Pockets by Hannah Carlson: A Compelling and Informative Book Review

POCKETS: An Intimate History of How We Keep Things Close, by Hannah Carlson

This review of Hannah Carlson’s cultural study of pockets was regrettably delayed. Why? Your critic misplaced her keys … again. No, they weren’t AirTagged.

Before the little jinglers were found, tucked away in a side compartment of the bag my family used to adopt two mischievous kittens, I was convinced they had been dropped in the parking lot of the animal shelter, which was two hours away upstate. I was anxiously contemplating how to persuade the overworked staff to conduct a search.

But a friend, whose wife frequently loses things, reassured me that the keys would be closer to home. “They’re usually in a pocket,” he calmly remarked, benefiting from the abundance of pockets in his clothing. In other words, he’s a man.

“Pocket sexism” is a key theme in Carlson’s book, which may initially sound mundane but becomes a thought-provoking exploration, reminiscent of Christopher Guest’s 1996 masterpiece “Waiting for Guffman” and its memorable musical number about stools. Pockets, like envelopes or test tubes, are defined by the empty space they contain. Without contents, they are mere potential—ornamental pockets serve as commentary at best and deeply frustrating at worst. They are waiting to be filled.

Carlson, a lecturer in dress history at the Rhode Island School of Design, meticulously traces how the acquisition of pockets has been, and to some extent still is, a coming-of-age tradition in Western culture for boys but not girls. She quotes a mother who implores clothing manufacturers in a viral tweet about the lack of pockets in her toddler’s wardrobe: “She has THINGS TO HOLD, like rocks and Power Rangers. She’s resorted to putting stuff down her shirt.”

For at least a century, American magazines, fiction, and art have portrayed with affectionate wonder the miscellaneous objects young boys might stuff into the pockets of their pants—pennywhistles, knives, marbles, bottle caps, even live rats or turtles. However, they were sternly warned not to put their hands in their pockets, as it brought them uncomfortably close to their genitals—although such a gesture eventually came to symbolize nonchalance and rebelliousness.

Walt Whitman immediately comes to mind, with his jeans and signature insouciant posture. However, you won’t find him in these pages, as Carlson’s book is far more sophisticated and thoughtful than a run-of-the-mill fashion monograph. Likewise, the members of the Lollipop Guild in “The Wizard of Oz” are absent, playfully thrusting their thumbs into their functional breeches while their feminine counterparts, the Lullaby League, twirl about in decorative tutus.

The book delves into the stories of various figures throughout history who defied convention and secured storage close to their person—an exception in a society where women and other historically marginalized groups have consistently struggled to find suitable pockets. Emily Dickinson is one of the few who successfully persuaded her dressmaker to include a pocket for her pencil and paper. “She had a room of her own—and a reliable pocket,” writes Carlson.

Such modifications have been rare in America, where the feminine silhouette has been revered to the point where even the coats of the Women’s Army Corps during World War II lacked adequate storage. The author ponders, “Did even a pack of cigarettes threaten to disfigure the breast, making it lumpy and misshapen—a metaphor for servicemen’s worst fears: that women would no longer be recognizable as women after joining the army?”

And yet, the addition of a simple pocket can signify freedom in its truest sense. The book recounts the stories of runaway slaves who tailored their garments to facilitate escape, adding functional space that was useful during flight. This act not only improved their chances of eluding capture but also transformed their pocketless coats—a symbol of their servitude—into more distinguished and worldly attire.

Throughout history, pockets have always been associated with privilege. Once you start noticing their presence, or lack thereof, you won’t be able to stop. As Molly Bloom reflects in the final soliloquy of “Ulysses,” “Deceitful men, all their 20 pockets aren’t enough for their lies,” a sentiment echoed by a female friend who once sewed pockets into a vintage fleece jacket. Sigrid Nunez wrote in her memoir of Susan Sontag that the esteemed writer puzzled over purses and refused to carry one.

The line between purse and pocket is blurred, leading to taxonomic confusion. Handbags can be legally searched by police in situations where pockets cannot, and handbags may even serve as weapons, as exemplified by the famous Swedish photo of “The Woman with the Handbag” ambushing a neo-Nazi. I’ve been intrigued by the militaristic migration of the fanny pack, now transformed into a unisex crossbody sling.

As technology advances, body-adjacent storage solutions are becoming increasingly obsolete. Carrying anything beyond the absolute essentials is now seen as commonplace, as Carlson points out: “To date, no one has invented a digital form of the handkerchief.” Smartwatches and digital wallets are leading us toward a future where we may simply tilt our heads at doors instead of being burdened by keys.

In the meantime, if the popular read-it-later app Pocket doesn’t curate this article, I’ll be pleasantly surprised.

POCKETS: An Intimate History of How We Keep Things Close | By Hannah Carlson | Illustrated | 320 pp. | Algonquin Books | $35