Swagger Jacking

My freshman composition students are drafting their definition essays. As they were choosing their topics—they have to define a type of person—I encouraged them to bring something new to the table. When I asked for possibilities, one of my students offered "swagger jacker," a term I had never heard. The student explained that a swagger jacker hijacked someone else's swagger, or style. I was delighted with the name.

When I saw Elizabeth later in the day, I asked her if she knew what a swagger jacker was. She did not, so, puffed with superiority, I defined it.

"So you swagger jacked CJ?" Elizabeth asked.

Yes, it's true. For years my style had been boring but my own: neat but casual, too much 100% cotton, everything fit for a washing machine. But then last summer, I began watching all seven seasons of The West Wing on DVD, a show I missed during its original run. CJ became my role model for dressing. I liked the masculine suits softened with colorful collared shirts, camisoles, and jewelry. I decided that at 45 years old, I should own suits of my own, and have since bought four with shoes to match. When classes started this spring, I wore a new suit each day the first week. CJ's style is classic, so I can keep it for the rest of my professional life. The West Wing premiered in 1999, but I heard that the office staff reported to my dean, "Damn, Professor Lightbulb looked good" when I wore the taupe suit on Monday.

Now that I've 'jacked a TV character's style, I guess I'll have to be less critical of the colleague who roams the hallways dressed as Brittany Spears circa "Hit Me Baby One More Time" or the one who exits his ordinary little Toyota dressed as a Hell's Angel—black motorcycle boots, black leather jacket, wallet secured with a chain to his faded jeans, unshaven face and pony tail. We're all being someone else.