I have a favorite shirt. It is laundered with an almost maternal care and patience, and it is always returned promptly after a long evening’s wear. Every time I button its front and straighten my collar, I can’t help but smile.
My affection, it’s worth noting, is more than just the product of its unquestionable beauty, of its avant-garde badass-ness. Together, my shirt and I have endured both feast and famine, good times and bad. We’ve meandered across these fine United States and visited the venerable capitals of Europe; we’ve both survived infrequent washing during each round of finals. My shirt is an embattled and heartened veteran-threadbare yet dignified-and I am continually thankful for its service.
Just recently, though, I was greeted with some unfortunate news. It seems that my favorite shirt is, well, universally disliked. At first, I was sure the criticism was only the work of a few bitter, closed-minded souls. I discredited the growing chorus, haughtily calling them conformists or philistines and always reminding myself of the age-old rule: genius-especially when it comes to pastel golfing apparel-is never appreciated in its own time. But, sadly, once the floodgates were opened, the volume and intensity of the opposition were too great to ignore. There seems to be a popular consensus that my shirt needs to return to the Goodwill from whence it came.
My recent realization about the mass appeal of my famed shirt has forced me to rethink a conversation I had at the start of school. Before I heard the ugly truth about my ugly shirt, I started an argument with a fashion-inclined friend of mine. She, having just returned from a semester in London, made it clear that she felt stifled-or at least bored-by fashion at Wash. U. She was finding Missouri to be, among other things, a little too cautious. I disagreed and came to the University’s defense. I was just fresh from a stint in Washington, D.C.-where penny loafers and tweed slacks are considered radical-and was feeling elated to be back where one could safely be a little weird. So, our debate remained unresolved: I claimed that Wash. U. was a bastion of free expression and she went on being dubious.
Well, with the above in mind, whatever the truth may be, I’m here to make an appeal for strangeness. I propose a wholesale radicalization of Wash. U. wardrobes. And I’m not talking about faux-hawks, hemp pants or rummage-sale t-shirts. Let’s really stretch the envelope; think Salvador Dali, without the paint. I’m envisioning gigantic sombreros, plush velvet capes or equestrian boots-better yet, maybe we could all just go nude. In seriousness, what I mean to say is that true academic and intellectual freedom will only flourish in an environment that is accustomed to the unusual. A place where you can wear anything is, likewise, a place where you can think and be anything. Further, I feel like the path to self-identity would undoubtedly be smoother if all paths were considered available. So, do your part to improve the character of our fine campus: be a little weird.
As for me, I can’t promise anything truly revolutionary. Still, I guarantee that you’ll continue to see me sporting my ugly pastel golfing attire proudly. That’s got to be a step in the right direction.