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My Pink Shirt
4/28/05
by Clay

My name is Clay Travis and in tenth grade I wore a pink polo t-shirt. The polo horse was green and the shirt might best be described as billowing. In 1995 no one wore any shirt that was tight. The previous evening my mom had gone through the clothes in my closet before a pregnant pause before the pink polo t-shirt, "How come you never wear his pink polo t-shirt we got you?" The gauntlet had been thrown down and my response as to why not was entirely inadequate. Ergo, pink shirt day was on.

That morning before I left for school, I stood in front of the mirror brushing my teeth, the following thought process playing out in repetive circles in my mind:

"Will anyone make fun of me for wearing a pink shirt? Courtney Webb's breasts are perfect. Will anyone make fun of me for wearing a pink shirt today? Casey Martin's breasts are perfect. Will anyone make fun of me for wearing a pink shirt today?"

That same morning DJ stood in his own home, attempting to dodge his ten brothers and sisters as the school day neared. I don't know what he was thinking but poetic license allows me to extrapolate and surmise his own thoughts:

"I hope someone wears a pink shirt today. Casey Martin's breasts are perfect."

An uneventual pink-shirted morning led into an eventful pink-shirted lunch class. The French teacher, Mr. Young began class by talking about how his mother had finally taken him shirt shopping because she said he needed new shirts. He was resplendent in his hunter green button-down form J. Crew and he was also approaching fifty and still clothes shopping with his mother. He ended this story (told in English for ten minutes at the beginning of French class by stating), "Sacre blue, my mom had all sorts of crazy ideas. She even wanted me to get a pink shirt, and I told her, there's no way I'm wearing pink." In the back of the classroom, I slink downwards until the greeen crest of the pink polo shirt is level with the desk. Mercifully, DJ is not in the class and no one picks up on the coincedence of my pink shirt coinciding with Mr. Young's calumnies directed towards the color pink.

Next period I woud not be so fortunate.

Algebra II in tenth grade consisted of making fun of each other and occasionally doing math. This class had replaced Geometry which had consisted of making fun of our teacher and never doing math. Somehow DJ and I were in the midst of "burning" on each other. What the topic was I can no longer recollect, but I feel it's important for you to know the scene. No Algebra II is either being learned or taught and there is a collection of about ten other boys enjoying our verbal jousting. Also Jinaki Stallworth owner of the finest 10th grade ass in metro Nashville has recently returned from sharpening her pencil on the old wall-crank machines which is the 10th grade Algebra II equivalent of watching a stripper slide down a pole. Think lots of jiggling.

Then DJ lets loose the ultimate retort,

"I can't believe we're even arguing about this."

There is a pause and everyone leans in closer. Later I will think about that moment as the final legitimate minute when pink shirts had a future at Martin Luther King Magnet High School. Then, I knew something was about to follow, I just had no idea how debilitating it would be and how disemboweled the future of pink was about to become. Having accepted the pause, DJ continued in a circular manner,

"I remember once back in sixth grade I was making fun of this dude about his bike, and he just looked at me and shook his head. I have never seen anybody so disgusted. Then he said, "Man, you're wearing a damn pink shirt, nobody should ever care what you think about anything."

There is a pause during which the peals of laughter have not yet risen. Eyes across the classroom swivel in the direction of my pink shirt. My face turns red and the day suddenly seems very long indeed.

"A pink shirt," DJ says again and then leads the cavalcade of laughter as he points in my direction. For the remainder of the day I bear the brunt of pink-related humor so expansive to this day I can scarcely look at the color without cringing. Rather than share the litany, I will point out this fact alone, for almost two weeks, I was occasionally referred to as "Pinko" thanks to an unfortunate and coincidental afternoon history lesson on Communism.

Having said all that, let me now come clean. As I write this the color pink is now ascendant. After ten long years in the pink wilderness, the color is reemerging for heterosexual men. Yesterday for the first time since 1995, I did the unthinkable, I wore pink. A pink shirt to work with a pink tie to match and not one person said anything all day. Not one. Redemption can oftentimes be sweet and invigorating, but sometimes it is one word and one word alone, liberating.