It's Oregon, it's winter, it's cold, and I am not wearing
an innocuous, forest-green Patagonia fleece. I am wearing
fur. Real fur. A beautiful white rabbit-fur coat that warms
and snuggles my body as the wind blusters around me. A soft
confection of puff that allows me to look classically fabulous
in the sisterhood of Lana Turner, Marilyn Monroe and Rita
Hayworth, while maintaining my body temperature à la
Nanook of the North. A fluffy emblem of both femininity and
(ahem) savagery that makes me feel pretty, predatory and pleasing
to the touch. Until petters' prying fingers determine the
origin of my parka.
"Oooh, pretty," they say. "But is it real?"
"Yes," I answer, to gasps.
"Cruella De Vil, how could you kill those puppies?"
Well, they aren't puppies, silly, but I suppose if I came
across a gorgeous black-and-white spotted cape for a cool
$25, I might just wear it.
I have many fur coats: sporty black zip-ups with hoods,
1940s mid-length minks, waist-hugging chinchillas, fur-collared
and cuffed leather jackets, and one 1960s swing coat made
from a mystery animal that no one has successfully identified.
I have fur purses, fur mittens, fur hats and even three
stuffed-animal kitties made from fur that I purchased from
a very eccentric old lady at a garage sale. I adore fur.
I love rubbing it on my skin; I love petting myself, being
petted. I understand Lenny from Of Mice and Men--fur
is a comforting thing.
My grandmother gave me my first fur, a rabbit stole that
I wore--to my hippie, anti-fur mother's chagrin--incessantly.
Even in the summer and to casual encounters. In middle school,
I had fur earmuffs and a rabbit's foot dangling from my
coat zipper. In high school, I had fur-lined gloves and
a dusty, smelly old coat that I treated as a blanket. And
in college, I wore a vintage black pea-coat fur at the University
of Oregon--much to the outrage of the entire student body.
"Nice coat!" the Birkenstockers (those are made of leather,
kiddies) would scream at me.
"Thanks! It only cost me $10, about $70 less than your
shoes!" I would cheerfully yell back.
You see, my fur coats are not new, they are secondhand.
As a lover of animals (not all, of course), I believe in
honoring dead creatures by wearing them. It makes absolutely
no sense to me that an item of clothing made 20, 30 or 40
years ago should be thrown away in the name of PETA. What
about recycling?
Many argue that wearing fur--whether or not it's been around
the block--only promotes the glamorization of arguably barbaric
farming and slaughtering practices that still go on today.
Perhaps they are right. But really, I don't think many rich
ladies (and you have to be rich to afford a brand-new fur
coat) strolling downtown Portland look at me and think mink.
They have their Neiman Marcus catalogs and Vogue
magazines to blame for that. But I must admit, new fur doesn't
really bother me either--depending on the animal.
Take, for instance, rabbits. Sure, they are cute, but anyone
who understands the phrase "fuck like bunnies" will know
that these creatures are not entering any endangered-species
contest soon. And you can eat rabbits too--just like chickens
and cows. But who cares about them, right? Only the staunchest
animal-rights activists get up in arms over leather, and
I doubt that anyone would get her panties in a twist if
I wore a coat made entirely out of chicken feathers.
One thing I don't endorse is big-game fur. Rules of the
jungle, baby: I would never want to wear an animal that
could tear me limb from limb. Any great cat killed for a
coat would bother me not only because most are in danger
of becoming extinct, but also for reasons of fairness. Sure
a trapper has a gun, but mano a felino, that cat
should be wearing me!
So how do I explain myself to PETA propagandists? First,
they're gonna have to clear up a few things for me. Spokesmodel
Naomi "I'd rather go naked than wear fur" Campbell apparently
had a momentary lapse when she donned a Chanel fur for a
1997 Karl Lagerfeld show. And PETA member Dan Matthews saying
that he admired Andrew Cunanan because he ensured
that designer Gianni Versace would "stop using furs"? I
guess killing people is OK. And nothing productive--like,
say, delicious food or gorgeous clothing--even comes from
their demise.
As for the average McDonald's-eating, cowhide-carrying,
gelatin-using citizen? Please. Just the other day, I was
chastised by a woman wearing leather cowboy boots. Are cows
not cute? Are baby chickies not precious? Are horses not
beautiful?
At least I've made up my mind on the delicate issue of
animal skins. Most fashion-curious compatriots seem utterly
befuddled when pressed on whether to fur or not to fur.
Take, for example, Buffalo Exchange, a hip resale chain
with a Portland outpost just off Southeast Hawthorne Boulevard.
It maintains an anti-fur-buying policy. For some fur, anyway.
Associate manager Tanya First says they refuse full-fur
items like mink coats (why are minks so goddamned cherished
anyway?) but accept fur-trimmed garments, such as
jackets with little fur cuffs on the sleeves. When I asked
if the reason was because they don't want to support the
fur industry, she replied that they don't want to support
the new fur industry. Recycling old fur is OK. Full
fur, however, just doesn't sell well. This from a socially
responsible store that donates proceeds to charitable groups
such as the Union Gospel Mission, United Cerebral Palsy
and the William Temple House when customers decline wasteful
shopping bags.
So, yeah, I endorse fur--used, fake and, with exceptions,
new (honestly, I don't give a rat's ass about minks). And
I do love animals. In fact, I already have a lovely muff
planned to honor my sister's two gorgeous cats when their
time comes. Stuffing my hands in their late, great, furry
little pelts will provide remembrance and warmth. Now what
is so evil about that?
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Willamette Week | originally
published January 12,
1999
|
