Off My Noodle

Thursday, January 08, 2009

Rhapsody in Pink

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Lakewood, New Jersey - I am visiting, for the very first time, this fast-growing hub for young orthodox Jewish families. They are the kind of Jews whom you might confuse with the Amish, since the men of both tribes sport beards and black hats, and the women dress so modestly that they are in very little danger of excess sun exposure, if you know what I mean. (Tip: If you can’t tell whether the people you are looking at are Amish or Jewish, the Jews are the ones with the BlackBerrys.)
In any case, I have come to visit my son, who is here studying Talmud, and while he is in class, I did what any woman in a new town does: I hoof it over to the main shopping area to do a little exploring, my credit card at the ready. But as I walk down the street, I am mortified to discover that I am the only female over the age of five wearing pink. All other females whose reading level is at The Cat in the Hat or above are dressed in muted browns or black. I feel as conspicuous as if I am wearing the fictional cat’s tall, striped hat. Everyone must know I am an out-of-towner, a real greenhorn. Of course, it could have been worse: I could have worn the red sweater!

I duck into the Fashion Stop on the same street, Clifton Avenue, and the first thing I do is apologize.
“I’m really sorry I’m wearing pink. I’m from Los Angeles,” I say to Freida, the gracious woman behind the counter. I figure, telling someone you are from L.A. can explain a lot. I won’t tell Freida my last name, even if she presses, since I have a son living here and I don’t want to compromise his future marriage prospects. Freida reassures me that it’s fine, totally fine, that I am wearing pink, but I suspect she’s just being kind. She then starts the Jewish version of six degrees of separation with me, and while this rarely leads to any shared connections, this time it turns out the only woman she knows in L.A. is a friend of mine. I duly promise to send regards.
I go upstairs to check out the casual clothes, looking for a simple navy skirt. This is something I have not been able to find in months of fruitless searches in Los Angeles, and navy is so close to black, surely they must carry it. But upstairs, I am overwhelmed by so much black, I need night vision goggles to see the individual garments. Perhaps I’m not being entirely fair, though. Looking closely, I see skirts in ochre, midnight, ebony, pitch, jet and dusky onyx. But there is not a single navy skirt to be found. I spy a few lonely grey and brown skirts, but I am not in the market for those.
Hoping against hope, I go downstairs and ask Freida if she might have some hidden treasure trove of navy skirts in the back. I don’t even care what size anymore. If I can find a good navy skirt, I’ll take it in any size and have it altered. But Freida shakes her head sadly and says, “No one wants navy around here. They only want black, black, and more black.”
I ask why, hoping she will offer some guide to the perplexed shopper in pink, but she has no answer. “Maybe it’s because black is slimming, and so many women are self-conscious about their weights?” she guesses. I like Freida, and I like shopping in such a large store where everything is tailored for religious women who believe in the right to bear arms, but won’t bare arms. And in case you’re a little fuzzy on these standards, don’t worry: there are diagrams in the dressing room detailing the minimum standards for sleeve lengths, necklines and hems.  This is when I realize once again that, like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, I’m not in Kansas anymore, and certainly not in Los Angeles, where skin-baring is not just a right: it’s an obligation, at least if you want a decent table at a trendy restaurant. At this point, however, I have spent so much time trying on clothes that I simply can’t leave empty-handed. I walk out with a new skirt, high-necked tank, and sweater. Take a guess what color! Come on, guess! 
 
When I return to my hosts, I ask the wife (dressed in black, though her sweater hints of grey) if she knows why green, blue, purple and other colors have been banished from Lakewood. She blames Brooklyn. “It all started there,” she explained, “and then it came here. It’s really their fault,” she says, shaking her head. Poor Brooklyn - that city gets blamed for everything. I continue to collar any friendly woman I encounter in Lakewood, searching for an answer to the burning question: Why is black is the new black in this town? While no one defends it, no one defines it, either, and few defy the norm.
Despite my flagrant wearing of multi-chromatic, immigrant attire, everyone was hospitable during my visit to Lakewood, if not curious about where I had come from. And while I realize that many groups have their idiosyncrasies, including my own, I do hope that one day, colors will return to women’s clothing in Lakewood (and Brooklyn, too). I’m not advocating anything loud or kaleidoscopic.

How about we start with a little navy?

   

Posted by judy @ 08:27 PM • (10) Comments