Hand-Me-Down Histories

When I was around six years old, we lived in a lovely suburban apartment. I remember many details of it very well - the spacious entrance hall that acted as a communal space of sorts, a point of gathering, like the kitchen at a party; my bedroom and its big window from which I used to watch in excitement as the first snow painted everything white; the turquoise walls of the living room, matching the antique arm chair my grandma had passed down to my mom. A light, sky blue and embroidered with delicate flowers. She still has it now. I remember many moments in this apartment too. A lot of them involving my guinea pigs Bryan (Adams) and Mickey (Jagger), and my sweet little dog, Tessa. But most of all, I remember how my mom moved through this apartment. As a young woman, a mother, an entrepreneur, a hostess. And I can see her now, vividly before me, standing in that tiny little pantry turned walk-in closet. Her pride and joy. The entire floor of which had been colonized by shoes. At that age, I was fascinated by her incredible selection of stilettos and other high-heel lingo, some of which were sparkly or rocking bright, exotic colours. Fortunately for her, I grew out of that attraction by the time I hit my teens and her shoe size. But her clothes...Oh, the many treasures that lived in my mom’s closet. And some of them now live in mine.

I have a dress of hers that screams old school Camden Market. It’s a silver, grey lace number over black satin lining reaching just above the knees. I can just imagine her wearing it as she hopped onto the S-Bahn in Munich headed to some shindig or another back in her early twenties, the faux fur jacket that bore a striking resemblance to Tessa’s fur, loosely draped over her shoulders. I know just the scarpin heels she would have worn with this outfit too. I can picture her in the same getup, strutting through the streets of London with the Croydon posse, a crazy night in the making, hangover guaranteed and a greasy full English already pencilled in for the early AM. I used to wear that same dress with fishnet stockings and Dr. Martens. On occasion possibly with – and to my mother’s great dismay – Chucks. Well, actually, rip offs. I wonder if my daughter will wear it one day and if so, how? It’s impossible for me to imagine her anything other than barefoot, bare-bummed and rocking weird headwear at the moment. If I’ve learned anything from her style choices, I’m guessing this dress will call for some funky hat and light-up rainboots. Oh, and a reusable shopping bag, of course. Preferably from Aldi. Mama’s City Light Books tote on very special occasions (“starving, naked, hysterical”).

Both sides of my family instilled the thrifting philosophy in me. Hitting all the local flea markets, boot fairs or jumble sales (the chosen term depending on country and/or family member) was a favourite Sunday morning activity. It still is, only now in different constellations. Going with my dad or my uncle meant learning a thing or two about vinyl and obscure anarchist authors – Shockwave Riders and infamous women who chose rage over sadness; wandering through the grounds of the 90s Kunst Park Ost in Munich with my mom was all about recognizing fashion and style as a means to establish my pre-teen identity; going with my grandparents or my Nana meant feeling the nostalgic weight of a few pound coins in my palms and learning how to haggle and budget wisely. These outings were – and continue to be – comforting on various levels. It’s not just the idea of a circular economy that is so heartening. It’s getting to know the sellers by ways of the belongings they are ready to part with, as you ready yourself to claim them as your own. To imagine the life they lived prior to ending on a chequered blanket, on a school’s football field or a rickety table in the community hall, lined up next to the other former protagonists, secondary characters and extras now auditioning for new roles in the current film that is your life. To read between these carefully organized lines and appreciate their ascending curves, their occasional dips. Life in its many iterations.

My daughter is a year and a half and I can confidently say that the number of store-bought items do not exceed my number of digits. This is not just down to a conscious decision I make time and again by choosing second-hand over first-hand wherever possible, it is also a path my tribe enables me to pursue by handing down their family’s stories, neatly interknitted into the fabric of their granddaughter’s sweatshirts, sewn into the patches covering knees rubbed raw on the baby denims their sons learned to crawl in, emanating from the bells and whistles of previously loved toys that used to light up the homes of neighbours who long for those sweet sounds of past chaos to carry on through my walls and back into theirs. My parents (in-law) helped us deck out our girl’s room with charming little pieces that serve a purpose beyond practicality and decoration. They exude the kind of warmth and felicity that simply cannot be bought fresh from the conveyor belt. A shared delight over a fondly procured treasure, that exceeds that between giver and recipient, tracing back to the object’s predecessors and spreading forth to its successors.

It’s as though those nocturnal whispers of unparalleled maternal exaltation, the pure pride bursting forth from forever altered hearts, have been absorbed into the wood of my daughter’s book shelves. And should they ever swell and distend in and out of the cold winter nights, we’ll catch those sentiments released into the room like a wistful breath clearing the fog of a challenging moment. We’ll recharge on them. Every time we open the door to her little wardrobe, I’m cognizant of the many chronicles that hang from its rod, the dresses that imbibed first Christmases and last summer days, the jeans jackets stained, sweetly sour with strawberry mush, mittens still curved in the shape of first snowballs, once bright and pink, dulled by urban slush. I can hear the crunch of autumn leaves under feet dressed in colourful wellies, when I arrange baskets full of hand-me-downs on that bottom shelf, formerly dedicated to storing shoes and boots. Most importantly, I can see their smiles. Of the mothers, the fathers, the children and their extended families and friends, as they built their lives; preparing their nightly routines on these bookshelves, readying themselves for new seasons by organizing the clothes within this wardrobe; lulling their newborns to sleep and through the frustrations of toddlerhood in this rocking chair.

And as I take in all these hand-me-down histories, feel all those characters around me and in these clothes and objects, I feel so fortunate. Honoured that my daughter gets to add another chapter, another soundtrack, one that is sure to be infused with a whole lot of love and laughter that may just reach a new generation.