One of the many changes I’ve made in my life over the past three years are my fashion choices. I’m spending less time in khaki shorts and t-shirts and more time in colors, plaids, polo shirts and casual shoes. Gone are the loose fit jeans and sweatshirts, replaced by slimmer jeans and button-down shirts. I haven’t lost the numerous Rangers and Arsenal jerseys, but I do wear them a lot less often. My wife (who is primarily responsible for these purchases) and my children are now calling my fashion choices “cute”. That’s all a person could really ask for.
Before these fashion choices started to make sense for me, there was a point in my life where I had dozens and dozens and dozens of t-shirts. Drawers full of t-shirts. Storage containers under the bed full of t-shirts. Boxes in the garage full of t-shirts. Seriously, it was a disease and Marie Kondo was nowhere to be found.
Where did these t-shirts all come from? Everywhere.
Like any self-respecting youth minister, I had a collection of t-shirts from every youth event I ever attended over a 30-year span. I never felt like I could part with them, because each shirt was full of memories and giving away any given t-shirt seemed sacrilegious. Case in point: I have a long-sleeved t-shirt from a 1992 youth event that I still wear when there’s a nip in the air.
Additionally, like any self-respecting fan of a team… or a band… or a product… or a school… or an affinity…, I had a collection of quirky, colorful, fun t-shirts and I never felt like I could part with either. After all, I wasn’t about to let the “The Bye Week” Co-Ed Kickball team down by giving away any of my six championship and seven runner-up t-shirts. That was also the case for the five long-sleeved Komen 3-day 60-mile Walk for the Cure trophy shirts. I walked a long way for those shirts, thank you very much.
When t-shirt blankets were offered as a possibility, I was overjoyed. I could “cull the herd” and put seldomly worn shirts to some good use. Who doesn’t love the idea of converting drawers and boxes full of t-shirts into closets full of colorfully chaotic blankets? It’s embarrassing to admit that have more than just a couple of t-shirt blankets. I turned one collection into another. I know… it’s a sickness.
Thankfully, my collection is now down to about eight shirts that I wear on occasion and another dozen or so that I am unable to part with because of emotional attachment. And the Komen shirts too. And the t-shirt my wife had made for me for our anniversary that is so unique to me and my story that it can literally not be worn by anyone else but me.*
I still have an affinity for heavyweight, dark grey T-shirts. Size 2XL, please. It’s not that I don’t like other color t-shirts, but I almost always pick something in “slate grey” if I have an option. With my partial color blindness, achromatic colors always appeal to me because I don’t have to figure out “what color goes with what.”
Among these t-shirts is a well-worn dark grey T-shirt with the word “ALLY” written on the front. The letters in rainbow colors are fading a bit and it looks kinda cool that way. I purchased this shirt not long after my youngest child came out to me. What she didn’t know when she told me she was lesbian was that I had been a LGBTQIA+ ally for quite some time. In fact, my departure from two previous employs was because of a rift over whether the church should ordain gay persons and/or bless same sex weddings. But I didn’t really feel compelled to “buy the shirt” and wear that allyship on my chest until it meant something to someone I loved. Since that time, I’ve purchased a “Free Dad Hugs” shirt that I wear to Pride festivals and marches. Maybe I’ll get to wear it again in a post-COVID world.
Also in this collection of dark grey t-shirts is one with the phrase “#GoodTrouble” written on the front. I purchased this shirt the week that John Lewis died and several weeks after the death of George Floyd. I had expressed nominal support here and there for Black Lives Matter before meeting my wife, but I didn’t really feel compelled to “buy the shirt” and wear #GoodTrouble on my chest until it meant something to someone I loved.
T-shirts make one a walking narrative. You tell a story with what you wear on your chest, sleeves, and/or back. People can get a quick impression of you by the t-shirt you wear. For decades, I wore t-shirts to remember events, support my favorite, or say something funny. But when it came to wearing t-shirts that make a statement in support of a marginalized community, I wasn’t that daring.
I recently discovered a few things about the term “skin in the game.” It is said to have originated in horse racing because the owner of a horse had the most to lose or gain by placing their horse in a race. Others credit the quote to Warren Buffet since in Buffett's first fund he raised $105,000 from 11 doctors, himself placing a token sum of $100.00 as his "skin in the game." Some even say that the phrase draws its origins from William Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice, in which the antagonist, Shylock, stipulates that the protagonist, Antonio, must promise a pound of his own flesh as collateral.
Until my daughter came out, I wasn’t all that willing to wear an “ALLY” shirt to the grocery store, even though I supported the cause, because of the potential confrontations.** Until I married a Black woman and learned her story and the story of so many, I wasn’t willing to wear a “#GoodTrouble” shirt to a restaurant, even though I supported the cause, because of the potential ugly looks.
In other words, I didn’t dare to put a “t-shirt in the game.” I was a supporter, but I wasn’t that invested. I cared, but not enough to risk being marginalized myself. I believed in the cause, but not enough to invest in it to the point where I could be hurt.
When we who are not marginalized start to really understand, it’s painful. When we who have benefitted from white privilege see what BIPOC siblings have to endure, it’s embarrassing. When we who have never had to worry about telling our truth about who we love or what gender container in which we find ourselves enfleshed, it’s sobering. We’ve never been forced to “wear the t-shirt.” It is, in fact, our privilege to change into safe, comfortable t-shirts whenever we want for whatever reason we want.
I don’t necessarily want to re-start my obsession with t-shirts again. But I do believe that I want to invest more of myself in others. There’s a tug on my heart, mind, and soul to get some “skin in the game” and invest more of myself. I’m finding it hard, but not nearly as hard as my siblings who can’t change the t-shirt they wear. I believe that I’m becoming more and more eager to “wear the t-shirt”… whatever that t-shirt might be.
* Last year, Kasandra needed to take a business trip to Cleveland and I went with her. The timing of the trip coincided with the Rangers playing a 3-game series against the Tribe. We made plans to see the Rangers play the Indians on a Tuesday night. Thanks to a steady afternoon rain, the game was postponed to a doubleheader the next day. Our tickets would be good for said doubleheader, but unfortunately, my return airline ticket was for the next morning, so I never got to see the Rangers play.
Months later, we were at the grocery store, when I saw a person wearing a t-shirt that read “The best game I never saw was played on a Tuesday in Cleveland.” It is an obscure reference to a game played between the Texas Rangers and the Cleveland Indians that was ended early because of a 10-cent beer night riot.
Beautifully putting two-and-two together, Kasandra had a t-shirt made for me that combined that historical irony and coincidence. On a t-shirt that can literally not be worn by anyone else but me reads the following: “The games I never saw were played on a Wednesday in Cleveland.”
** After acquiring my “ALLY” t-shirt, my lesbian child liked to trick me by suggesting we go to dinner at Chick-fil-a when I was wearing said t-shirt. Each time, I didn’t realize that I was my “ALLY” shirt until we were in the restaurant. She’s kinda tricky like that.
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