My father taught me his greatest lessons by example.
He didn’t have to tell me that hard work pays off; I saw how the long hours he spent leading his private gastroenterology practice earned him the respect of his patients and employees. Since he was in the business of saving lives, he didn’t need to explain the virtues of having selfless regard for others, either.
And, by wearing his signature funky flair, he taught me the importance of being yourself.
Whether he was working or running around town, he’d sport Armani and Dior suits, multicolored ties designed by Gene Meyer, ostrich- and eel-skin cowboy boots — with a cowboy hat to match.
In conservative Utica, NY — where mass-market brands have long made locals blend together in bland monotony — he used fearless style to stand out with pride.
“You can express individuality by going off the reservation and taking a few chances,” says my dad, who has since traded those cowboy boots for more comfortable woven Nikes, and the cowboy hats for custom fedoras.
Growing up, his style became a lesson in self-confidence that I sorely needed.
See, I was a deeply insecure adolescent, and uncomfortable in my own skin. Jock bullies berated me for my pudgy size.
“We don’t want you here because you’re fat,” an intolerable basketball teammate told me. His constant ridicule forced me to quit the squad.
But instead of standing up for myself, I tried to blend in.
I started dressing the exact same way they did. I’d drag my dad to American Eagle and Abercrombie & Fitch to buy me the preppy looks they wore: baseball caps with curved brims, T-shirts with prominent brand logos and baggy jeans. For the first time, I felt cool — and brave enough to try and become friends with the jocks.
My plan backfired. Despite wearing the same threads, I’d be shuffled off to the side when I tried congregating with them in my high school’s hallways. The same thing happened when I attempted to sit with them at school sporting events. After two years of stinging rejection, it finally clicked: I’m not one of them. I have to be myself.
At age 16, I set out to discover who that was. Inspired by my dad’s intrepid sense of self, I did that through not-so-typical style.
I replaced puka shell necklaces with plastic chains, drew flowers on those baggy Abercrombie jeans and bought ratty T-shirts at the Salvation Army. The hippie-meets-punk result, admittedly, was a mess, but a liberating one. It was my first push into a world where I didn’t need to meet the silly standards of “cool.” Like my dad, I looked how I wanted and owned it.
Beyond better reflecting my creative nature, my style sent my confidence soaring. Not only did I begin to walk the halls of school with my head held higher, I also had an easier time fitting in with peers by showing my true personality — all thanks to a wardrobe change.
Today, at 30, my style remains an amalgam of influences — streetwear, vintage, goth — but a strong sense of self remains. And I have my father to thank for that.