Live There, Got the T-Shirt

It’s almost impossible to talk about Winnipeg, Manitoba, without talking about its inferiority complex. When I first moved here, by choice, in 2008, people would always ask me, “Why? Why would you do such a thing? Why would you move here?”

Over the next few years, I had fun attempting to answer this question on my blog, alongside two other close friends who had decided to give Winnipeg a try. Bringing our positive, curious, and upbeat lens to civic life in a notoriously self-loathing place led to all sorts of fun experiences and even what we felt could be 15 minutes of local fame. 

We wrote about interesting local expressions, pronunciations, and practices. We compared systems here to the ones we had been used to in the places we’d previously lived. That first summer we even got invited by a local radio station to determine the best restaurant patio in the city and do in-studio reports on our research. We were mostly writing the blog for ourselves, and it was nuts to us that our takes were so novel and unexpected that anyone else was interested.

After a few years, my unbridled enthusiasm for Winnipeg had definitely waned, for several reasons. Becoming a parent had jostled my rose-colored glasses and I could now see a little more clearly the way that people in the city were struggling. This intensified when we decided to sell our car and get around primarily by bus, bike, and walking. Meeting other people who wanted a better city was a blessing and a curse: a feeling of finding “my people” but also having too many discussions about how unhappy our city was making us. 

And so it was, that when I walked into a spring market a couple of months ago and saw a T-shirt that read “I don’t NOT love Winnipeg,” I knew I had to have it.

(Source: Strong Towns/Emma Durand-Wood.)

The quote, uttered by actor Michael B. Jordan on Jimmy Kimmel Live, had recently made the rounds on local social media, and seemed to serve as yet more proof of good reason for our collective civic insecurity.

But it’s funny, over the past several years, I’ve noticed there seems to be a growing number of local companies making Winnipeg-themed apparel. And what’s interesting is that this isn’t tourist merch. It’s made for locals. 

Some designs are, well, design-y. They’re more subtle: at first, an interesting graphic, with an added layer of meaning created by the place name or representation thereof, like a map outline. I’m by no means an arbiter of style, but I think most would agree, they’re pretty cool. Others are derivative and more trendy: think “Winnipeg” written in the style of the Friends or MTV logo. Some are a little edgy or risqué (“WPG AF”). 

And some don’t even have to say the city’s name to pay homage. One of my favorites is butter yellow and reads “Honey! Honey! Honey! Dill!”—a reference to a locally-beloved chicken finger dip that I once wrote an entire blog post denouncing, only to become a total convert within a couple of years. It’s the kind of funny hyper-local reference that Manitobans immediately get, but others would be scratching their heads at. It’s a shibboleth of sorts; a test of belonging that you only pass with insider knowledge.

(Source: Strong Towns/Emma Durand-Wood.)

And in Manitoba, it’s not just the thriving metropolis of Winnipeg that seems to be basking in a moment of pride. I loved reading the story of Towns Apparel Co., for whom no place is too tiny to brag about. Two friends from small-town Manitoba started making tees and sweatshirts that feature simple maps and coordinates for places that will probably never have their own tourism boards. “If you’re proud of where you’re from, we want to help you show that pride,” co-founder Brooks Keen has said.

I’ve been excited but curious about this little boom. What’s behind the success of these place-based clothing businesses? Especially in a city where residents have completely glommed onto the slogan underneath a “Now Entering Winnipeg” sign on The Simpsons: “We were born here. What’s your excuse?” 

It seems to me that even in places without a deep-seated inferiority complex, people didn’t really use to go out of their way to wear clothes advertising where they live, with the notable exception of the home team’s jersey. 

Again, these aren’t products made to fill souvenir shops (although they do make a lovely addition to the predictable assortment of cheesy wildlife tees and baseball caps). This is apparel designed to appeal to young, style-conscious folks.

I have a couple of items from these types of local businesses now: tees, hats, mugs, stickers, etc., and I love discovering new ones. And I’ve been asking myself why, if I often feel so ambivalent about my city, am I so drawn to them? 

I guess you could say it’s all a part of this idea that attention is the beginning of devotion, which I’ve been unwittingly working on since I started blogging all those years ago, exploring things like local tastes, customs, and vernacular. Of course, these are trivial topics in some ways, but at the end of the day, they’re really the essence of what makes Winnipeg, Winnipeg. 

What else compels people to buy shirts promoting a place they have such a love-hate relationship with? 

It might be a case of pre-empting: “If you were thinking of cracking a joke about my city, don’t bother. I like it.” Maybe it’s owning its imperfection: “It’s rough around the edges, but it’s ours.” 

It may be partly attributed to the fact that they’re cool items made by local companies, which I, along with many folks, have been trying to support more actively over the last few years. (And it’s just as important to trace the idea backward: these entrepreneurs had an idea for a product they liked and had a hunch others would like, too.)

I think what’s as likely as anything is that there was never really a true loathing for Winnipeg. People actually do like, or maybe even love, this place. It’s finally becoming cool to admit it, even if you’re only doing it in a semi-ironic, hipster way.

Here’s my biggest takeaway: you can be proud of where you live, even if it’s not perfect. Just because there’s stuff that could be better, doesn’t mean you don’t love your place, or that it’s not worth loving. The very fact that you want and can envision better things for your neighborhood or town, is a powerful thing: seeing potential means you’ve got hope. You care enough to want it to realize its potential. 

And this is a great thing, because as Daniel Herriges put it recently,  “One necessary ingredient for long-term investment in a neighborhood is emotional investment.”

Like cities across North America, mine has a lot to work on. I wouldn’t blame anyone if they don’t see much to love about theirs. A practical approach might be fake it ‘til you make it. If you’re struggling to love your place, maybe a good way to start to feel more attached is as simple as buying a T-shirt.

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