The Shirt I'll Never Wear

If you're a Netflix junky like me, you'll casually go to the section that previews new movies and shows to add them to your "Watch Later" list. One show that I was excited to watch was Worn Stories; it's a limited series that focuses on our emotional attachment to specific items of clothes. From sweaters, hats, ties, and even jockstraps, people talk about why that item means and the emotional impact. It amazed me how much we idolize the things that we have. We've all become hoarders in our own right, which is why most American's want bigger and better to fit everything inside. Some of the items we possess bring nostalgia.

While watching, I thought about if I have any clothing item in my possession that has a specific memory attached. I've lost so many essential things that I don't allow myself to connect. My focus has always been to create new memories and leave the old ones in the past. I realized two things about my relationship with the clothes I own: I allowed my FUPA to dictate what I wear, and I don't like most of my wardrobe. A unique item that I possess is a certain shirt that I vowed never to wear based on its significance.

It was Summer 2011, and living in San Diego, CA, during the summer is a hot and sticky mess. Thigh sweat, armpit sweat stains, and that stripe of sweat that lays comfortable above my top lip. Summers are so much fun (I hate Summer). During that time, I was attending Vocational School studying Medical Billing and Coding. After four weeks of learning a specific topic, the school has a career day, which means students are graded on resumes and interviewing. One of the requirements is we all dress the part which is business casual. My wardrobe consisted of a white crisp long-sleeve button-up with black slacks and heels. I was miserable and irritated the whole day, and I didn't care what my ending grade was; I just wanted to get out of those hot clothes. After school, I decided to stop by my grandmother's house to visit her. Inside was slightly cooler, but I was still miserable inside.

After about an hour, my uncle just got off of work and walked through the door. Since he worked at the local hospital, his uniform consisted of scrubs. Over time he collected a trash bag full of scrubs, and if you work in the medical field, you can never have enough scrubs. That particular day he outsmarted me and had a change of clothing that he could wear. Scrubs can be very comfortable, but after a twelve-hour shift, the last thing you want is a reminder of your stressful workday once you got home. Since making my "back to school" announcement earlier that year, my uncle would express how we would work together one day and promise that he would do everything he could to get me a job at UCSD (University of California San Diego) hospital. His enthusiasm made me excited to finish and graduate, so if I needed any pick-me-up, he would be the person to provide that. After hearing his last "I'm proud of you," he asked if I were hot? I said "yes," and he got up from the couch and said, "I might have an old shirt you can wear." He goes into his scrub Barney bag and pulls out an old yet clean scrub top. He handed it to me and said, "if you can fit it, then you can have it." the words thank you exited from my lips so fast that I forgot how hot I was. I grabbed the shirt, raced to the bathroom, and changed.

I came out of the bathroom relieved and experienced the instant coolness of my upper body; he waited in the living room and asked me if I were comfortable, and I said yes. He then gifted me $2.00 and instructed me to buy a popsicle when the ice cream man comes; I was 25 at the time, which meant nothing to him. My uncle still gifted me $2.00. The inflation has tripled since he was a child, and he still thought I could purchase the entire ice cream truck for $2.00. I stared at the money and smiled, said "Thank you," and quickly put the money in my pocket.

Later that year, he passed away three days before my 26th birthday. That was one of the most challenging times of my life. I wanted to quit school even though I had a month left. But my family encouraged me to keep going because he would've wanted me to complete what I started. That last month was such a blur, but I finished with a 3.7 GPA and on the Dean's List. Once a year, I would clean out my closet and donate clothes I no longer needed. I came across my uncle's scrub shirt. After staring at it, I decided to fold it and tuck it away quickly. Holding back tears, I promised myself that I would never get rid of that shirt. I don't allow anyone to touch, wear or hold it because whatever scents left on that shirt, I wanted it to stay that way since I didn't wear it long. I didn't bother washing it because it didn't smell like me or the heat of summer.

Recently, I decided to pull out the shirt and unravel it, and once I did, I could see the creases on where I folded it last. I finally decided to study the shirt, so; I held it up to the sun to have the natural light connect the dots. It had deodorant stains and minor stains that couldn't come out; after a while, I smiled, neatly folded it up, and tucked it away in my drawer. It wasn't until I watched that show on Netflix that I realized that everything we own has meaning and significance to us, which is why many hoarders exist not to take away the mental health associated with hoarding. Some may believe that the cost dictates how long we keep an item, but we value the stories and memories. I will always love and protect that scrub shirt. It's a clear reminder of his character. He was a giver, and he would give you the shirt of his back.

He will always and forever be missed.

Rest In Peace

Clifton "Bleed" Ransom Jr., aka my uncle

July 25, 1964- September 17, 2011

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