Charity shops in Ireland. Op shops in New Zealand. Thrift stores in America.
I don't remember when I started shopping secondhand. I do remember when I committed to stop shopping firsthand. It was a realisation which I credit, unashamed of the cliched associations, with my time away travelling in other parts of the world.
Of course, the charity shop joy had already been instilled in me long before I took off travelling. My family and friends knew of my penchant for all things thrifty and secondhand. I knew of the intense joy of scouring the rails and scoring a find. More of that in due course.
What had not been instilled in me was the full weight of injustice lining my wardrobe. I had not before been in the same city at the same time as those who make my clothes were being gunned down while they went on strike for fair wages. These sort of happenings don't seem to make it from the streets of Phnom Penh to RTE news, yet the clothes still make it to the rails of M&S Grafton Street.
Suddenly buying secondhand took on a new incentive and meaning for me, and for others.
It seemed like a wonderful solution to the clothing justice issue. I could feel rather smug about my charity shop buys, and my lack of support for the unjust garment factory systems. Not only am I avoiding buying unjustly made garments, I am also giving my money to charities! When the slightly worn label reads Made In Cambodia, I feel thankful I wasn't the one who bought this brand new. In my satisfaction for all things secondhand I avoid driving the unjust clothing market forward with one more new buy.
But somebody else did buy it new. And somebody else still made the garment. I wouldn't be buying it if it had not already been made and bought. The question remains: Was it fairly made and bought?
My secondhand shopping is really secondhand support of the injustice I condemn. I am threading my own little ethical loophole to massage my materialistic ego and cleanse my conscience at the same time.
I am living off the excess of my materialistic society. I love it. Hence the smugness.
But I have to loathe it as well as I admit that it is not the solution to the injustice engrained in the hearts of greed which feed the unfair systems.
My own heart included. I naturally want more and I want it for less.
When did more become best?
I return to the lessons of my travelling time. When I didn't have the same social situations to attend to I didn't mind so much if I wore the same outfit repeatedly. When my back and shoulders ached after walking from the bus stop into the village to find a bed for the night I suddenly felt very keen to own fewer clothes. When my sandal strap broke in India I realised the joy of renewal when ten minutes and twenty cents later a man had fixed them with some needle and thread. I realised my skin did not disintegrate or my state of contentedness decline with owning fewer clothes.
When I came home I felt shock at the bags and boxes of clothes I had completely forgotten ever owning. Many made it (back) out to the charity shop. But oh how quickly I returned to the desire for more. If I had to carry the contents of my wardrobe on my back today I would be bent in shame at my undeniable material excess. Albeit at least 80% secondhand.
Since returning home to Ireland over ten months ago I have only bought one long sleeved black top in Penneys, and this was only after searching for one in so many secondhand shops until I ran out of time and needed it for an interview the next day! And underwear, I have bought underwear. Even though the Salvation Army in NZ does stock some great Bridget Jones' knickers, I do draw the secondhand line at underwear. All of my other clothes shopping has been secondhand.
ALL of my other clothes.
How much of that buying has actually been needed? How much of it is fuelled by my desire for "new" things, even if they are secondhand? Yes, it is good that the money is going to charity, but am I adding fuel to the materialistic excess of society by supporting the very system of excess itself? I am continuously amazed at the great finds I get in secondhand shops in Ireland. It brings me great joy when I get to grab what others throwaway, sometimes even with the labels and packaging still on - brand new secondhand!
But it brings me sorrow to consider the undercurrent of greed and thoughtlessness to the secondhand industry. Why does so much stuff get given away to charity shops in the first place? Why do we make and buy more than we need? Why do we get tired of clothes before they get tired of us?
I will continue to shop secondhand. Not just for clothing but for anything else that I can support in a second life. But I will confess that it is not simply out of virtue that I shop secondhand. I succumb to the powerful pull of the buying buzz and in doing so contribute to a cycle of material excess in my first-world society.
I need to work on knowing the first story of my clothes, and knowing that it is a good one. I need to remember the families in Phnom Penh who grieve the loss of their loved ones who died because they asked to be paid fairly for making the clothes my society sells as fashion. Even knowing this, I confess that, after years of secondhand shopping, I find it too difficult to fork out fair trade prices for ethically made clothing that isn't even exactly what I want or need. But that's another story.
All I have in my wardrobe now is secondhand stories, and I know these second stories are good.
I know that my brown leather jacket was one I had been admiring for years but could never justify buying until it came to me in Vincent's, Greystones. I know every time I bake my pastry blind for a quiche my ceramic baking beans were someone's unopened castaway left for me in Enable Ireland, George's Street. I know my grey Nike tracksuit bottoms (Enable Ireland, two euro fifty) cheered me up, after months of searching, when I happened upon them while taking an unwanted trip to Bray to sort out a broken ring. I know the trip with my mum to that recycling centre in the summer scored a whole bag full of great clothes for me and my husband - totally free!
My wardrobe is full of the emotion of personal finds; the people I was with, the place I was going, the unpredictability of the search and the joy of the find. My clothes are rooted in a time and place with which I can forge a personal connection and investment. That has become far more appealing to me than choosing my size off a rack of the same brand-new-freshly-shipped-from-Bangladesh.
And when my secondhand clothes get tired of me, I'll bring them back to the charity shop, and the story will continue...
