The tight fitting suit of multiculturalism

Abstract

When I was a man much younger than today, I bought my first suit (with a little help from my parents). It was purchased for one of those unusual school occasions which called for a formal outfit. Bought off the rack at the best haberdashers in our town, it truly represented the early 1980s. A perfect blend of polyester, cotton and flax, this gorgeous baby-blue-with-white-flecks vision could cast a soft sheen under certain lighting. While I tried it on, I was shown the cutting-edge features of the three-piece ensemble. The slim-cut pants had western-style belt loops. The jacket had two buttons, two rows of pockets that ran alongside each lapel, and the back sported a single rear vent. More radical still was the four-button technique used on a vest that was meant to be ‘worn low’. Throughout, the interior was a full paisley lining that felt like it was made of silk. I wore this suit for years accompanied with a button-down collar and a skinny leather tie (just to be New Wave). As the years of my life began to stretch out, unfortunately, the same could not be said for my suit. First, people made guarded comments on its colour, its shiny look, its shrinking arm and leg lengths. Even when I left the vest at home, I could not escape the sinking feeling that it had become dated. It was developing somewhat frayed edges and, colour-wise, it became more baby than blue. Further, as time passed, it seemed to be more difficult to maneuver around a crowded room or at a buffet table (even though stains seemed to slide right off). Then, at one fateful event, it happened. During an overly-enthusiastic rendition of the dance tune ‘YMCA’ at a relative’s wedding, I tore a new vent right in the middle of the acronym. The time had come to move on.