guy of fourteen or fifteen or sixteen, with sideburns, a duck’s tale and/or pompadour, teasingly called out her name as she passed. How could he possibly have known? It always took the girl a few moments to get it, to remember that the name was plastered all over the back of the jacket, before tossing her head back like Lana Turner in The Postman Always Rings Twice and laughing seductively with just a slight hint of contempt as she disappeared around the nearest corner. Ah, what power to be young, female, and swathed in virgin, durable, navy blue Lees from head to toe!

The lighter “shiny” jacket of a flimsier material had a much shorter seasonal life and therefore less clout on the sidewalk, but was equally if not more visible from at least a quarter of a mile away, mainly because of its reflective quality almost remindful of something atomic; cut baseball style of cheap, stiff nylon, it had an unusually high, blistering, almost nuclear sheen. The jacket came in several shades of day glow popsicle, and may well have been a forerunner to the Summer of Love, hovering out there in the next decade with all that lavish tie dye. This rather radiant article of clothing also turned out to be extremely popular, though only for a very short while as it offered no warmth whatsoever. The look came in hot pink and a kind of stop sign orange, though fuchsia and a radioactive lime green showed up on street corners as well.

It definitely was not the kind of thing you'd want to be mucking up while diving under your desk for a shelter drill, but more fitting for dress down Fridays or weekends, after school was out.

The Seder, Part Two

Outside Baba's bedroom window a pink neon sign flashes the word "wine" like mad from the liquor store below, and the bed pillows are plump and silken, soft with feathers- Lila will tour this room later as she always does. For now though, the huge table in the front room is the main attraction, filled with rows of small, etched wine glasses sitting in tiny saucers. There's an ornate kiddish cup for the blessing, a silver chalice for the prophet, delicate china dinner plates, polished candlesticks and a dazzling, embossed white-on-white tablecloth. A clump of large, aggressive-looking, shiny leaves are sprouting from a gigantic rubber plant, and a cluster of loud, fast-talking husbands and wives, cousins and great aunts are firing off in a couple of languages- seemingly at the same time. The room is crowded and noisy. 

The six brothers when bunched together are like a bouquet of unruly, assertive weeds-  they also are opinionated, stubborn, funny and charming-  pranksters who flirt with Lila Mae and demand to know which of them is her favorite, labeling themselves and each other for this particular amusement as the "rich" uncle, the "smart" uncle, the handsomest, the luckiest, the stupidest and so on. The uncles are amateur sultans, some with second and possibly third "wives" stashed away in hidden corners around the city and lots of practice being clever and lovable. Their lone baby sister, still in her late teens, sits quietly at the end of the table, pale and and demure, at the ready to help Baba. 

Selma is temporarily diluted, elated to snatch a flicker of the limelight that has passed over some of the less dramatic or appealing- though infinitely more conniving- of the sisters-in-law, and for those few hours everyone is behaving. As the Passover story gets underway, soon after the "brucha," or prayer, there will be murmurs and surreptitious attempts at conversation and other forms of heresy at the far end of the table, mainly from the women, who are loudly shushed by Zada Jake, aka "the boss," who in turn is backed up by his youngest son, the insufferably toady Sol/Shlomo/Shloimele, immediately leading the other brothers to barely stifle their snickers.

The previously pristine table becomes a weird collage of crumbled matzoh, horse radish splotches and red wine stains with the errant stalk of green celery flung across for contrast. Later on in the reading there will be some gothic suspense when the uncles suddenly point the younger children's attention to the open front door, then vigorously shake the table from underneath to simulate Elijah’s ghost entering the house; during this flimsy distraction a couple of the more audacious of the brothers will drain the prophet’s brimming cup unseen in the annual attempt to frighten the daylights out of the kids.

When Baba finally serves up the fish after Zada's endless droning of every word of the Hagaddah at his customary breakneck speed, she leaves the head in tact, eye vacantly gazing back up at the Seder guests.  It is her personal revenge for having to cook for the sons' wives.  Zada keeps half a Pall Mall tucked rather rakishly behind his ear and maintains an observant, aqua stare; he is like a bald eagle, quietly biding his time, ever on the lookout, never to miss a trick. Baba has deeper blue eyes that shimmer (not infrequently with tears), high cheekbones, dark hair with streaks of gray that is pulled back in a tight bun, and leathery Florida skin from way too many unblocked winters; in addition, her voice is quite raspy from chronic bronchitis. She appears tortured but in actuality is kvelling - basking in the unmitigated, earned glory- while regarding her sextet of astonishing male progeny; she compulsively twists an already ravaged mulch of Kleenex in her hands to dab those cerulean eyeballs agleam with pride- she’s the victor, they’re the spoiled. 

Lila Mae is ignorant of family politics and pleased that she will get to stay up late. Arriving at zada and baba's apartment after walking the few blocks west of Broadway, through the theater district, past the magic marquees and carnival costume shops, there are two long flights of steep stairs to climb, and then it begins. It is the same each year. While everyone is still gearing up for the big bacchanal and shouting to each other under a pungent though pleasing cloud of perfume and cigar smoke, Lila sneaks peeks at her nails from time to time. In the minutes before the meal starts and they all are instructing each other where and when to take their places (hers being next to zada, a singular honor in an all male hegemony), she begins silently exploring the small labyrinth of continuous rooms. A mahogany “secretary” with glass doors and little diamond shaped windows, a fold out desk secured by tiny lock and key with some enigmatic, small cubbies that never fail to beckon in the square office nook behind the dining room-  her first stop. The wall opposite has inset shelves, once meant to simulate a library when the brownstone was first built in the late nineteenth century. Now this bookcase is somewhat buckled and sagging- but it still supports a number of huge and heavy leather-bound books. These texts are in ancient Hebrew, sturdy volumes that reach to the very top of the twelve foot ceiling. 

Scattered on the desk are several tempting fountain pens that Lila would love to try out so that she can write something permanent and bold; alongside stands an old inkwell that seems both forbidden in its desire to stain your new clothes, and irresistible. An address book of mid-century technology is of particular interest because it pops open like a jack-in-the-box when you press a button. She continues wandering about for a while, checking out the formidable apidistra near one of the large windows facing the busy avenue, a serious, no-nonsense plant that always looks a bit like a troupe of lethal. striped and unforgiving dark green spears. Lastly she takes a peek- but only from the tip of these doorways- at the smaller, messier rooms way at the back of the house where the boys still living at home sleep, with their unmade beds and acrid smell of sweaty cigarettes. Her familiar rounds now completed, she is ready to rejoin the party. Had-gahd-yaaah, Had--gahd-yaaah. . . . At the end of the seder, after many hours, the uncles are drunkenly singsonging about some lost lambs.