For the better part of this summer, I’ve worked at the Stanford Bookstore. More specifically, I’ve worked in the Bookstore’s official apparel section. You know, that area on the second floor covered with red and white sweatshirts as far as the eye can see. (Seriously, if you want a red T-shirt, there is no better place in the Bay Area.)

Most people would say that I am just a “folder” or, at best, a “clerk.” But I look at myself as something much more: a “retail ambassador.” I sell not only fine cotton apparel manufactured in exotic places like Honduras and Hong Kong, I also sell this university.

The Stanford Bookstore, perhaps more than anywhere else on campus, demonstrates that that our university sells itself as a brand. This is not necessarily a bad thing--we have a lot to sell to prospective students, faculty and staff. But sometimes, after a few hours of folding, deprived of natural light and hydration, I imagine that I’m actually at Abercrombie and Fitch. For a moment, all I can see is the same logo in dozens of minor variations, each piece of clothing supposedly representing a lifestyle, promising to make each owner more special and elite.

The majority of our summer status-seekers are tourists, summer camp kids and conference participants. The customers come in looking to buy a little piece of Stanford’s enormously positive reputation. The clothing itself sometimes get a mixed reaction--“Do you have this in XXX-Large?,” “Is this fleece pull-over really worth $96?” or “Do you have this particular logo, but on a dark green, spandex jumpsuit?” On the other hand, Stanford University itself is inevitably treated with respect and enthusiasm.

Summer camp kids are the most eager to buy into our brand. They shuttle in and out of the store, Jamba Juices in hand, cliques in chase. Sometimes they debate the finer points between schools. (“USC is better at film,” said one kid, while another kid skillfully replied “Yeah, but Stanford is Stanford.”) Sometimes they dream out loud about applying here. I’ve fielded dozens of detailed questions about the admissions process. (I think one camp attendee wanted me to write him a recommendation.) All in all, Stanford’s prospects look bright with the tween and teen crowd.

Foreign tourists are also surprisingly eager to buy into our brand. (Economically-speaking, with the weakness of the dollar, it makes sense.) European visitors are more frequent than expected, but they also manage to restrain their enthusiasm. Most of them shuffle in as a family or couple, poke around and then leave. Chinese and Korean tour groups, however, make a scene. They tend to stream in as huge groups. First, they thoroughly inspect the clothing, asking questions about quality and size and maybe even try to barter for a lower price. They often seem to have not just a respect, but a reverence for our university.

Occasionally, this brand-reverence gets a bit out of control. Once, a family was discussing what to buy. Their little girl, who looked about five, was playing nearby. The father leaned down and said, “Do you want this Stanford shirt, honey?” Suddenly looking up with elation the girl said, “Stanford! Wow! Stanford!” When our brand resonates with the preschool set, maybe we’ve gone too far.

Even so, I am proud to be an apparel ambassador. Watching all this, I can’t help but swell up with pride for our brand. I love Stanford and the shoppers love Stanford--we are both on the same page. (If anything, it makes me want to start my own huge research university. Imagine all the “Paul Craft” sweatshirts. Glorious.) Indeed, I often picture Leland Stanford, Jr. standing in the apparel section, looking out at all the clothing in his honor. Somehow, I think he’d be proud of our brand, too.

Paul is filled with so much Stanford pride that he might even begin selling knock-off versions of official Stanford apparel. To offer funds for his new business, or to comment on this column, please email Paul at pcraft "at" stanford.edu.