The first time I really understood the value of American manufacturing was during a freezing January afternoon in Red Wing, Minnesota. I was standing in the middle of the Red Wing Shoes factory, watching a leatherworker hand-stitch a pair of Iron Ranger boots with the kind of focus usually reserved for brain surgery. The guy—Jim, according to his worn name patch—had been doing this particular job for 31 years. When I asked him about retirement, he just laughed and said, “What would I do with myself? Garden? I’m a bootmaker.”
Jim’s callused hands moved with the fluid precision that only comes from decades of repetition. He wasn’t just assembling a product; he was practicing a craft that had been refined over generations. The boots he was working on would sell for around $350—not cheap by any standard, but suddenly seeming like an absolute bargain considering the skill and time being poured into them.
That visit changed how I thought about the clothes and shoes I buy. Not in some abstract, jingoistic “buy American” bumper-sticker way, but in a concrete understanding of what we’re really talking about when we discuss domestic manufacturing. We’re talking about Jim and the 600+ other people employed in that factory. We’re talking about a small Minnesota city where manufacturing jobs still provide solid middle-class livelihoods. We’re talking about skills being preserved rather than lost to time.
I’ve spent the last decade visiting American factories whenever I can talk a brand into letting me tour their facilities. I’ve seen third-generation shirt makers in North Carolina, denim weavers in San Francisco, leather tanners in Chicago, and necktie makers in New York City. Each visit reinforces what I learned that day in Red Wing: American manufacturing isn’t just about a label or a point of pride—it’s about communities, craft, and a way of life that’s increasingly rare in our disposable economy.
Look, I’m not here to guilt-trip anyone. My own closet isn’t 100% American-made. I’ve got Italian shoes, Scottish sweaters, and yes, plenty of items from brands that manufacture overseas. But I’ve come to believe that intentionally supporting domestic makers whenever possible is one of the most meaningful ways we can vote with our dollars. It’s not about blind patriotism—it’s about preserving craft, supporting decent jobs, and honestly, getting some damn fine products in the process.
So let me walk you through the American brands that I believe are truly worth your hard-earned money—not just because they slap a flag on their products, but because they’re making genuinely excellent stuff while supporting local economies.
Let’s start with Alden. Based in Middleborough, Massachusetts, they’ve been making some of the finest men’s shoes in America since 1884. I own three pairs of Aldens—a shell cordovan plain-toe blucher that’s developed a patina like fine furniture, a suede chukka boot that’s molded to my foot like a second skin, and a newer pair of loafers that I’m breaking in. They aren’t cheap (most styles run $550-$750), but they’re the kind of shoes you’ll resole for decades rather than replace.
I once spent a day at the Alden factory, watching craftspeople perform the 130+ steps it takes to make a single pair of shoes. Many of the workers I met had been there for twenty-plus years, and several told me they were the second or third generation of their family to work for the company. When I asked the factory manager what made American shoemaking different, he didn’t hesitate: “We’re not trying to make the most shoes. We’re trying to make the best shoes.” That philosophy shows in every stitch.
Speaking of stitches, let’s talk about Gitman Bros. Their shirt factory in Ashland, Pennsylvania, is a master class in precision. Watching their seamstresses work is like witnessing a high-speed ballet—fingers guiding fabric through machines with millimeter accuracy, executing collar attachments and button alignments that would have taken me hours to complete (badly). Many of their employees have been with the company for decades, and that institutional knowledge is evident in the finished product.
A Gitman Oxford shirt costs around $165-$195 depending on the fabric. That’s three or four times what you’d pay for a mass-market shirt from a mall brand. But after wearing both, I can tell you the Gitman will still look good after 50 washings when the cheaper option has long since warped, faded, or simply fallen apart. Their attention to details most customers will never consciously notice—single-needle stitching, matched patterns at the seams, reinforced gussets—creates shirts that actually improve with age.
Denim is another category where American manufacturing truly shines. Brands like Raleigh Denim in North Carolina are creating jeans that rival anything coming out of Japan’s revered denim scene. Husband-and-wife team Victor and Sarah Lytvinenko started Raleigh in 2007, and they’ve built it into a beacon of American craftsmanship. They use vintage machines (including some rescued from factories that were closing), employ local talent, and create jeans that develop personality over years of wear.
I bought my first pair of Raleigh jeans six years ago and have since added two more to the rotation. At $295, they’re an investment, but they’ve outlasted multiple pairs of cheaper jeans, aging gracefully rather than simply wearing out. The fabric comes from Cone Mills White Oak—America’s last selvedge denim plant, which sadly closed in 2017 (Raleigh smartly bought up a significant stockpile of their denim before the closure).
On a visit to their workshop, Victor showed me how they map every pair of jeans, planning the fade patterns based on the specific characteristics of each denim lot. “We’re not just making jeans,” he told me. “We’re making the blank canvas for the next decade of someone’s life.” It sounds pretentious until you’ve worn a pair long enough to see your own story written into the fades and creases.
For knitwear, I’ve become a huge advocate of Hackwith Design House in Minnesota. Founded by Lisa Hackwith in 2010, they’ve built a production model focused on minimal waste, fair labor practices, and made-to-order garments that reduce overstock. Their heavyweight cotton sweaters have become a winter staple for me—substantial enough to replace a light jacket but refined enough to wear to dinner.
I actually discovered them when my girlfriend bought one of their dresses and wouldn’t stop talking about the quality. After visiting their studio and watching how they cut and sew each garment to order, I understand the enthusiasm. In an industry where overproduction and waste are endemic, their approach feels revolutionary. The price point (typically $175-$250 for sweaters) reflects the Minneapolis-based production and small-batch approach.
Then there’s Filson, the Seattle-based brand that’s been outfitting loggers, miners, and outdoorsmen since 1897. While they’ve become something of a fashion statement in urban environments, their core products remain true to their heritage—virtually bombproof bags, jackets that shrug off decades of abuse, and shirts that your grandchildren might someday fight over inheriting.
I’ve had my Filson briefcase for eleven years now. It’s accompanied me to fashion weeks across three continents, been stuffed into countless overhead bins, and served as an impromptu seat during more than one delayed train journey. The twill has softened and developed a patina that tells the story of those years. The British guy sitting next to me at a show in London once offered to buy it off my back for twice what I paid for it. (I declined.) At around $350, it wasn’t cheap, but amortized over more than a decade of daily use, it’s been one of my smarter investments.
For tailored clothing, I’ve developed an appreciation for Southwick, which has been making suits in Massachusetts since 1929. Now owned by Brooks Brothers, they maintain a factory in Haverhill that employs highly skilled workers producing garments with old-world attention to detail. Their natural-shouldered jackets—particularly in their signature Douglas model—have a distinctly American ease about them.
My navy Southwick blazer has been a workhouse of my wardrobe for five years and counting. The half-canvas construction has molded to my body over time, and the fabric has maintained its shape and color despite regular wear. At around $900-$1,200 for a suit (depending on fabric), they’re competing with entry-level offerings from Italian and English makers, but the quality stands up to the comparison.
Of course, American manufacturing isn’t limited to heritage brands or traditional product categories. Younger companies like Taylor Stitch in San Francisco are bringing domestic production to more contemporary designs. Their responsibly-built garments combine classic American workwear influences with modern fits and fabrications. Their Heavy Bag T-shirts, made from recycled cotton and recycled polyester in Los Angeles, have become my go-to casual shirts—substantial enough to wear alone, versatile enough to layer.
What makes me particularly optimistic about brands like Taylor Stitch is their commitment to transparency. They openly discuss their manufacturing partners, material choices, and production challenges. When they can’t make something domestically at a price point that makes sense, they say so rather than hiding behind vague marketing language.
Even footwear startups have found ways to manufacture domestically despite the significant barriers to entry. Portland’s Danner continues to make some of the best hiking boots in the world right in Oregon. Their Mountain Light hikers—featured in the film “Wild” and beloved by actual hikers and fashion folks alike—represent American craftsmanship at its finest. I’ve had mine resoled twice, and they’re still going strong.
This brings me to an important point: supporting American-made isn’t just about the initial purchase—it’s about the repairability and longevity of these products. Most domestic manufacturers stand behind their goods with repair services that extend their lifespan dramatically. Red Wing will resole your boots. Filson will repair your bag. Alden can essentially rebuild your shoes from the inside out.
This repair infrastructure represents another layer of meaningful employment and skill preservation. The guys at my local Red Wing store who evaluate boots for reconditioning are preserving knowledge that would otherwise disappear. When you buy from these brands, you’re supporting not just the initial manufacturing but this entire ecosystem of maintenance and repair.
Now, there’s an uncomfortable reality we need to address: American-made goods generally cost more than their imported counterparts. The reasons are straightforward: higher labor costs, stricter environmental regulations, shorter supply chains with fewer economies of scale. That higher price point makes these goods inaccessible to many Americans, creating a paradoxical situation where domestic manufacturing becomes a luxury rather than the standard.
I don’t have a perfect solution for this tension. What I do know is that changing our relationship with consumption—buying fewer, better things and maintaining them—can make higher-quality goods more accessible over time. The math sometimes works out: three $25 shirts that last one season each, or one $75 American-made shirt that lasts for years? The initial outlay is the same, but the value proposition changes dramatically.
For me, the most compelling reason to buy American-made transcends the physical product entirely. When I visit these factories and meet the people behind the products, I’m struck by the pride they take in their work. These aren’t just jobs; they’re careers and identities. The patternmaker at Gitman who’s been perfecting shirt proportions for 30 years. The leather cutter at Alden who can evaluate a hide with a glance and a touch. The sewing machine operator at Filson who signs her name on bags she constructs.
These skilled trades represent something valuable in our increasingly digital, abstract economy—the tangible satisfaction of making real things with your hands. Supporting these manufacturers means voting for an economy where such work remains viable, where craftsmanship still matters, where things are built to last rather than to be quickly replaced.
Is buying American-made going to single-handedly revitalize domestic manufacturing? Of course not. The economic forces that shifted production overseas over the past half-century are complex and powerful. But consumer choices do matter. Every Alden shoe purchase helps keep their factory running. Every Raleigh jean sold makes their business model more sustainable.
I’ve seen the impact firsthand. Several American factories I’ve visited have actually expanded operations in recent years, adding employees and equipment as demand for their products has grown. Others have managed to stay afloat through challenging economic periods because a core group of loyal customers values what they do.
So next time you’re considering a clothing purchase, take a moment to look into where and how it was made. Not every item in your closet needs to be American-made, but incorporating some domestically produced pieces connects you to this broader tradition of quality and craft. You’re not just buying a shirt or a pair of boots; you’re buying into an idea of how things can be made, how workers can be treated, and how long goods should last.
That Iron Ranger boot I watched Jim working on in Red Wing? I bought a pair that day. Seven years later, they’ve been resoled once and developed a patina that tells the story of countless city miles, hiking trips, and winter storms. They weren’t cheap, but divided by the years of service they’ve provided, they’ve been one of the best values in my wardrobe. And every time I lace them up, I think about Jim and his three decades of craftsmanship, about the factory that employs hundreds of his neighbors, and about the small Minnesota town where American manufacturing isn’t just a marketing slogan but a living tradition.
The boots will probably outlast me. And in a world of disposable everything, there’s something profoundly satisfying about that.
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