Sitting at the baby grand for my kindergarten piano recital, I fell in love. I don’t remember what I played that day, but I can vividly recall the simple, black, three-button suit that my mom paired with a bold, red, clip-on tie.
Since then for me, suits have always signified a momentous occasion, but as graduation approaches I fear that my suits will take on a new function: a uniform stripped of the luster they now hold—a replacement of my sweatshirts and pastel shorts. That three-button piece has since been handed down, but with every new suit I’ve created new memories, new bonds and new experiences. It’s fitting then, that this is how I remember my Duke experience.
The Power Suit
My power suit is navy blue with subtle stripes and excessive shoulder pads that I bought junior year as I planned to sell my soul to the corporate world. I like to think that this is my superman cape, but in reality all I’ve done is sweat through this bad boy during my less-than-ideal number of interviews—in one of which I said the wrong company name—and a presentation on a thesis I had barely begun.
It’s the one I should have worn when I went to photograph President Obama but didn’t because I was told to dress “casually” (side note: I wore shorts to this, big fail). Throughout time, the suit has become a sign of something exciting to come, a personal armor for uncertainty. The loosely cut jacket allows for comfort and stress eating but moreover, the sleeves fall easily and pants flatteringly as a testament to the growing I’ll have to do this August, when a suit like this becomes the norm.
The Necessity Suit
This suit is black-grey, light enough to dance in and neutral enough to match my date’s dress. It’s the suit all over my Facebook wall, the one that’s been vommed on (by more than one person) and the one that travelled abroad with me as I quickly learned that the Shooters dress code does not apply across the pond (“You can’t wear shorts in here, mate”).
It’s the one I was wearing as I met some of my best friends freshman year at Dick’s Ball. It’s the one I was wearing sophomore year at Sclafani (The Chronicle’s formal) when I drunkenly greeted Coach K, to his disapproval, by announcing at the top of my lungs: “OMG, IT’S COACH K Y’ALL!” to everyone in the men’s bathroom.
It’s the one that reminds me of some of the greatest evenings I’ve had with my best friends. It’s the suit I will always strive to live up to in the real world, beyond the shadow of the Chapel.
The ‘Duke’ Suit
There is more than one Duke suit. During my college career, these have included the banana suit I wore as one part of a Bananas in Pajamas ensemble, the trash bag I wore to Tailgate ’09 and my Duke jersey (#30, Scheyer) with too much acrylic paint. These suits represent all the unique Duke traditions that I have partaken in, have loved and will sorely miss.
For me, the cap and gown I will wear two weeks from now is the pinnacle of a college suit: playful and absurd but somehow distinguished, a bold statement that is simultaneously simple. It’s a blend of the necessity and power suits; a culmination of all the memories and achievements that I have acquired at Duke.
We’re all born in our birthday suits and quickly graduate to that first three-piece with the shameless clip-on. Soon, growth spurts result in a bevy of short-lived, under-worn, discount suits. At college, we choose to revert this progression. We don a power suit for a Superday interview on Friday, regressing to a special suit for Tailgate or a date function Saturday and sometimes hoping to end up in our birthday suit post-Shooters that same evening.
For me, my suits encapsulate my Duke experience—they’ve been to the Belmont, the now defunct George’s, the WaDuke and even to Oxford. They embody all those whom I have brushed shoulders with at information sessions, danced with at date functions and lost voices with at Cameron. Although my experiences in these suits remain set in stone, what remains uncertain is if I’ll ever be able to wear and experience this again, as something so special and memorable becomes monotonous and banal in the real world. Once I begin wearing a suit everyday, how will I demarcate the important experiences in my life?
I may continue to wear suits, but I never plan to become the proverbial “Suit” and neither should you. I might outgrow my suits, but I will never outgrow the memories; my friends will always fit, and my suits will always be there, whether I bought them at PartyCity or Brooks Brothers.
James Lee is a Trinity senior. He is the managing editor for online and a photographer for The Chronicle and enjoys slim fit, two-button suits with thin lapels. He would like to thank his friends at The Chronicle. He would also like you to know that he hates your animal ties and would really appreciate it if you could raise his klout score by following him @jaemslee.
Special thanks to: @andrewlbeaton, @123mjb, @toniwei, @nicolekyle, @myeo3, @cfair1, @classyjane, @addyakc, @chris_dall, @seuct, @chriscusack1, @yeshrk, @samlachman, @nick_schwartz, the wonderful @juliaelyce and @mtru23.
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