Parable of the T-Shirt

There is a perfectly functional shirt in my cabinet, never worn. It’s an undecided shade of violet but a hundred percent cotton. I’ve had it for years now; taking it out makes me think of the last orphan in every line that orhpanages have organized over the years, whenever shiny, prospective parents come to call. There’s nothing wrong with the child, and certainly nothing wrong with the shirt – maybe a bit scrubbed over here, longer arms than most, a goose-like neck that hints at good-natured desperation. I guess it’s because the world doesn’t like to see anyone try that hard, so that shirt is a bit under-worn. The world, instead, worships nonchalance, notices the rebellious, dotes upon those who can sign and scream in histrionic tandem. And the last child is cleanest but always get skipped and the shirt is on top of the pile and no one has ever had to search for it. Parents adopt the brats; I wear shirts that you have to extract from a mess.

On a Saturday afternoon, I decide to pull it out and cut it up. I snip angles off, make turns in the neckline. The sleeves get cuffed. I use a blue green thread to tie everything together, and even from a distance the shirt looks like a disaster. And I know now that finally, the world will look at it. I will wear it. I will begin to pull it out of the tangle of other similarly unconventional t-shirts, wear it like a thing of novelty, dress it up with dedication. Because the only reason you have to search for those things in the first place, is because none of them are distinguishable from each other. In the end they all look – despite their best, artful, energetic efforts – alike.