Looking back on my Father's style and the way it influenced me, I’m reminded of my Grandmother/his mother, who, even as she grew older, and wasn't able to leave bed most days, always picked and patted her afro, filed and re-painted her nails in the perfect almond shape, put on pressed powder and lipstick, and then each of her rings of candy color gemstones, one by one, and proceeded to rifle through her stack of fashion magazines, passing each one to a 6 or 7 year old me as she finished flipping through the pages. I'm reminded of my grandfather who, I rarely if ever saw without a fresh shirt, suspenders, and a crisp fedora, not because it was stylish to wear one, but because it was the gentlemanly thing to do.
I see how their commitment to presentation passed down to my Father, who, for what *felt like* years of my childhood, wore a uniform of a Canadian tuxedo, exotic skin cowboy boots, and belts with big shiny buckles. He was never without a Rolex watch, a cuban link gold bracelet and cash in a shiny money clip he would throw on the dresser at the end of the day. Every detail glimmering in my big little eyes.
When he wasn't in double denim he and my mom were rolling around town in matching white Fila tracksuits, or going out for the night in formal but coordinated looks. He always coaching her on what she should wear and how she should wear it, she trusted his fashion sense more than her own. In the mornings before school his bear hugs would swallow up my tiny body as he was running off to work in a perfectly pressed suit with every detail considered, patterned tie, leather belt, down to and especially, the shoes, shined so you could use them as a mirror, a skill he learned as a shoe shine boy in the 1960's LA train stations.
I was tiny back then, but I had these big saucer eyes that caught every detail of the world around me- and Dad's flare for style and attention to detail was never missed. I caught it all, and it all darted around my mind like a pinball, captivating and imprinting my imagination.
As much as he insisted on clean crisp perfection for himself, he insisted on the same level of attention to detail from us kids. I could never get away with leaving home in clothes that hadn't been properly ironed, pants creased, and if they needed starch we were expected to apply that too. I learned how to work a proper dry-cleaners press before I was even big enough to hold one down. The message was, how you present yourself matters, and it's a message that has never left me
What I’ve learned as I've grown older is that caring about the way you look is not always about vanity, I suspect that for my Father, and his Father and Mother before him, sometimes it was about power, the ability to wield whatever control you have in a world that didn’t always recognize black power. Sometimes, style is the ability to command space, disarm preconceived notions, and bring people in, something my father has always been very good at.
Sometimes, I suspect, it was about survival, from Mississippi to South Central to Ladera, one thing that remains true is that the way you present can be the difference between being seen as belonging or other. Sometimes style isn’t about excess or even an indulgent self-expression of the kind I play around in, sometimes its just a tool for living life on your own terms. I suspect for my father it has been.
XO, Mecca Cox.
If you’d like to follow Mecca, she’s @mexco__style.
Beautiful piece
What a beautiful essay!!