Sarah Inman, author of Finishing Skills, mourns the passing of Rainbow, the local fashion mecca.

 Mourning Rainbow

I found you years ago when I first moved to New Orleans. A store among many storefronts on Canal Street, beyond the Saenger Theatre, you sat past the Popeye’s on Rampart, away from places that sell crap to tourists. Somewhere among the discount shoes and the athletic wear, beyond the Maison Blanche and nearer to where the hucksters who sling incense and bootleg CDs, there I found you, a gem among the downtown junk, Rainbow clothing store.
Almost five months ago as I watched the city flood and saw looters on Canal wading with armfuls of clothing, I worried about you, prayed that someone worthy would walk away with a bundle of your ghetto fashions. Please, someone, take the strappy, bejeweled pointy heels, grab one of those shiny purses so popular right now. Take a fistful of flouncy blouses, baby tees or cropped pants. Please, someone rescue Rainbow.

Some folks take pleasure in looking at antiques, while others like to browse for music or books, but for people like me, Rainbow clothing stores fuel our Zen-like shopping experience. With Mary J. Blige belting the truth from hip hop radio and women of all shapes and sizes shopping alone or in groups, inside Rainbow felt like Saturday afternoon all the time. Bound to overhear conversations about unplanned pregnancies, overdue bills, cheating partners, and illness, I always entered Rainbow with an open mind and an open heart. Did hearing about these atrocities make me feel any better about my own problems? They sure did. And besides, it’s said there’s nothing that a new pair of shoes won’t fix. Examining that logic, I imagine a new outfit from Rainbow can mend a lot.

To shake myself from a mid-day funk, I’d cruise to one of the Rainbow clothing stores on Carrollton, not looking for anything in particular, just looking. Or perhaps I was coming from downtown. There I could throw my car on Rampart, the windshield- breaking district, and walk to the Rainbow on Canal. If passing through Gentilly, I found the Rainbow by the post office would do just fine. When on the West Bank, I’d visit the Rainbow in Oakwood Mall, and if I were brave, the Rainbow in New Orleans East. Rarely did I pay a visit to the Rainbow in Harahan, the store in the strip mall by the Palace Theatre, because that Rainbow is less of a rainbow. Sadly, all but the Harahan location were ruined in the floods and fires of the Apocalypse.

Shopping at Rainbow was like shooting dice. I never knew if the outfit would shrink after one wash or become a staple of my wardrobe. Odds were I’d seven out eventually. But like stepping into casino or stumbling upon an illegal dice game, entering into Rainbow always promised something new and interesting. The narrow aisles of the Rainbow on Canal Street, with one way in, one way out, except for the stairs which led to the shoe selection and which were always blocked anyway, heightened my claustrophobia. Someone could come in there with guns blazing, take out the whole store, or worse, a fire could rip through those flammable fabrics in no time. On occasion a lone boyfriend would lean against the shoe counter and absent-mindedly punch a cell phone with his thumbs as he waited for his lady. Often at Rainbow, no line at the counter would suddenly morph into a large queue extending the length of the store, complete with crying toddlers and impatient mothers.

In the last eight years, ghetto fashion has become increasingly more important to me. While out one day sporting my knock-off Baby Phat black and pink velvet jogging suit, I earned cache as I walked past a mall security guard. “Hey, Baby Phat,” he called out.
Stein Mart could never market the form-fitting denim dresses Rainbow sold. I tended bar for the first time on Bourbon Street while wearing a Rainbow-bought cropped t-shirt that depicted a toaster with a piece of toast popping out, the word “toasted” imprinted on the fabric, and I spent many Mardi Gras and Halloweens clomping around in Rainbow’s funky high heels.My students too notice when I sport Rainbow fashion, and either they respect me for it or think I’m some crazy white lady. The older I get, the younger I dress, and the less I care.

Where are you, Rainbow? When are you coming back? Whenever I see a Rainbow clothing store, my heart leaps up and then quickly sinks upon noting the water line and the way the window appears foggy from the flood. Where am I going to get myself a shiny pink jacket for Mardi Gras day? Or what about a jersey dress or a knock-off Louis Vuitton purse? The three-quarter sleeve baby tee with monkeys on the front? What about the chunky heeled open-toe denim slip-on sandals? Where am I going to buy those skanky tops whose tight fit makes my breasts appear larger than they really are? What about the terry cloth short shorts and the pairs of five dollar black tights? What about the sleeveless denim dress with rawhide strips that lace up side slits? Let’s not forget the winter fashions—the tight sweaters—some are even wool blends—and the handbags, belts and intimate apparel. Oh, Rainbow, where art thou?

You sell school and work uniforms too and children’s clothes and plus sizes. Your operation began in Brooklyn, you don’t offer stock in the company, and your aim is to open forty new stores a year. I know you’re part of an evil, faceless conglomerate, but still I love you, Rainbow. I miss you.