The Parable of the Stained White T-Shirts

My Hanes-brand, extra-long t-shirts represent the traditional African-American, urban, working-class clean. Our memories of our fathers are invoked by these simple, white undergarments made famous by the Second World War. As a father (like my father before me) our outer clothes—our shoes—can be worn, old—but at least our undergarments can be bright-white with freshness. We can walk the streets in warm weather, showing off our crisp t-shirts, representing our clean interior.

My mother kept my father’s interior clean—from my childhood point of view. I saw her as a guardian of my father’s honor by her keeping his t-shirts white. And my father was proud of how his t-shirts were so old that they were almost translucent from being so aged and sheer. My father’s pride came from knowing that his shirts were so old because his children’s clothes were so new—and I regarded my mother as some kind of technician that made sure this situation was possible. This childish regard would deeply influence how I viewed women in my adult life—the women who would get so close to me that they would influence the squalid life of my underwear.

I have learned that as an actual adult, I need to keep the women I have met so far away from the care of my underwear. My mother trained me and my older to take care of such things that even some confused feminists regard as “woman’s work.” In the context of white-supremacist patriarchy, my mother trained me like a daughter. When I was younger, before my children were born, I assumed that my training would be redundant, appreciated and quaint. Now it is clear to me that my training is singular, despised and, sadly, superior—and I use the word superior deliberately to inspire the reader to begin to dislike me just as these mothers of my children do. The previous sentence will be misunderstood as an attempt to condemn “all women” when it is the recognition of my communal poverty, my lack of resources—human resources. My effort to undertake this writing is not out of infantile-adult rage but out of indignation and profound disappointment for what has happened (and is happening) to my children because of this poverty.

I will not bother recounting how the first set of t-shirts I bought for myself were stained. This was done ominously and symbolically by the mother of my youngest child. It is “too easy” to condemn and it offends me when the American women I’ve talked to about this subtly suggest that I take pleasure in this condemnation—which is an even more subtle suggestion that men (especially Black men) do everything for pleasure and nothing for self-sacrifice (which is really an admission that someone grew up with shitty men and assumes the world is full of them).

The second time my t-shirts were stained is more interesting because my behavior contributed more to the disaster, the woman that caused the disaster is not a mother of my three children and it is clearer to see why I blame myself for both incidents. This second set of t-shirts were bought in the summer of 2015. Six of them, two three packs, cost $41.12. I still have and use these shirts because I refuse to replace them under my current financial circumstances (heavily influenced by my support for my children over the years). All these relatively brand-new shirts have blue-gray stains under the arms. These stains look like I eat pounds of pork of every day, drink no fresh water and suggest strongly that I am an alcoholic on hard liquor. These stains dishonor me and misrepresent me—should any health conscious woman catch a glimpse of these shirts they would definitely steer clear of me thus preventing me from escaping my poverty of people—thus perpetuating/compounding my situation.

These stains were caused by the hobby of an old classmate from high school. She enjoys making her own soap and deodorant. During 2015, we would often meet for lunch since we day-job next door to each other—referring to the doors of buildings over 20 stories high. Eventually, I subconsciously dropped my boundaries (instead of consciously asking responsible and respectful questions) and found myself gratefully wearing her deodorant for months. Now, in my defense, I am was just discovering that, as I age in vegan-dominant lifestyle, I am becoming allergic to most “normal” American deodorants—so I was more excited about not having burning sensations and rashes under my arms than anything else.

While folding my laundry and eventually noticing, it became clear to me that I was deflowering my undershirts (and a few outer t-shirts) with my perfumed underarms, left and right. I began experimenting with several different deodorants (up to $50 worth) until I finally hit upon this aloe Vera roll-on from a company based in Texas. One might argue that my high school buddy was saving me from hygienic doom while I could run these experiments. I feel like I delayed because of my incorrect assumptions about my high school buddy before searching for a solution as an independent adult. To further reinforce this feeling, it must be said that I did not switch over to the new, aloe roll-on until all my buddy’s homemade deodorant was gone. Did I think I was saving money? Was I really thinking? I know I wasted $41.12—making this an almost $100 adventure.

My high-school buddy is not a “bad” person. She is not a “villain” actively trying to harm me. She is a relatively expensive catalyst that caused me to take independent action and self-improve me my life. However, self-improvement is tainted with loneliness—especially when you are continually doing this for over 15 years. This experience reveals how I can “wish” someone (especially a Black woman) can help me improve my life communally—just like my mother expertly improved my father’s life (according to my childhood interpretation)—I am even willing (in a mystified way) to actually make my life worse “hoping” that my “wish” would come true. The truth is that I am alone and my t-shirts are fucked up because of my lack of respect for the situation. No one is really there to ‘defend my honor’—I had to do it… by myself…

My high-school buddy is a typical, emotionally-insecure American girl who regards herself as a black woman. So when (like an idiot) I tell her what her homemade concoction is doing to my underwear she does not receive my information like marketing research data for a budding small-business person. I will never stop communicating with people in the manner of a collegiate academic in spite of the decades of experience I have with folks who fancy themselves as objective business leaders when most are actually emotionally-unstable novices that need to serve a master. My high-school buddy clearly never tested her deodorant on people who wear clothing that touch the skin under their arms. This might well imply that I am the first person “stupid” and desperate enough to take her work seriously—and, on a subconscious level, she knows this. So, instead of cultivating a deeper friendship based on being one of the few who *trusted *her with her dreams, I am regarded as a fool who is stuck paying and paying for her self-sabotaging incompetence.

Of course my high school buddy has other “friends” but clearly none of these “friends” trust her enough to use her “products” while wearing any article of clothing resembling a t-shirt—or, worse, her “friends” do not care about staining their clothes under the arms. Typical American insecurity (and ironic pleasure-seeking) would lead her away from me (a habitual bringer of “bad” news) and toward these people who effectively keep her at a distance. One of the non-intuitive horrors about being an American adult is realizing that more than a few people actually like being held at a distance because it prevents one from acting on their dreams—from going through the painful process of self-improvement… alone…

This parable should be quite sufficient to explain to the future introspective maturity of my children why I never stayed with their poor mothers. This should explain to folks that voted for Trump why I have spent most of my time in the United States alone. This should explain to you why you would think I am a fool. Now leave me the fuck alone while I count what’s left of my money.

Guten nacht.

The Parable of the Stained White T-Shirts

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