A Kilted Man

It was a fashion-oriented day for a kilted man. Walking out of one of my favorite bakeries, Black Hound New York, with two triple-chocolate brownies and a Mini-Bee cake, a woman, who bore an slight resemblance to Grace Coddington (alas, it wasn’t her), took three big strides toward me, gesticulating broadly.

“My God, I haven’t seen anything like it since Marc Jacobs,” she exclaimed. “Fantastic, marvelous. You work it big boy!” She punched my bicep and was gone.

As you might imagine, a kilted man heard much about the Marc Jacobs winter 2009 collection. While a kilted man is interested in fashion he isn’t involved in the industry so his familiarity with the the Marc Jacobs winter 2009 collection is limited to a brief segment on NY1 and photographs on the Internet. Based on what he was able to see, a kilted man has to say that he wasn’t impressed. That said, to be compared to such a fashion icon left a kilted man in a buoyant mood.

That mood continued on The High Line when a young woman with a wonderful Brazilian accent asked to photograph me for her blog, A Bird In My Closet. “I love what you are wearing, ” she purred. “I want you for my blog. Oh, I forgot my cards. Okay, it’s a bird in my closet. Remember it, okay?” If she posts the photograph, I’ll let you know.

Yes, I know that Fashion Week just ended in New York so there are probably a somewhat greater number of fashionistas around than usual. Still, it was a good day for fashion and for a kilted man.

While there is no tradition of being a kilted man at work on Thursdays, there is a tradition of being a kilted man at work on holidays. So, off I went to work this morning…the kilt was brown.

At Fifth Avenue and 13th Street, a white man in his twenties called out to me, “Sir, sir, may I ask where you are going to work in a kilt?” He was dressed in what I’ll call “trendy casual” a fitted purple shirt, buttoned all the way, and straight black pants.

A kilted man isn’t usually all that cautious about answering such questions, but the proximity to the Forbes headquarters gave me pause. Was this an earnest young man looking for guidance, or a reporter looking for a story? So, I answered obliquely. “As it is Rosh Hashanah I don’t expect to find too many people at work. Wearing the kilt today is somewhat like wearing the kilt when I go to work on the weekend. There is an acceptance of a more casual style of dress.”

He looked puzzled, nodded, and then thanked me. Yes, it’s true, I did feel a little badly for not answering his question.

My prediction about work, however, was quite wrong. On my way from the subway to the office I ran into two colleagues who did not know that I am, sometimes, a kilted man. One, a gay woman of a certain age, said, “Here it is fashion week and look at you!” Of course, I am just vain enough to think that I am always fashionable but I was happy to have the compliment. Once at work I ran into someone who knows about the tradition of the kilted man. “It’s not Friday” she exclaimed. I offered her my theory about the similarities between holidays and a weekends, which she seemed to accept.

Later, on my way to lunch, another gay woman of a certain age was very surprised to find me to be a kilted man. “Is there a special event you are attending?” “No.” “Do you wear these often?” “Most Fridays in the summer and on weekends.” “Well, at least you have the legs for it!” “Thank you!”

Near the end of the day a straight male colleague told me about his traditional kilt. While the family name is Welsh, his father was a big fan of his Scottish heritage and took every opportunity to sing traditional Scottish songs. As a tribute to him, friends had given him a kilt which, when he passed away, was given to his son. The son had never worn the kilt, but was emboldened to do so upon seeing me in my decidedly non-traditional brown kilt.

It was certainly a varied day for the kilted man, punctuated by an “incident” with a gust of wind that would have answered the question people ask me most often, “Are you wearing that in the traditional style?”

Thankfully, it was Rosh Hashanah so there was no one around to see the answer.

This Labor Day weekend represented a typical experience in kilting.

On Saturday the kilt was “camel” and largely went unnoticed. However, at the end of my Saturday morning errands I was crossing Second Avenue and saw a petite woman crossing the street accompanying a man. She stared at the kilt for quite a while and then looked up at me. I thought to myself, “That’s interesting,” then suddenly I felt a small hand grasp my arm, its fingernails pressing sharply into my antecubital fossa…it was the petite woman.

Now, I don’t know about the other men and women out there but the cavity opposite my elbow is, well, an erogenous zone for me. Pressed sharply by fingernails it is a way to immediately grab my attention. As this is a “family” blog I think it inappropriate to get into any particular detail about what happens when such pressure is applied to that area. Let’s just say that grabbing that part of my arm in that way causes blood to rush from my head to other parts of my body.

Having stopped me in my tracks, the woman pulled me close to her and whispered in my ear, with a delicious Brazilian accent, “I like it, very much.”

And then she was gone.

I would like to state for the record that I was not crushed by the tractor-trailer rushing down Second Avenue. I was, however, left, not for the first time, with a burning question. “Under what circumstances could I do something similar to a woman and avoid arrest?” The answer, as you might guess, is never. There is no circumstance in which I could grab a woman’s inner arm (or equivalent erogenous zone) and whisper anything in her ear.

“A crowded subway car is no excuse for unlawful sexual conduct…” Sure, the MTA tells us that…but what about pressing your fingernails into a man’s arm and making him dizzy in the middle of a crowded intersection?

Which brings me to my other, recurring, question. “Why do women feel the freedom to do such a thing?” Clearly, the kilt plays a significant role…but why? What about a kilt says, “Lose all inhibitions and let your libido make your choices.” I’m not complaining mind you. Just very curious.

On Monday the kilt was grey. On my way to work a young man of African descent yelled, “Yo pimpy, nice kilt.” I’ll admit that I had some confusion about this and that I remain uncertain if he meant this as a compliment, “Your kilt ‘pimps’ you out,” or a career choice, “You look like a Scottish pimp,” or if he simply misspoke, “Wait, I meant ‘ho’!” It was in many ways a comment that characterizes a kilted man’s interactions with men of color…things said in a way that feel confrontational with meanings that are unclear to me.

A Monday evening ride in an elevator reminded a kilted man that women of color are likely to say nice things about the kilt. After some confusion about the direction of the elevator the young African-American woman said, “I really love your, is it a kilt?” “Oh, yes, that works,” I reply. “It’s not a traditional one because it isn’t plaid and it has pockets…” “Oh, so it’s a sexy kilt.”

With this comment I look, really look, at the young woman in the elevator car with me. Because, I’m middle-aged, white, and, despite what my mother might say, average looking. (Most common comparisons are to Alec Baldwin, Matthew Perry, and, the only comparison I like…Edward Norton.)  As you might guess from these names, I look fairly Irish (in truth, only partly so as the family name is from the Isle of Man and I’m partly Suquamish, in addition to a handful of European ethnicities). Who I see is a rather attractive young woman with natural black hair (long tight curls), medium skin tone, wonderfully full lips, and deep hazel eyes…who is about half my age. I’m certain that I kept talking through all of this (goodness knows what I said, but I was likely rambling on about the kilt) but the thought that was pressing against my brain the entire ride was, “Did she just say your kilt was sexy?”

The elevator arrived at the ground floor and I motioned for her to exit first. She wished me a good evening and then walked over to an attractive young man in the lobby who she kissed on the lips.

Eight years of being a kilted man and all I can say with certainty is this: I have conversations and interactions every day that I wear the kilt that I never have wearing a jacket and tie.

Ever since my first kilt in 2002 it has been my tradition to wear a kilt to work on Fridays in the summer. Today was another hot and humid day in the naked city and so the “camel” kilt was a blessed relief from my usual jacket and tie.

There is a woman I see, or, rather, a woman who sees me with some frequency. She spotted me this morning on my walk to the subway and, with her distinctive Jamaican accent, said, “I’m always telling you how fine you look and today you look mighty fine indeed.” Truthfully, I never see her until she starts to speak and it always takes me a few moments to place her in my mind. We only meet in the mornings and so it may be that the kilted man is not fully aware of his surroundings and, therefore, she goes unnoticed. I often wonder if we pass each other when I am not a kilted man and if she fails to notice me in my jacket and tie. Am I looking “mighty fine indeed” or is it the kilt that looks so fine?

After eight years of being a kilted man at work on Fridays in the summer, there are few who remain unaware of this tradition. However, this afternoon I met one such person in the hallway and, as a white woman of a certain age, she was clearly disturbed by the kilt. “What’s that you’re wearing?” she asked. “A kilt,” I replied. “It looks like a skirt,” she said. “One woman’s skirt is another man’s kilt,” I said, in a line that I will never tire of using. “Well, I’m wearing pants,” she said. “And a shirt. Or is that a blouse?” I said. She stared at me for a few seconds and I broke the silence with, “I guess we know who wears the pants in your family.” “One wonders,” she said…leaving me to wonder exactly what she meant.

I felt a little as though I had been suddenly thrown into a rather poor first draft of a Noel Coward play…one in which the timing and nuance of the language was all wrong. It was clear that the kilt offended her in some way, although certainly not in a way that I intended. Yet, she was offended anyway…regardless of my intent. This is one of the dilemmas of being a kilted man. I wear the kilt because of the comfort it offers…everything else is secondary. Yet people bring their own baggage to the kilt…fears, desires, lusts, and phobias. I suppose it is a shared responsibility. I could fit in and wear shorts just like everyone else, but I wear the kilt anyway…taking the good with the bad.

A kilted man had a very brief outing in the grey kilt today…a miserably hot and humid day in advance of Hurricane Earl. Only out from around 6-7pm, I did manage to get called something I’ve never been called before…a “shorty.”

On my walk to Barnes and Noble I came upon a group of Puerto Rican teenage girls in Stuyvesant Square. They must have spotted me from a distance because one of them started to imitate Irish dancing. (From Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes, “My uncle Pa Keating said Irish dancers look like they have steel rods up their arses, but I can’t say that to Mam, she’d kill me.”) As I got closer it was clear that they were in a state of teenage agitation about the kilt. There was much whispering and covering of mouths and turning of backs so as to hide their conversations. Just as I passed one called out “Lookin’ cute…shorty.” I turned around to face them and laughed heartily and in unison they screamed with teenage delight. I may be invisible to teenage girls but the kilt is not.

Of course, this was an exception to the rule of women of color being the most likely to say something complimentary (or overtly sexual) to the kilted man.  Although, as these were girls…perhaps in the twelve to fourteen year range…they may represent a different classification altogether. Now that I think of it, while I have had numerous encounters with teenage boys of color, today was one of the few times that teenage girls have said anything to me. I’ll have to think more about this and be more alert to the teen-girl reaction.

Clearly, calling me a “shorty” was intended to demean or emasculate me in some way, although I think the teenage screams when I turned and laughed had to do with the surprise that I would acknowledge the “taunt” and also may have been an expression of surprise that I might know what a “shorty” is.  (As I said yesterday to a colleague of African descent, “Always underestimate the hipness of the white man, because then he can exceed expectations.”)

I have a theory that a kilted man’s experience in New York is largely a reflection of how he enters the day. While the weather today was hot, humid, and stifling, the kilted man entered the City in a light mood and so being called a “shorty” was entertaining, even rather charming.

On East 17th Street a white man in a minivan, singing very badly to something that sounded a bit like Journey but probably wasn’t (always underestimate the hipness of the white man) called out “Rock the kilt, man.”

A kilted man, rocking it.

You would think that a man with five kilts already (okay, yes, truly only four as my original 2002 Utilikilt comfortably fits only a thinner version of the kilted man) would have no need for a sixth kilt.  However, I find myself wearing only my “Workman’s” kilts to, well, work and that limits me to my brown and camel colored kilts. Therefore the time has come to add another kilt to the stable. The question is, black or natural?