Stop Dressing like a Transcendentalist
Resisting the endless search for newness
THE ANNOUNCEMENT CAME OVER the loudspeaker and sank into our room’s stone walls. It was still dark outside and cold. I shifted under my quilt and guessed at the time. When Blake returned from the showers, there would be an 8-minute window to get up, break down our institute-issued mattresses and wooden bed frames, put on the correct uniform, and walk to formation. I opened my eyes and looked out the window, watching the fog below the barracks sink toward the Maury River. My nose and cheeks were cold near the glass, but I was curled beneath my blankets, shoulders and hips contoured to my mattress. It was drizzling, so I guessed rain gear, but we’d have to confirm with the disembodied intercom voice that broke the silence once again.
Our heavy wooden door swung open. My mental timer started. Zeb and I rolled out of bed and wordlessly began our day. We put on our winter “class dyke,” our cold weather uniform. It consisted of grey wool pants that were notoriously itchy until you wore them for a few days and a long-sleeve black button-up with a corresponding black tie. We tucked the tie (per regulation) between the shirt’s second and third button, a mid-century GI style that our superintendent preferred. I opened the door and listened. The Virginia Military Institute bustled in the darkness. Another muffled announcement: “Class Dyke. Rain cape. Rain cap cover.” I shut the door. Everyone heard inside our room. No one spoke.
With the current arrangement, we were exactly a three-minute walk away from formation. We sauntered with the majority of the Corps, neither early nor late, falling into our positions with a minute left. Somebody cracked a joke, but his delivery was too loud for the morning. We grunted a little and rubbed our eyes. The bugler began to play Reveille, beginning the day. If you arrived at formation after he ended, you received demerits, which led to marching “Penalty Tours.” And so, as the final notes sounded, late cadets would run across the parade deck, racing the bugler, who often tried to accommodate his peers by turning quarter notes into half notes and holding the final note as long as possible. After raising the flag and undergoing a uniform inspection, we marched to breakfast in the rain.
Naturally, we all tired of the strict regimen and sameness of our uniforms. When leaving Post for an open weekend or furlough, everyone relished putting on normal clothes. It was always odd seeing your friends in civilian attire. After a few years together, ninety percent of your time with them was spent in a uniform. The oddness was also due to the wild divergences in style, until then undisclosed. There were Hawaiian shirts, cargo pants, hipster fits, “tactical” clothing brands, wild fluorescent colors, skater fits, tank tops, and other methods of asserting one’s individuality. The result: cacophony.
Somehow, outside of their uniforms, my friends seemed less like themselves.
SWATHES OF MODERN DRESSERS, just like Virginia Military Institute cadets, are trying to assert their identity against the group, or that unnerving sameness which pervades modern style. Walk across a college campus or a shopping mall, and you will notice waves upon waves of athleisure wear and ubiquitous configurations of popular trends. In response to this homogeneity, many dressers are desperately trying to be unique. Bright colors. Bizarre mismatches. Ironic kitsch. Clothes that are sausage-link-skinny or grocery-bag-baggy.
As Ezra Pound and the Vorticists movement declared a century ago, the only rule is to MAKE IT NEW. Uniqueness has become the standard by which fashion is measured. And yet, uniqueness is no longer measured in relation to the town or community; one must compete with a global network of NEW. Social media is a constant stream of trends and fads that leave the individual scrambling to find something exceptional.
Furthermore, the current proliferation of options means a further individualization of our style. Clothes have largely abandoned utilitarian purposes. We no longer think about clothes primarily in regard to a vocation. Although we have “work clothes,” these are only a fraction of what we own. Americans buy four times as many new articles of clothes as they did in 2000; although, one study found that we don’t wear 50% of the clothes we own. Even worse, every year, we prematurely throw out approximately 400 billion dollars worth of clothing. Of course, fast fashion accelerates our already extreme consumption and this waste. Manufacturers are producing 100 billion new garments (globally) per year. This is more than ten times the number of people on earth.
Not only is this surplus symptomatic of a broader affluenza that is both personally and ecologically harmful, it has also changed how we see our clothes. They have become signals, more than ever, of how we conceive of ourselves. Today, it’s less about representing a group or a socioeconomic status and more about defining a personal ethos, or in modern parlance, a vibe.
WHEN WE CONCEPTUALIZE STYLE as a project to assert the authentic self against the masses, we begin to dress like Transcendentalists. Transcendentalism was an early nineteenth-century literary and philosophical movement that sought to reestablish individual flourishing in the face of a rapidly industrializing economy, default intellectual conformity, and a tumultuous political era, which would soon culminate in the American Civil War. If we peel back our current anxiety about unique style, we find this tradition of thought that has helped define the American cultural imagination for two hundred years. If we understand the dangers of Transcendentalism, we just might be able to reconceive of how the individual can relate to society, revealing how our style can move past the reactionary and endless search for newness.
Before outlining Transcendentalism and its consequences, it’s worth noting that this tradition is not the only one to have contributed to the hyper-individualization we see in culture today. There are many major philosophers and thinkers who have described the relationship between the individual and society as antagonistic. One could easily discuss Nietzsche’s fictional character, Zarathustra, who heroically rejected the masses of “last men.” We could consider Freud’s Civilization and Its Discontents, a bleak book in which the individual willingly accepts societal oppression in exchange for safety. Or, moving out of the nineteenth century, one might discuss Camus and Sartre and their individualized brand of Existentialism.
The list could continue. But in this essay, I’m interested in this widespread and pervasive movement (largely in the West) that has made the individual the arbiter of identity. The Transcendentalists, specifically Ralph Waldo Emerson, offer a clear presentation of the broad themes that these various philosophies uphold, making Transcendentalism an ideal representative.
In Emerson’s famous essay “Self-Reliance,” he writes, “Man is timid and apologetic. He is no longer upright. He dares not say ‘I think,’ ‘I am,’ but quotes some saint or sage.” Emerson feared that true education and meaningful action were giving way to mimesis, where the individual merely parroted a “sage” or popular opinion, never daring to really think for themselves. Although this danger was more pressing in the early nineteenth century when tradition still held an authoritative position in social and educational life, we still face the essential danger of “groupthink,” which has proliferated rapidly through digital communication.
Surveying his cultural moment, Emerson concluded that “society everywhere is in conspiracy against the manhood of every one of its members.” This persistent struggle between society and the individual forms the bedrock of his response. If society is a crushing force, the individual must respond with gritty independence.
Emerson counsels, “Insist on yourself; never imitate.” This mantra ought to sound extremely familiar. It’s posted (in some version) every day on every social media platform. It’s behind the clerk at the DMV. It’s hanging in your dentist’s office. It’s proclaimed by influencers and politicians and your grumpy uncle. We don’t exaggerate when claiming that this mantra, this insistence upon the self, is a fundamental ethos of the American national identity.
I certainly don’t want to demonize Transcendentalism. It can offer a helpful and often necessary corrective. It startles us out of the dangerous lullaby of groupthink and rote tradition. It asks us to take account, to face ourselves. It calls for heroism. As another early nineteenth-century American would write (Longfellow), “Be not like dumb driven cattle, be a hero in the strife.” In this heroic approach to the self, Transcendentalism urges us to embrace action and accountability for our lives. Thoreau’s famous opening to Walden, “I went into the woods because I wished to live deliberately,” is one of my favorite passages in American literature. He earnestly desires to see for himself, to “cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner.”
Transcendentalism is a philosophy with a pumping, vital heart. And yet, their correction—as so many other philosophies—overreaches, swinging us toward consequences that can be disastrous if left unchecked.
THE FIRST CONSEQUENCE of rampant Transcendentalism is that the individual becomes isolated from others and tradition. Emerson writes, “It is only as man puts off from himself all external support, and stands alone, that I see him to be strong and to prevail. He is weaker by every recruit to his banner.” The strong Transcendentalist is by necessity alone. Emerson calls for the removal of “all external support.” Solitude is not always lonely, but when all support is cut and every “recruit” turned away, the individual is dangerously isolated. When our actions and thoughts lose the barometer of community, they can careen wildly. Hermitage is almost always unhealthy.
Furthermore, if human community “weakens” the individual, then non-human community, like tradition and culture, present a similar danger to the Transcendentalist. Tradition is a form of communion, with Chesterton memorably describing it as “the democracy of the dead.” And yet, Transcendentalism casts a disparaging eye on tradition. Recall Emerson’s lament about the “sage or saint,” admonishing readers to preference individual belief over inherited wisdom.
Second, Transcendental individualism is downright erratic and volatile. This consequence is closely correlated with the increased isolation. Because the individual is only accountable to himself, he achieves an odd infallibility. Listen to Emerson’s confidence: “Suppose you should contradict yourself; what then?…speak what you think to-day in words as hard as cannon balls, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said to-day.” The emphasis is not on truth or congruity; instead, the most important factor is that the words be spoken with resolute conviction, “as hard as cannon balls.” Authenticity becomes the measurement of our speech, regardless whether our “authenticities” vary from day to day.
Our search for a unique, individual style manifests both of these philosophical consequences. Our wardrobes are increasingly defined by isolation (you have to be “one in a million”) and volatility (the trends are wild and fast; see “Sardine Summer”). Because we have abandoned the judgment and taste of tradition, we are left with the avant-garde. And the avant-garde is constantly changing, constantly pushing further. A cursory review of the MET Gala displays this trajectory. There is nowhere to rest.
AS LONG AS WE DRESS like Transcendentalists and set ourselves against society, we’ll be trapped between this dichotomy: dress like the dull masses or break with all convention. While this binary is ultimately false, it does highlight a central dilemma: Can I express myself without being ostentatious? Can I imitate others without being dominated by tradition? We can give an affirmative answer to both questions, but to do so, we need a different paradigm to capture the relationship between the individual and society. I’d like to offer one as an exemplar: the Interpersonalism of Martin Buber.
In his famous book I and Thou, Buber explores two distinct modes of relating to the world: I-It and I-Thou. To simplify, the first mode (I-It) relates to the world as a series of objects that can be used instrumentally and coordinated within our tasks. The second mode (I-Thou) relates to the world as a reciprocal encounter that transcends instrumental use. In an I-Thou encounter, we are influenced by the other as we influence them, and neither of us is coerced into a relationship of “use.” Buber extends these paradigms in a number of philosophical, sociological, and theological directions.
Beneath each of these extensions is a fundamental claim about the self: “Man becomes an I through a You.” This is crucial. Rather than positioning the individual contra others, Buber makes the relationship between others (and The Other, God) the central feature of our identities. We have no conception of a self without the other, through whom our self is constituted and contrasted.
Both ways of relating are necessary, but each way is dependent on context. Perhaps a metaphor will help. In an I-Thou relationship, both parties mediate each other; imagine two children playing with a jump rope, shaking their respective handles. The waves sent from one side influence the other and vice versa. In an I-It relationship, only one side mediates, attempting to control and use the other. In this case, only one of our players swings the rope. The other side is motionless and completely defined by the movement of the other. Obviously, this is appropriate in some cases (such as bringing my coffee mug to my lips) but harmful in other cases (such as trying to emotionally control my friend). Importantly—don’t miss this—the silencing can happen in both directions. I can impose myself on others. Or, society can impose itself on me. A true relationship is always a balance: “Relation is reciprocity.”
Buber’s interpersonal philosophy, like Transcendentalism, has important and far-reaching consequences. First, it resolves our central dilemma. Because the individual’s relationship with others is reciprocal (I-Thou), we can relate to society without 1) silencing others or 2) losing our voice. The rope can move on both ends.
Second, Interpersonalism shifts the telos of style. Rather than establishing myself, the goal becomes relating positively to other people. We begin to dress for the other. This doesn’t mean pandering, seducing, or mimicking. It means that we understand our responsibility toward others; after all, we are helping to constitute their self as well. We are the Thou to their I. And so, I bear a responsibility to model to others what I value in the world.
We can feel this when talking around children. We realize that children soak up the speech and habits of adults, and so we are especially careful with our words. We know they have influence. Well, your style has influence too. It’s a contribution to a collective conversation. For good reason, menswear writer Derek Guy has compared style to language. Stylish fashion is a dialogue with culture and society. As mentioned before, this dialogue must go in both directions. We have to guard ourselves from being swept up and defined by larger trends, while also recognizing that all of our choices emerge from past traditions and historical precedents.
BACK AT THE Virginia Military Institute, our uniforms weakened our personal voice, quieting our end of the rope. In response, cadets shook the rope wildly when the opportunity arose, losing the balance in the opposite direction. And yet, the uniforms also produced a sense of collective identity, both among ourselves and with past school traditions. Successful style needs balance. Reciprocity. Can we achieve this tender tension today?
Thankfully, there’s a common (although underappreciated) custom that offers individual agency while tying us to a broader community: the dress code. Although dress codes have grown more and more niche (reflecting the hyper-individualism of fast fashion), they do offer a kind of practical solution for developing lasting and meaningful style. At their core, they are a set of conventions that can direct our choices. When I read “business casual” or “cocktail attire,” I am given constraints that encircle a wide range of individual possibilities. Both ends of the rope move.
Next time you’re wondering what you should wear to dinner, ask yourself: “What would Martin Buber do?” Maybe relating your fashion choices to dead philosophers is just what you need to make your style decisions for the evening. Whatever you do, don’t be like Ralph. Keep him tucked away in the drawer. We don’t need to forfeit individual style, but we can make little choices that bring us closer to the world around us. Because it’s only in relationship with others, as in life, that style can blossom with balanced freedom.
Carter Davis Johnson
Writer & Teacher
In addition to his scholarly work, Johnson writes creatively and has been published in Road Not Taken, Flyover Country, Warkitchen, Rova, New Verse Review and Front Porch Republic. He also writes a Substack publication, Dwelling: Embracing the non-identical in life and art.
What did you think of this essay? Share your thoughts with a comment!
 | A guest post by
|
I'm a forty-year-old PA housewife who has always worn a dress in public. And not just any dress; they've all been homemade. Since I'm a conservative Mennonite, my dresses are made over the same pattern, and their purpose is identity—identity with "my group." For some years, I did this with the understanding that such wear was pleasing to God. At this point, I am confident that it does not displease Him, but neither am I convinced that a skirt is superior to a pair of slacks; in other words, I no longer feel constrained in this uniform: Once I realized I was free to stop wearing it, I became free to continue wearing it.
Because of how I dress, I've thought a lot about group identity, about the fads and fashions that flow through even groups like ours (just as they did when most women wear skirts, hems ascend and descend regularly, though here, hardly more than six inches in span over a century or two). There are trend-setters in our community; there are conformists, there are people nudging all the borders, some pushing for "how we always did, but just a mite plainer to be safe" and some for "new and original." Few would state it in words.
Your words here about the way we dress, then, while I enjoyed them, say little that I have not already thought. What fascinates me is that walking about within our uniforms are many different reasons for wearing them, just as in Covid, one was never sure whether the mask-wearer near one was doing so out of fear of disease or love of neighbor, out of fear of government or fear of media or because they liked to accessorize their clothing.
I absolutely love serious cultural takes on fashion and personal style, and I also love how this is applicable to every other way we engage with others charitably and thoughtfully.