My wife tells me I’ve got a problem with the T-shirts, the black T-shirts. I have dozens, some unworn, tags attached, in a bin in the bedroom. This doesn’t bother me, they don’t go bad, don’t expire. And they don’t represent much lost capital that should have been better invested. I picked up most for a few bucks, and they’re all different in the details. Some make good underwear, some are designed for the gym. Some snug me when I’m feeling fit, others flatter when I’m getting fat.
But maybe it’s time to share the wealth — for he who hath two 60/40 blend American Apparel Ts to impart to him that hath none. For freedom.
I read the other day that the glorious people’s party is clamping down on the supply of black clothing to Hong Kong. The default outfit of the ongoing protests in the two-systemed city-state is black-on-black — the classic punk/goth/biker/beatnik outsider gear — and a universally acknowledged sartorial middle finger. Those kids know how to rock it too: great fits, mixing hard and soft textiles, technical gear and street wear, all tied together with the dandy twist of a high-lofted umbrella. March on!
Politics is a topic I pretend to avoid these days. The daily news cycle news gives me whiplash. Maintaining informed, researched, and well-rounded opinions has turned into a part-time job. It’s left me a man without a party, all dressed up and nowhere to go. I’ve spent the last few decades still believing that Francis Fukuyama was basically right, that the end of history had arrived, that some gentle and enlightened version of democratic cooperation would drift us onward and upward, to a future Gene Roddenberry and John Lennon might have dreamt up during a clambake in the early 70s. I still hope there’s truth to that, that we’re just in a bad spot, nothing but a bump in the road when compared to the horrors that marred the middle of the last century.
My hope is that this too shall pass. China is famous for taking the long view of things, and they certainly know that a century on, the PRC will be half-sized and grey-haired, might even be regionally eclipsed by an ambitious India. The fact that they feel the need to sift packages for something as mundane as black garb gives me hope. It feels like a desperate move by a regime who knows they’ve lost control of the narrative, lost the hearts and minds of a generation who knows the truth of Tiananmen.
Even so, big stuff is afoot, and I can’t blame my feigned apathy, my disengagement, on the relentless beat-down of breaking news. I’d like to, but truth be told, my silence betrays fear: Fear of trashing friendships. Fear of fighting with family. Fear of losing face. Paranoid fear of the Internet’s elephantine memory, of Orwellian deep-dives in the data marshaled against me some day, should mores shift in novel and unimagined ways, and cancel-culture become established law.
But maybe it’s time to stick my neck out again, even if Lebron won’t and Nike doth demur.
So I need to ask myself: If I was there, would I join the fray? Would I boot-up in solidarity with strangers in the street? Would I rifle through my bin of black Ts to find the one that best screamed revolution? (Something with a touch of stretch for mobility, a worn-in feel, and a visible yet structurally unimportant fray along the collar, signifying the authenticity of lived experience.) I don’t know. My 21st century, Midwestern stakes have never been that high, despite the shrill spinning claims of the TV set.
Anyway, if I get a chance to visit Hong Kong again anytime soon, I’ll toss in some of my stash. It’s the least I can do. Fashionably, for freedom.
