I feel identity, swiftly
Three days before I left for the festival, I spent $179.77 on hats.
The funny thing is that a cap was never meant to be typical casual wear, but mine usually cost more than the rest of my outfit combined. Now, that’s most likely a knock on the rest of my outfit as opposed to the value of my hat, but you get it. Ball caps have evolved into something beyond their means, and into a fully-fledged phenomenon.
As I carve through Shakedown Street around 9pm, I am bombarded by brims. Mauled by mesh hats. Logos flash by like a lazy Times Square dream sequence. The Cubs, The Diamondbacks, the Phillies. Even hats spouting weirdly depressing taglines like “I have issues.” There are so many different things on top of these people’s heads. It seems like they don’t even serve a purpose right now, as the sun has long hidden behind the Ferris wheel in Centeroo. Yet as I scurry past a samosa stand, trying to catch My Morning Jacket on the Which? Stage in twenty minutes, I see a group of three guys rocking the same logos on their baseball caps standing together. They look a bit like a stretch of midwestern interstate, with fragments of logos spread evenly apart from one another. They wear NBA jackets with college football tees underneath. The only thing uniting them all was a Blue Jays logo on top.
I had to stop and gaze, nearly spilling the beer of a shirtless man trailing close behind me. Jesus, Bonnaroo is packed this year. The guys in hats were 30 feet away and smoking the cheap cigarettes you buy in bags. I was always affected with a certain affinity towards headgear, but it seemed like everyone had a different purpose for it now. Our identities being reflected just a little bit higher than our face.
And that’s what they are. I will identify you based on this logo. I have made many new friends simply by seeing a familiar hat or shirt and making introductions based on mutual interests. These mutual interests give a slightly anxious guy a good a starting point. A common-ground icebreaker.
I had seen MMJ before and knew that they would start with Victory Dance so I walk over to the group timidly. Immediately, before they say a word: “Man, is Bautista going to crack 50 homers this season or what?” The group ponders and retorts, maintaining sheepish grins. Not one of them is shy, not one of them is closed off. My question about baseball, supported by the logo on their head, brought me as close to this group as years of friendship ever could. At this music festival, surrounded by 90,000 strangers, I feel identity swiftly. My trivial knowledge of sports specifics allows me to spot familiars and connect with someone, all from some fashionable headgear.
Alec, wearing a black Jays hat, is pretty fucked up and from “Bramptown” (his words). Kirk has a sweat-stained original blue and white Jays cap. He keeps urging us to get to Arcade Fire, starting in an hour. Finally, Brandon sports a yellow and neon green Jays hat and has already let slip he’s on his third tab of acid. Fun times surely coming for him soon.
Four completely different people and we all unite under four colorways of the same flag.
I’m not a psychologist, but I know what vulnerability feels like. Something that astonishes me is how easy it is to create a placebo to vanquish it. Anything can help, from fashion to media and sports. I saw Alec, Kirk, and Brandon all wearing hats that were familiar to me, and I felt secure trying my luck to become friends. A stupid, meaningless hat became my key past the front gate.
As I walked with the three towards Wilco wrapping up their set, we chatted earnestly. A woman beside us was playing drums on garbage cans and pots, crafting a rhythm in sync with our steps. “Conformity can sometimes be a blessing,” I thought. Kirk pointed upwards above my eyes and asked, “Where’d you get the Pirates hat?”
