Drew Bell

Coming Out of My Closet

Summer 2000

Moments of importance usually elude me. It seems as though I am numb to the significance that any one event may have in the grand scheme of my life. Events that usually give people pause and cause for reflection make me need a cigarette. Funerals, weddings and other rites of passage seem foreign to me. I never really feel what I think I should be feeling at the time.

The psychology behind this phenomenon of detachment is complex. Years of introspection and hours of therapy have only reinforced this behavior. In my quest to find meaning, I usually rationalize it away. Which is why it is usually under strange circumstances that I allow myself to really be affected by that around me and learn from it.

It was a bright May day, the heat was already unbearable and the long hot summer of 1995 was just beginning. I had just completed by sophomore year of high school, which means very little to me now. School had been out for a matter of days, and I was already beginning to get bored. I was toying with the notion of running away from home (again!) when I decided that what I needed was a project to occupy my time. After a few moments of contemplation, I decided that I should clean out my closet.

If you think this is the part were I come to grips with my sexuality, sorry to disappoint.

I frivolously flipped to through a few channels on the television as a last act of defiance. Even though my parents loved me and had a satellite system with tons of channels, there was still nothing worth watching. So, disgusted by the state of television that Tuesday, I dragged my lazy ass off the couch and wandered into my room.

I stood there in my closet, lost in the patterns and textures that lay before, mesmerized by their number and scope. I can still remember how distorted and tangled my clothing looked in the harsh light. Under the strange warm glow of the single bulb over-head, my walk-in closet (that was passable only to the agile and adventurous) did something that I never expected it to do: It spoke to me, offering a reflection of the things that were going on in my life. There, in that instant, I surveyed the colors and textures of my existence and began to realize how each garment meant something to me and symbolized components of my self.

* * *

The whole notion of fashion fascinates me; I use the way that people dress as my first window into who they are and what they are about. Do I generalize, stereotype and label without regard to the merits of the individual? You bet your ass I do, and here is why. When I see a "Camouflage tank top, cutoffs jeans, Birkenstocks…Lilith Fair going, I just became a feminist, trendy college lesbian," or a member of the "Everybody in Abercrombie Hawaiian Khakifilger, hey dude look at my tattoo and hemp and sea shell anklet …Phi Gamma Blah Blah Blah" brotherhood, their appearance is (nine times out of ten) a reflection of who they are or an example of what they wish themselves to be.

* * *

It was not until this moment of clairvoyance in my closet that I realized how important clothing was to my identity. It was only then that the symbolism of my own wardrobe revealed itself to me. It was at this moment that I took a good long look at my own dirty laundry and discovered that I had some problems. . . fifty-five of them to be exact.

"Hi, my name is Drew, and I am a recovering plaid/flannel addict." There, I said it.

* * *

As I stood there in my musty dusty closet (which always had a weird smell) looking at what can best be described as a tartan festival gone-awry, I began to realize that something had gone horribly wrong. I looked at the collection of flannels lying about on the floor and felt a sense of uneasiness come over me.

To my left, between my collection of baggy jeans that had yet to achieve their maximum level of comfort and an accumulation of sundry garments that I acquired through the rituals of Christmas and Birthdays, there amongst the proverbial fabric of my life hung the objects of my obsession-the plaid flannel shirts.

Without exaggeration, foot after foot of plaid button-down shirts stretched out before me, each with its own pattern of variegated colors. Broad blocks of blue with smaller stripes of a darker blue and yellow hang chest to chest with red argyle, green tartan and others. In the dim light of my closets, these layers of color and contrast seemed menacing to me.

"Okay, time out. How can shirts be menacing?" you may ask.

This conglomeration of flannel shirts represents more than just a wardrobe concept, they are pieces of who I was and am. These shirts were just as crucial to my teenage existence as anything else was. Worn with the tails out and unbuttoned over a white T-shirt with baggy jeans, this was not just my wardrobe, it was my life. Dress of this style was meant to say something (though no one is sure what) about the wearer. For me, they were an attempt at self-expression, the outward manifestation of the angst and discontent I felt during my formative years. I was making a statement to the world, I was being an individual, I was asserting my voice and my sense of self. . . or so I thought.

* * *

There is something about the feeling of an old over-sized shirt. It is a grown-up answer to the ‘blankie.’ Depending upon one’s taste, it could be your favorite concert T-shirt (Soundgarden Black Hole Tour) your favorite cardigan (the cranberry one that you bought at the store for the blind), or your best flannel (the one that your friend barfed on). You know the type of shirt, the one that you have had forever or at least since early middle school. You can feel its well-worn fibers brushing up against you, its’ fading colors and various stains. You can remember all of the times that you wore that shirt, and how it made you feel good, or better or what have you. It has been there during good times (discovering pot) and bad (your mom discovering your pot).

I had a favorite type of shirt, not just one favorite. I was addicted to the plaid flannel. This is the type of shirt one could by at thrift stores as well as shopping malls. The color and texture vary, but the idea remains consistent. Lumberjacks and bull-dykes have known the merits of the flannel for years, and I, like so many of my peers discovered it during what has been labeled as the "grunge" or "alternative" period of the early 90’s.

Coming of age in this time period has done something to me. The interplay of cultural signs and personal conclusions is muddled in my mind. I sometimes remember story-lines of angst ridden dramas (My So Called Life) as if they happened to me personally. I liked Nirvana, (before Kurt died) I only wore combat boots and baggy jeans, and for a period of years I wore a flannel shirt everyday. Even during the summer, if I left the house (where was there to go?) I was wearing a flannel.

Acquiring fifty-five flannel shirts is easier then you might think. Honestly, I never really thought about it too much. I just started acquiring them, and after a while I would wear nothing else. They were not just a shirt, but a second skin, without them I felt naked. To be concise, the object of my obsession was a particular type of shirt, purchased from places like Eddie Bauer, Goodwill, etc. that have a pocket on the left breast, two buttons at the cuff and are one-hundred percent cotton.

I can still remember the smell of a new flannel. The fresh from Goodwill variety usually got washed prior to use, but the new ones were always ready to wear. I have a sneaking suspicion that many of these shirts never made their way to a washing machine. I thought of laundering as being counter to the spirit of the flannel. It was not meant to look clean, its beauty lay in its grungy nature and disregard for standards of cleanliness. Yah’ man, fuck cleanliness.

F.Y.I. flannel originates in Whales, where it is a wool garment or a wool and cotton blend. Flannel garments composed entirely of cotton are technically called flannelette. The majority of my shirts were of the flannelette variety. There are four types of plaid: argyle, blanket, tartan, and tattersall. Distinction is based upon the size of the stripes, their color and the manner in which they are layered. The pattern originates in Scotland, where it was developed as a symbol of kinship and solidarity to one’s people. The late 20th century variation comes in these same varieties, but represents not kinship, but a fashion trend and an expression of teen angst and discontent. Plaid flannel shirts are my neurosis tied with a bow.

When I attempt to trace the steps that lead me to this moment of Truth in my closet, it becomes apparent to me that the path is not so easy to delineate. Surely, much of it lies in what was considered fashionable at the time, but there is more to it than that. These shirts are deeply entertained with the events and revelations of my youth. During the years 1990 through 1995 plaid flannels were not just what I wore, they were who I was.

Alternative music, the so called Seattle sound, and the mass market spin-offs of this phenomenon appealed to me just as it did to so many of my peers. After all, the early nineties were an interesting time period to grow up in, I guess. I was a child of classic rock and 80’s punk, with a certain affinity for angst filled expression with a guitar.

In the face of what was happening around me, growing up in some two-bit hick town full of people who I considered to be the degenerates of society (Former high school football stars/pregnant cheerleaders/religious zealots) the cynical realism and contradictory idealism of the ‘grunge’ movement served as something foreign and detached from the norms of my existence. Not to say that I was alone in my plaid, but for all intensive purposes grunge, like most other trends, never really made it to Fritch, America.

Growing my hair out (yes, it was as funny as you think) and putting it through a series of color changes that would make a chameleon nauseous, coupled with my I don’t give a shit attitude, allowed me to set myself in opposition to the smiling do-gooder types that permeated my small town existence. I wore flannels as an armor for battle. I was among a very few that had any clue as to what occurred in the real world, thanks in no small part to MTV, Spin, and a few friends who like me wanted to be as different as possible. We listened to the music, got our hands on import CDs and bootlegged demos, and took 20-hour road-trips to go see bands. We thought we were pretty fuck’n’ cool.

It is only in retrospect that I realize how wrong we were.

* * *

Dreams, like egos, are made to be shattered, and on this one particular day, both came crashing down. I took one realistic look at my wardrobe and realized that rather than trying to live counter to the mainstream, I was merely buying its trappings to make myself feel better. At once, I felt betrayed, embarrassed and ashamed. I had fifty-five flannel shirts, all of them hideous and cliche. Row after row of tacky baggy shells that I had been using to insulate myself and affirm my ego. Staring at these shirts was like confronting all of my demons. Flannel had been an enabler in my life, a vehicle that I used to maneuver through the insecurities of adolescence. Rather than coming to grips with my own body image, sexual orientation, general awkwardness, etc., I shrouded myself with plaid.

I had constructed in my head this grand drama in which I the plaid clad warrior of existential insight and deep philosophical meaning warded off the advances of the masses of cheap Polo wearing assholes of the world. And during this moment of clarity in my closet I realized that the whole thing was a farce. I was what I hated most in the world, and I needed to change.

* * *

In a fit of rage I ripped flannel after flannel off the hanger, watching the fabric stretch and pull as cheap plastic hangers tried to hold them back. I pulled and pulled at shirt after shirt, blurs of alternating stripes whirling about. I through them one by one onto my unmade bed, watching as each of them became part of the pile. With each shirt, I could feel a little piece of myself change. As I vowed to get rid of each and every one of them, I knew that I was at a transitional point in my life.

When it was done, fifty-five shirts had been removed. My closet looked like a war zone, my face was red with exhilaration, and my bed was piled with the discarded flannels that had been my life. As I sat there staring at the pile of rubbish I wept (or not, but I wanted to) and realized that things would never be the same again.

That night, I picked out a couple of shirts to give to people for various reasons, and boxed the rest up. Without hesitation, I drove to Goodwill and committed them back to that from whence they came. On the drive home, I started to think about how therapeutic and cleansing the experience had been, and as I drove with the windows down, the stereo up, and nothing but a white T-shirt between me and the world . . . I smiled at myself in the rear view mirror.

* * *

This article demonstrates that even the most ridiculous events can serve as the foundation for stories that can explore a number of themes. The flannel shirt incident represents, in a disturbing way, my experience of being a teen (FYI: I hate that word.) Granted, this story seems a little silly, but I think that it captures a particular voice and period in my life and that of my peers. Writing this article was easy; a little introspection while listening to Nevermind was all I needed to get me "in the mood."

I doubt anyone will ever read this, but if you do, here are some parting thoughts. Admitting that you were a dork goes a long way in making you seem cool. Plaid Flannel moments don’t happen all of the time, but when they do, you will know it. Try to remember as much as you can. (After all, what you forget you will have to make-up, and that seems like more work.)

ONCE A SLACKER, ALWAYS A SLACKER