Suits, Weddings, and Funerals

Picture of G. Clooney impressed with his attire courtesy of LifeInItaly.com

As a general rule, most of us prefer to be plussed, rather than nonplussed, the term "plussed" meaning the most opposite of "nonplussed," relevant for purposes discussed here to circumstances in which plussing may yield respect, and established as a word exclusively for the purposes of this article. In other words, Mandy Patinkin's character, Inigo Montoya, put it best in The Princess Bride when he said, "You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."

My father always said that I should have two suits: one for weddings and one for funerals, the former by far more practical as it doubles for interviews, the latter a darker commentary on the nature of "dressing to kill." I managed to pick up a couple suits before my wife and I left New York for Maine. The Men's Warehouse was having a two-for-one sale and, at the time, I remember thinking it would be rather difficult to find a tailor in Maine. I have never had less of a need for suits.

When I was in high school my father came home after buying two suits totaling three-thousand dollars. He was a garmento in the garment distict of the City -for anyone from Boston, "City" does not refer to you. Every night he would come off the Metro-North Railroad and the garage door would go up at exactly 7:42 p.m. One particular night, he walked in two suits richer and three-thousand dollars poorer. My mother was nonplussed.

I did not acquire the fashion sensibility exhibited by my father in this anecdote and instead took to nappy shoulder-length hair, denim overalls, and flannel shirts. It was the nineties and I had no qualm about expressing the real me: a Grateful-Dead-with-all-the-assumed-connotations-listening, My So Called Life-loving, wannabe-hippie, counter-culture, sex-crazed kid. Again, my mother was nonplussed.

I was plussed.

I was so plussed that in all my nonconformity, I did not notice my conformity, the same conformity for which I was so disdainful of my father's suit-wearing conformity.

It was not until college that I began to acquire a more tidy style, though my shorter hair was due more to my thinning hair. These days I keep my sideburns long for that nonconformist edge but I have entered the age of daddy-casual: collared shirt, a v-neck sweater, jeans. Even then, I feel out of place in Maine. I went to a funeral here where most wore black t-shirts. I thought I would be out of place without a blazer. That's Maine for you. My father would disagree and say that it is about respect.

Regardless, this is the real me: daddy-cas'. Smooth. Maybe not three-thousand dollars smooth, but the garmentos might at least like my shoes. I keep my suits covered in the closet and pull them out for weddings or a funeral, the former being far more frequent for now. They are good suits, too, good for plussing people. That might not be the most important thing but it is fun to pluss people. I like to pluss if for no other reason than, when strangers see me with my kids, they might think, "That guy looks like he's got a lot of respect for fatherhood. He doesn't look like a bum. I'm plussed by that dad."

James Earl Jones as a Short Old Jewish Woman

Picture courtesy of Mattinee

Rarely have I encountered other Jews and not felt the need to prove my Jewishness. There have been those times when I've thought, "Well, I'm more Jewish than him but at least I'm not that Jewish." After visiting my wife's high school pals, though, I was reminded of a night when I felt the perfect amount of Jewishness. Katie and Jason's New York wedding gratuitously nestled itself into Autumn: breezy, brisk, early signs of the turning foliage. Winona Ryder and Richard Gere were not present but I would not have been surprised had they walked in and positioned themselves next to the bride and groom.

I left my car with the Battery Gardens' valet, a man possibly in uniform, possibly not, and appearing as though he might drive off with the car and my tip. Meditatively distracting, the sunset-silhouetted Statue of Liberty backdropped the chuppah, which was made from white birch limbs grown, though memory may be fabricating this, in Katie's home state of Vermont, a locale not commonly known for its abundance of synagogues. An elderly female rabbi, donning gold flowing garments hosted the ceremony, speaking as if she were reenacting James Earl Jones' "People Will Come" speech in Field of Dreams.

For the first time since my grandfather's funeral almost ten years earlier, I wore a yarmulke -I fully intended to keep it because...well...you just never know. Prior to the funeral, I hadn't worn a yarmulke since middle school when I attended Aaron Hochberg's bar mitzvah, a rite of passage I, myself, avoided for fear that such a display would prevent the New England female coterie from allowing me to second base. In the interest of full disclosure, I also kept Jason and Katie's wedding program for self-educational purposes, as it contained information, albeit humorously presented, about the Jewish tradition, intended as self-tutorial for the bride's Gentile family.

There were lots of Jews.

There were lots of Jews from Long Island.

There were also lots of Gentiles from Long Island.

There were lots of Gentiles from Long Island who were likely better Jews than me. Although, if it came down to it, I'd bet on Bruce Willis acting a better Jew than my actual Jewish self.

Still, I felt at home at this wedding. Not because of the yarmulke or the chuppah or the Jews or the Long Island Gentiles -clearly not because of these things since these did nothing but make me feel less Jewish- but rather because I felt like I was so much nearer to the average height of the room. Although the DJ, a hipster Obi Wan, was the tallest man in the room by at least a foot, the average height couldn't have been more than five-foot-six. Yes, I was short the average by three inches, but I fit right in and I realized why I identify with my Jewish side: nobody's big.

At the wedding, I didn't have to muscle past anyone's armpit to get to the bar or punch somebody in the thigh for a turn at the urinal. No cricks in my neck, no meathead jocks snickering at the impossibility of my manliness, and, no dancing my head into somebody's elbow.

I hadn't had so much fun at a wedding, perhaps, ever. It was communal fun, right down to the horah -Wikipedia told me this was the circular, hand-holding dance as the bride and groom are lifted onto chairs (I needed Wikipedia because this definition wasn't in the wedding program). This was a tax bracket who came of age in the eighties so there was no shortage of Bananarama and Boy George. I once liked to dance when I dated a Latina girl fifteen years prior but it was a competitive, angry dance. Since then, the interest fizzled. Now, I was among my people. I danced.

As the end of the wedding approached, DJ Obi Wan played the last song, a tune with an anthemic whistle, resolute, determined. A song of relentless advancement. I thought, "I love this song. I need this song." It was motivational in a non-Anthony Powers kind of way. It felt sincere but it certainly did not feel Jewish. It was a far cry from Klezmer despite the um-pah, um-pah bass. During our visit with Katie and Jason, I seized the opportunity, asking if they recalled the name of the song.

They both answered: "Home."