How Everyday Sexism Is Sewn Into Our Clothes

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There are two types of people in the world: Those who delight in discovering that an item of clothing has pockets, and those who are men. 

This is, of course, a gross and provocative, and possibly even slightly ridiculous, generalization. 

Many men appreciate the deep and cavernous pockets in a new pair of jeans: Troves of opportunity that can hold everything from an oversized phone to a bulging wallet, chapsticks, condoms, business cards, spare change, and more. But men don’t delight in pockets. That’s because pockets are as common in men’s clothing as the zips and buttons that fasten it.  

Women on the other hand. Well...

Nothing quite compares to the glee, giddiness (and possibly even a little envy) that pours out of my women friends when I show them my new suit pants. “And they have pockets,” I’ll say with excitement befitting the announcement of an overdue raise or unexpected promotion. “Oh my goodness,” they’ll respond, wide-eyed, in an almost conspiratorial half-whisper. “I love the pockets.”

Throughout history, pockets have served as a most unassumingly subtle, and therefore brilliant, symbol of the obdurate patriarchy. Subtle, because that’s the whole point of them: a convenient and unobtrusive means of carrying treasures you don’t want the whole world to see. And brilliant, because no one can feasibly be angry at a pocket. A gender pay gap? Sure. A case of sex discrimination? You bet. Two hidden rectangles stitched on at the hips? Get a life.

And yet, women have every reason to be irritated that the clothes made for and flogged to us have, for centuries, been devoid of pockets. 

Pocketless garments that could reasonably have such compartments of convenience convey a message: that utilitarianism and efficiency are simply the last thing on people’s minds when designing clothes for women. It’s an infantilizing suggestion: What could possibly be so important to a woman that she would have to carry it with her? No no, surely she has no need to concern herself with the types of things that one might carry in a pocket. 

But on the off-chance that she is, she should just carry those items in a purse or bag or in her otherwise idle hands. If she’s concerned about slipped discs or spinal misalignment stemming from years of asymmetric posture on account of a loaded up shoulder, c’est la vie. 

It’s time we entered in a new age: An era in which women should be able to approvingly slip their hands into phone-and-wallet-sized pockets when trying on a new pair of pants, but certainly shouldn’t impulsively exclaim in surprised delight at the sheer and unexpected practicality of them. A time when a 4-year old girl won’t—as my friend’s daughter recently did—shout out “pockets!!” when trying on a new dress for the first time. 

Joanna Dai, a women’s fashion designer, suggests using the “percentage of clothing with pockets” as a key measure of success at the largest women’s clothing companies. “Let’s start there with transparency and accountability and see if we make progress, just like reporting the gender pay gap,” she told me in an interview. 

In other words, pockets should be a given. Like elastic in our underwear or buttons on our coats, they should be a feature of our attire that we can take entirely for granted. 

In her book, “Pockets: An Intimate History of How We Keep Things Close,” the historian Hannah Carlson, who teaches dress history and material culture at the Rhode Island School of Design, argues precisely this but also offers fascinating context. 

Did you know, for example, that the contents of Abraham Lincoln’s pockets are the most popular exhibit at the Library of Congress? Or that the first pockets stitched into men’s clothes (about 500 years ago) unleashed all kinds of debates and fights. It wasn’t as much about gender politics back then as it was about personal safety: People could now carry concealed guns more easily!

What’s perhaps most fascinating is that women’s pockets weren’t always noteworthy and rare. Indeed, in a 2019 interview with Outside, Ariane Fennetaux, who co-authored “The Pocket: A Hidden History of Women’s Lives, 1660–1900,” explained to the journalist Kassondra Cloos that way back in the 1700s women had external pockets; sort of “stealth fanny packs,” as Cloost describes them, which were stitched on to a belt around their waist and accessed through slits in the outer layer of their clothes. In these, they kept everything from pieces of fruit to money, gloves and even sewing kits and thimbles. They were carefully embroidered, a common gift between friends, and a staple of the wardrobe du jour. But then something changed, and that something was likely fashion ideals. A tale as old as time.

When I think of the full spectrum of the use and powers of pockets, I can’t help but consider the ways in which they’ve become symbolic—a means of conveying attitudes and emotions, from indifference to confidence. 

Like James Dean’s thumbs hooked into his Levi’s. Or your choice of James Bond surreptitiously stowing away a small weapon. And then there’s that song—Hand in my Pocket—the fourth on Alanis Morrisette’s Jagged Little Pill studio album.

In that song, Morrisette celebrates the woman as a complex multiplicity: Broke but happy, poor but kind, high but grounded, lost but also hopeful. And all the while everything, she assures us, is fine, fine, fine. Because yes, one hand is giving a high five, or flicking a cigarette, or showing a peace sign, or hailing a taxi cab. But the other, crucially, is safe in the confines of a humble, but, oh so meaningful, pocket. 

Josie Cox is a journalist, author, broadcaster and public speaker. Her book, “WOMEN MONEY POWER: The Rise and Fall of Economic Equality,” was released last month.