The Jean Shirt
The jean shirt found me. I don’t remember the exact circumstances of our encounter, but I do know it was at the Porta Portese flea market, in Rome. It was at a bancone that was only selling jeans: skirts, jackets, overalls, shirts, shorts – everything was denim. I was desperately looking for some overalls, because they were in style, or about to be, and I wanted to look cool because those days the only thing that brought me a modicum of joy was dressing up and pretending I was a real person instead of a husk. So I thought if I found the perfect overalls, everything would be ok and my life wouldn’t be so shitty anymore. I found some overalls, but they were shorts, and they were baggy and ugly. When I tried them on (back home, once they had been washed, the smelly fried scent of the market abated a little but not completely erased) they made me feel short and fat and hideous, like a little round penguin that was a human, which was not as cute as it sounds. Anyways, the overalls aren’t part of the story, except that I tried them on that one time and then hid them in my drawers for years after. No, the important part of the story is this: I found my shirt. I found other things too, shorts and some pants, but the most important thing was the shirt. It was baggy, a burly man’s shirt, the kind that would’ve been popular in the eighties – billowy and stone-washed, tucked into some tight pants, topped off with a swishy haircut. I don’t remember what I thought of it when I bought it. I just remember that at first it was there, in a jumble of clothes, and then it was mine, and mine alone. I got it during the summer maybe. The details are fuzzy. It was very baggy and big, and that is part of what made it so special.
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I researched it: it’s a Levi Strauss Red Label men’s work shirt from the 1980s. I think it must have been pretty popular at the time; there are quite a few floating around on eBay and other Internet sites.
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It was with me when I was at my lowest. Security blanket, shield, comforter; it was everything to me. I would carry it around with me in my bag, like a child carrying a teddy bear, because I couldn’t bear to leave it alone. Or rather, I couldn’t bear for it to leave me alone. I was 19 years old and until then had never felt the need to carry something around like that, not even as a child. But suddenly I needed it. Without it I was unmoored, lost at sea. It was my anchor, my port. Perhaps because it was never really mine, but already contained another person’s multitudes, it made me feel less alone. As if this unknown stranger were walking alongside me, keeping me company. When I wore it I felt like no one could see me and I liked that. Because I wanted to disappear, be invisible even to myself. This shirt gave me that without judgment, without question. It was mine and I was its.
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Now I am trying to re/de- construct this deeply meaningful garment, the embodiment of a deeply depressing moment in my life. I am trying to analyze it, perhaps even finally be rid of it, or understand what it is about this shirt that meant/means so much and has been so helpful to me.