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TAKE MY IVY, PLEASE

by Réginald-Jérôme de Mans

A few years before my excellent state graduate school destroyed the promise of accessible public education and raised tuition to the same levels as the privates, my housemate, complaining that he wanted an experience that I had already had, transferred to Yale. Said experience, one I had never put a name to, was “the Ivy League experience.” I never thought that my undergraduate years at Dirnelli U (known to non-iGents as Brown) amounted to any sort of emblematic experience of the eight universities that compose the Ivies, nor that the sort of experience that expression connotes exists today outside of the imaginations of a few who have closed their eyes to the sartorial realities of college, whether on the campus of an Ivy League or elsewhere.

Certainly by the time I wandered my college town’s streets the idea of an Ivy look that was not the national college outfit of jeans, sweats or even pajamas was ludicrous, even if those wanderings frequently took me past Brown’s last two, soon-to-be-extinct, soon-to-be-unmourned, Ivy outfitters. Despite one of them adding a large wood carving of the Polo logo to its sign, they remained unrelatable enclaves surrounded by the diners with insane hours (midnight to four AM) and smoke shops with Sobranie Black Russians which I remember more sentimentally.

They weren’t welcoming, either, if I ever braved to venture past the window displays with Royall Lyme and defiantly middle-aged Barry Bricken and Tricots Saint-Raphael mufti. Undergraduates were not buying, and that shop, Hillhouse Ltd, closed my senior year. Times had changed to the point that I remember the opening of a Gap on Thayer Street drawing some criticism in the press for that shop’s expected priciness.

Richard Press evokes Hillhouse Ltd.’s predecessor, Langrock, and the other classic outfitters of the Ivy League in his sparkling memoir Threading the Needle, a collection of reminiscences from his posts on the website of J. Press, the ur-classic clothier founded by his grandfather. Even if J. Press is now owned by its Far Eastern licensee Onward Kashiyama, Richard Press remains the face of the firm, and, for all intents and purposes, its breezy, never windy, voice.

Press is ebullient to the point of becoming almost ethereal, a far cry from my memories of the weary heaviness of my local Ivy shops’ atmospheres, their prosaic furnishings and quite mundane merchandise… But then again, my first recollection of Ivy style, recognized in retrospect like a recovered memory, was of my high school English teacher’s tweed jacket, which he opened to lend me a pen that smelt as memorably bad as almost anything I’ve smelt since then, including tanneries and certain institutional wards, suffused as it was not with the Hebridean peat fires that Richard Press insists you could smell in the old Harris Tweeds his father sold, but with decades of spilt coffee and sweat-drenched wool that must have never seen a dry clean, so that his shapeless, indiscriminately patterned tweed jacket bore the pedigree of its soiling. My first experience, then, was of miasma, not Press’s ether.

No wonder Richard Press makes a virtue out of the emptiness of the actual Ivy stores, filling them with ethos and intangible evocations: a sense not just of community but of belonging. Belonging to the New Haven restaurants that only sat university students and staff, not townsfolk; belonging to the boisterous undergraduates who knew that Press’s frequently invoked “Boola boola” is a Yale fight song; belonging to a time when immigrant tailor Jacobi Press and his staff travelled the trails of the carriage trade and visited boarding schools to sell rich adolescents custom suits, the better to lock them in for college and life. Belonging to dangerous road trips between Dartmouth and its sister college in the days before co-education (or good highways) to flirt, or at least hope to loan out a J. Press Shetland wool sweater; belonging to Frank Sinatra’s party one whirlwind evening when the Chairman of the Board sat most of the J. Press New York staff at his table in all the chic watering holes; belonging to the small group of people who have seen Dean Acheson in his underwear… Always, however, the thrill of this inclusion is in its exclusion of others: through codes of language, through the financial means required to pay for custom tailoring (for children who would grow out of it!); through social class. It is a privilege to read Richard Press’ writing, but it would be unwise to forget the privilege his rosy reminiscences required.

Comfort and ease in tailored clothing, then as now, only came at great expense. It does not surprise me that those physical Ivy shops of Providence, untouched by J. Press’s halo, withered and died. Threading the Needle includes Richard Press’s jabs at casualization. He bemoans it as a great swindle on us, depriving us of knowing what to wear, and requiring us to buy cheaper, junkier clothes at much higher margins than what honest traditional merchants like J. Press were and are selling us. But the reason Ivy is dead is because the class that wore this syncretistic American clothing, a dowdy bastardization of Britishness with Puritan formlessness thrown in, reflexively because it was what was done, and what was sold where one shopped, was quite happy to wear lighter, easier, less confining clothing as soon as they could shed the weight of Ivy, the dress code expectations that changed so radically from the 1960s onward, and quite happy to spend less on cheaper casual clothing than on expensive tailored jackets and ties whose silk had to be madder-dyed in England. You may see a few young people wearing a Harris Tweed jacket or seersucker sportcoat on a northeastern college campus, but they are all doing so with intentionality, the intention to recreate something that no longer naturally exists, populating an invented ecosystem with overthought clothing to which they associate a politics that was not at all certain to be associated with it in the days when so-called Ivy clothing was the norm on Ivy campuses.

Press’s essays even give us, in pieces, the narrative of what actually happened to Ivy Style. Once upon a time it was the norm on rarefied campuses of young gentlemen who might continue using the same tailor who had bench-made their clothes in high school and college once they graduated to Wall Street, like a Fitzgerald protagonist. The aftermath of World War II democratized (to a point) college enrollment through the GI Bill, leading many, many more people, of theretofore-unrepresented social classes, to attend college and adopt a similar wardrobe. (Another prep school teacher once informed us that Columbia University had simply called up his father after the war and asked him to attend, allowing him to climb the social ladder.) Innovations in production allowed factory manufacture of Ivy-style ready-to-wear garments as well, so that the increased number of people who wanted to wear Ivy could also afford to wear the Ivy look without having to pay the prices of artisanal one-off work. Ivy became widespread: Press uses the word “heyday” in the titles of several of his essays from this golden age when Ivy was the look. And every fashionable look has its end. Not only did fashions change, but social changes in the 1960s meant that homogenous dressing on campuses was at an end, particularly dressing like one supposed a white-collar grownup would in coat and tie. The 1970s’ upheaval in prep school dress codes broke the back of coat and tie for kids, dealing another blow to Ivy. The Ivy partisans Press evokes who wore it during those decades, doughty men, men of intelligence like Dick Cavett, of integrity like John Chancellor, were middle-aged men who had started wearing the same style of clothes decades earlier as students. (Even Frank Sinatra, who scooped Richard up to his bosom, only lasted nine months as a customer in the late 1960s before sending an emissary to tell Richard Frank no longer wanted to experiment with the Ivy look.) Ivy as a style worn by current Ivy Leaguers, or by American college students pretty much anywhere, no longer existed.

Decades later I, too, wear tweed jackets, but keep them clean (unlike the original Ivy population), and am not a parafascist reactionary (unlike some of the most visible latter-day Ivy practitioners). Savile Row tailors had to sacralize the concept of tweed for me, washing away all its associations of brown, smelly, shapeless and hegemonic, so that my garments in it, strange alpaca Shetland weaves or unthinkable lavenders, are as far from Ivy as possible.  Despite the awful Brown Daily Herald (for which I coined the motto “all the print that fits is news”) carrying a weekly News of the Ivies section, none of us felt any ineffable Ivy-ness. The closest I came to such a feeling may have been reading a cheesy story by Providence’s own H.P. Lovecraft, whose action suddenly shifted to the very room I was sitting in… or perhaps hearing a townie couple at a Spring Weekend concert by the very non-Ivy Violent Femmes mutter about how all the kids in the audience had good teeth.

I do not mourn Ivy, as I do not mourn the shops that died trying to sell it to the college populations that have moved on. I hope my housemate found what he was looking for in New Haven (I did successfully, and evilly, bullshit him into buying two Brigg umbrellas for his move there). Had I been him, no doubt I would have succumbed to some aspect of Richard Press’s winning fantasies, replaying the opening paragraphs of Franny and Zooey in my mind, wool-lined Burberry and all, in search of a possessions-linked romance that reality has no place for in this day and age, if it ever had.

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[sweets-fanfics]

Homecoming 14

Title: Change

Wordcount: 2443

warning: Agnst

Tags: @rollyjogerjones @nokuchishika

AN: Bit of a short one so I don’t go too long.

______________________________

You walk up to the Saint Denise hotel and look up to see Mary Linton looking over the edge of the balcony. She doesn’t see you, obviously. Why would she? You were not the cowpoke she thought she’d see today.

“Mrs. Linton.” You call out to her making her look down towards you. You chuckled to yourself at the symbolism. “There was an emergency at camp and I came in Arthur’s place.” 

She seems to pout and disappears into the room. You are about to think she wouldn’t come back out and began to turn to leave when Mary walked out of the front door. “Miss Van Der Linde, what a surprise.” She says very much not surprised.

“Mrs. Morgan.” You correct her with a sly smile threatening to form at the corners of your mouth. “But yes, I saw you needed help so I came to offer my services.”

“Ah…” She seemed irritated. “Well, Arthur didn’t need to send someone else.”

“Oh, Arthur was too busy to even see your letter. So he doesn’t know I’m here.” You hand the letter to her.

Mary takes it slowly and gives you a rather mean look, “Did you come to gloat?” She asks.

“Not entirely, I did actually come to offer help if you needed it.” You stepped a bit closer so only she could hear you. “But I did come to tell you that this will be the last letter you send to Arthur.” You say in an even but almost threatening tone. She looks at you angry but you can see the fear that’s hiding underneath. “What did you need help with, Mrs. Linton?” You finally say back in your normal tone.

“My… My father, he sold my mother’s broach and I need help getting it back.”

“Arthur said your father was quite a charmin’ fellow.” You sigh turning to Suzie and climbing up. You hold a hand out to Mary who looks at you confused, “Come on.” 

The two of you quietly ride down the road until you get to the area near the stables. “Why was he tryin’ to make money?” You ask as you help her balance herself as she gets down. 

“Oh, he’s been doing nothing but gambling and drinking lately.” Mary waves her hands above her head.

“I thought he was always like that?” You ask thinking back to Arthur describing him.

“You and your ‘husband’ seem to talk quite an awful lot about my family.” She sighs. “I’ll go in and get him.” She slips in the stables. You stand there for maybe only a moment until the stable doors slam open making you and a stable hand nearby jump.

“Mary, I’m a grown man, I don’t need my daughter to parent me!” Mr. Gillis erupts. 

“Daddy please just tell me who you sold the broach too. It wasn’t yours to sell!” Mary snaps back at him.

“He’s a charmer ain’t he?” You mumble making him give you a dirty look. 

“Mind your business girl!”

“Daddy, you be nice to Miss Van Der Linde she’s just here to help me.” 

You suppress an eye roll at her saying your maiden name and instead held your hand out to the man. “I’m Y/N Morgan I’m a student at Oberlin College.” Slight lie, you had been a student there.

“Morgan?” He asked giving his daughter a dirty look.

“Yes, Arthur Morgan is my husband, I heard you two were… acquainted.” Mr. Gillis made a ‘bleh!’ sound and began to walk away but you yanked his collar forcing him to look at both you and his daughter. “Listen, Mr. Gillis. Please just tell us who you sold the broach too. Would Mary’s mother have wanted this?” 

“It was mine!” He yelled like an immature child. “I gave it to a loan shark named Ashton to pay off my debt.” 

You knew the name, Ashton. He had been the man the school had sent to get money owed. “I know him.” You dropped his collar turning to Mary. “I’ll go get your broach.”

“Miss Va… Mrs. Morgan, you don’t have too. Those men have weapons,” She seemed genuinely worried.

“Mary, I’m a very good shot.” You assure her as you hop onto Suzie. Mr. Gillis scoffs at your remark.

“A good shot?” He asks sarcastically, “A woman?”

“Yes. Mr. Gillis, a great shot.” And with that, you ride off towards Ashton.

______________

Arthur

Arthur rides back into camp with Susan and a battered Tilly. When he stops the wagon the two ladies keep thanking him to which he reassured them it’s okay. The sound of their arrival makes Henry pop up from the gazebo. He runs over and hugs Tilly tightly.

“Tilly! I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you better.” He says as she smiles and hugs him back.

“Oh, I’m okay. I can take a few hits. How about you help patch me up.” 

“With pleasure!” Henry agrees before saying thank you to Arthur and the two of them walk away.

Arthur was tired and a bit sore from being socked in the face. He looked around the camp for you but didn’t see you anywhere. When he checked the horses he noticed Suzie was missing too. “Are you lookin’ for someone?” He hears Abigail ask as if she already knows the answer.

Arthur turns around and sees Abigail and John both smiling at him slyly. He walks up to them and sighs, “She told you.” He whispered.

“Nope, Abigail found out. We won’t say nothin’.” John pats Arthur’s shoulder. 

“But also, you received a letter while you were gone. Y/N read it and said she had an errand to run.” Abigail added. “It looks like she went towards Saint Denise.”

“Saint Denise…” Arthur’s voice died as he tried thinking who would send him a letter. 

“I can give you two guesses who I think it is.” Abigail puts her hands on her hips and pouts.

“Damn it. I told her to stop contactin’ me.” Arthur said in a gruff tone before heading towards Athena. 

“Where are you goin’?” John asked.

“Make sure Y/N don’t kill anyone.”

He didn’t even get that far into Saint Denise when he saw you getting off of Suzie. He started to call out your name when he realized you were talking to Mary.

__________

“Taa-daa.” You said handing her the broach. 

“You got it?” She asks jumping up from her seat.

She looks at it in her hands and begins to tear up a bit which scares you. “What? Is it broken?”

“No… I’ve just been horrible to you… and you still.”

“I mean, yeah you have. And don’t get me wrong. I never want to see you again. But I can at least help out someone in need.”  She smiles at you kindly and pulls you into a hug. She can tell you get stiff when she does so she hugs you tighter before letting go.

“Thank you, Y/N Morgan. Arthur is a lucky man. You… You two take care.” And before you can say anything she disappears in the crowd of people leaving you alone. 

You let out a small huff when a familiar hand touches the small of your back. “Was Tilly okay?” You ask looking up at Arthur. 

“She’s a bit beat up… but she’s strong.” He kisses the side of your head. “What were you up too?”

“Mr. Gillis tried to sell the damn broach again. I had to chase the loan shark down to get it back.” Arthur gives you a proud smile.

“Look at you…” He lifts your chin and kisses the tip of your nose before leaving a soft peck on your lips.

“I mean… I still told her to never contact you again.” Arthur chuckled and pulled you into a hug. “Let’s get some food before we go back… I don’t want stew tonight.”

“That is a brilliant idea.” He agrees as he takes your hand and the two of you walk into the city. 

You both ended up at the saloon. Nowhere else really seemed to be open so the two of you ordered the dish which ended up being stew but, at least it had more flavor than Pearson’s.

“Arthur?” You ask as you finish your food. He hums softly in response, “Was… I okay last night?” 

Your question makes him choke on the bite of stew he had just taken. You giggle a bit as his face turns red. “You were more than okay, my love.” He says to you softly. “That.. umm,” He looks around a bit, “That was the best I’ve ever had.”

You roll your eyes and smack his hand, “Oh, now you are bein’ silly.”

He takes your hand and smiles as he looks into your eyes, “I’ll never lie to ya.” Now your face was the one turning red so Arthur chuckled and changed the subject a bit, “Abigail told me she found out.”

You sigh a bit, “She told me too, she cornered me when I was leaving our room.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Abigail.” Arthur laughs. “She said she won’t tell anyone but it looks like she told John.”

“I feel tellin’ Abigail anythin’ is telling John.” Arthur nods in agreement as he finishes his food. He looked up and could tell something was still on your mind. 

“Did Mary say somethin’ to you?” He asks making you look up at him.

“No… Just, Arthur what if we ran?” He looks up at you a little shocked.

“From the gang?” 

“Hasn’t my father been a bit off lately? And Micah as well..” You pull your sleeve up and show him the bruise Micah had left when he grabbed you.

“Did Micah do that?” He asked starting to get angry.

“It was a bit deserved I’ll admit. But hell even Henry has been different. I heard Hosea and Dutch talkin’ about how he killed one of the Braithwates boys.”

Arthur listens but shakes his head, “Maybe one day. But I still think there is a bit of hope left for them… Not Micah, after I see him.”

“I know you want to, but don’t. He’ll just pick on me more.”

He smiles and squeezes your hand. “For you, I’ll keep my cool. But give me the word and I’ll end him.”

“Aww, my hero.” You tease.

__________

After eating the two of you rented a room for a bit so you could make love at least one more time before going back to the crazy-ness that was the gang. 

You both hitched your horses by the others and walked into camp holding hands. “My aren’t you cute?” Molly slurred. She had obviously been drinking. “You are so cute it’s disgusting.” She gets up to your face and points lazily at Arthur. “I would drop him while ya can. He’ll get tired of ya. They always get tired and then they do nothin’ with ya. Won’t touch ya or look at ya. And they’ll go around and flirt with the younger girls.” 

“Molly I think you have had enough.” You say sadly trying to grab the bottle in her other hand.

“Don’t tell me what to do. Just cause your a Van Der Linde doesn’t make ya able to boss me around.” With that, she bumps your shoulder and wanders off.

“What was that about?” Arthur asks.

“I need to talk to my father.” You say releasing Arthur’s hand and stomping into the house and up the stairs. 

You, not so politely, bang on the door to Dutch’s room. He opens it clearly had been asleep. “Y/N do you have any idea what time it is?” He asks annoyed.

“Yes, I do. Do you have any idea about Molly wandering around drunk outside ranting about you flirting with younger women?” 

Dutch rolled his eyes and threw his arms up walking back into his room. You quickly follow and shut the door behind you. “What is with women constantly complaining about everything.” 

“Hey, that ain’t nice.”

“All she ever does is complain and complain!” Dutch sits on a chair in the room.

“She complains because you gave her all these fantasies that you were going to treat her right.” You say in a softer tone attempting to calm him down.

“And I will! We just need money I have a p-”

“Yes, father you have a plan. We all know about your big plan on some dumb island planting dumb mangos or coconuts or whatever you think it’s going to be next week. But we aren’t doin’ so hot right now. Sean’s dead, I know you guys lost three more folks before finding my brother and me.” You can see him starting to give you that angry look you’ve only seen him give enemies. So, you get next to him and grab his hand, “Daddy, maybe Uncle Hosea is right, what if we lie low for a bit. Don’t do anythin’ with Bronte or in Saint Denise. Let’s just live for a bit.”

He moves his hand away and walks away from you. “This.” He jabs a finger out the window at camp, “Is not livin’.”

“Robbin’ and killin’ ain’t either.” You snap before turning to walk away. 

Dutch quickly yanks you back, “Now we ain’t done talkin’ I’m your father, you’re supposed to have my back.”

You get an inch from his face, “You’ve been my father for one year. One god damn year. Uncle Hosea has been more of a dad than you.” 

That snaps something and next you feel is a smack across your face. All murmuring you hear outside seems to stop as soon as they hear the contact of Dutch smacking your cheek. You can see the instant regret on his face as you hear multiple pairs of footsteps run up the stairs. 

The doors are thrown open by Hosea, Arthur, and Henry. “Dutch, why don’t you go take a walk and cool off.” Hosea (forcibly) suggests to Dutch as Arthur and Henry check over your face.

You wave them both off. “You boys are actin’ like I’ve never been smacked before.” You say trying to make them not feel worried. 

Arthur looks as if he’s about to sock Dutch in the face but Henry looked conflicted. “Arthur,” Henry mumbles, “How about you get Y/N to bed. It’s late anyway.”

Arthur doesn’t respond but begins to take you to your room. “My dear,” Dutch calls making you stop Arthur and look at your father. “I am truly sorry.” 

You aren’t able to reply because Arthur grunts and continues to your shared room pulling you with him.