The Pink Shirt
Talia Stotts
I can feel the shame rising in my cheeks as I sit silently on the sofa. I cannot bear to lift my eyes to see the disappointment in my parents’ faces. But even as I focus on the cream-colored carpet underneath my feet, I can feel that they aren’t even looking at me. I fold my hands in my lap, rubbing one thumb with the other, waiting for someone to say something. Upstairs, I hear my little sisters giggle as they brush their teeth and get ready for bed.
It is Friday night and I should be out with friends like a normal teenager, but instead, I am here at home with Mom and Dad, giving them some very bad news.
“Mom?” My voice is too small, as usual, and the word triggers something inside me, and I’m not sure if I can keep from crying, which is the worst thing that could happen right now. The last time I cried in front of Dad was three years ago and he had made it clear it wasn’t going to happen again.
We had been busy school shopping all day, and I was excited for my first day at middle school. I was nearly 13, old enough to do my own shopping, as long as I stuck to the budget. Mom took the girls off into the depths of the mall, leaving me to pick a few outfits for myself. I was pleased with my choices and was sure I was going to make a splash at my new school. When we got back home, dad was already home from work and throwing a ball for Molly outside.
“Daddy, daddy! Come look what we got!” Sarah shouted, sliding open the glass door. “Me and Katy both got pink skirts and Alex got a pink shirt!” We all ran outside, digging into our shopping bags to pull out our prized pink possessions.
The girls held their new skirts at the waist and twirled like bubble-gum hued ballerinas. I held my shirt to my shoulders, grinning. I had spent nearly half an hour in the fitting room, trying the printed button-down on in every shade it came in. In the end, I had narrowed it down to the salmon or the dark teal. Both worked well with my summer-bronzed skin and chestnut hair. I am what the online blogs call a “warm autumn, ” so I knew that the light salmon color would be the best option.
The girls continued to spin, now lost in their own dizzying game of tag. And dad continued to look at me. He didn’t look happy, but I didn’t know why.
“What do you think, Dad?” I pulled the fabric straight, so he could get a closer look at the tiny owls embroidered all over the shirt. “Nice, right? The owls reminded me of the one we saw in the tree outside last year, remember?” I smiled, waiting anxiously for a compliment on my good fashion sense, and maybe even a bit of bonding over a shared wildlife experience.
“Well, Alex…it’s a little…pink, don’t you think?”
I didn’t expect Dad to know what a “warm autumn” is. “It’s not pink, Dad. It’s salmon. It’s not like the girls’ skirts. It’s got a warm undertone.” He frowned. I wasn’t getting anywhere. “It’s just fashion, dad.” I shrugged. Mom got it. Maybe she could explain it to Dad.
“Oh, so you’re into fashion now?” He seemed angry.
I hesitated, not knowing what to say. I didn’t know why he would get so angry over a shirt. They were just owls, and it wasn’t even really pink. It was a color that looked good on me. And I liked it.
“I –”
“You’re gonna have to return this. Here, lemme see the rest of your stuff.”
After the surprise inspection of my new school wardrobe there on the patio, two more items were added to the return pile: a plaid bowtie and a gray cardigan. Cardigans, he said, were for old ladies at church, not for young men in public.
“These all are going back. And you’re going to get something more suitable for a young man your age.”
“But, Dad, I don’t understand –”
“You don’t have to. I’m telling you. You’re going to take this stuff back to the store. Your mom will take you tomorrow.”
Tears were starting to well up. They were threatening to overflow as my lips trembled. I didn’t understand what was so wrong. It was just fashion. And it was all okay with the school dress code. I didn’t know why he was so angry.
“Don’t start crying now, kid. You’re too old for that. You’re a man, so you need to start acting like it. Christ, it’s like I’m raising three girls instead of two.”
The disdain in his voice was palpable and it struck me like a knife. He looked at me in disgust as the tears slipped unbidden down my cheeks. I tried to stifle them, to swallow the sobs erupting from my throat, but it didn’t work, and an animal-like whimper escaped my mouth.
“Now listen here,” he continued, “I won’t have any boy of mine crying like that. You’re not going to be wearing pink and you’re not going to be whining and crying. Now get upstairs and clean up, for God’s sake. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
My skinny legs carried me upstairs to my room and I threw myself on the bed, wondering what I had done that was so bad.
And now, three years later, after finally understanding what was so bad about the pink shirt, I am sitting here in front of my parents telling them they were right. I feel the urge to cry rise up and I pinch the soft skin at my wrist, bringing my attention to the pain there and away from my parent’s clear hatred for me. A moment passes in silence.
“Mom, I –” I stop when she finally lifts her head away from Dad’s shoulder. Her mascara is smeared, and she looks overcome with grief. It breaks my heart immediately and I avert my gaze.
“How could you?” Her voice is small and low, somehow both accusatory and wounded.
I had hoped that at least Mom would not take it so hard. The day of the school shopping disaster, she had come up to my room, running a soothing, soft hand up and down my back as I lay facedown against the damp pillow, the way she had always done when I was upset about bullies at school or monsters in the closet. And as she stroked my hair, she had told me that it would all be ok, that Dad just didn’t understand, he was a little bit old fashioned, and that I had looked sharp in my new outfits. Just like that one male model on some runway show we saw on TV last month.
At the mall the next day, Mom stood in line for returns and I wandered back to the clothing section, wondering if Dad would find the teal version of the shirt more acceptable. I didn’t want to risk it and headed toward a stack of plain-colored t-shirts. By the time Mom had finished the return, I was holding my new replacement items: a navy crew neck sweater, a gray t-shirt, and a black belt – all very boring and sure to be acceptable to Dad’s masculine standards. We headed back to the checkout and I stopped at a display that caught my eye. On a spinning rack were multicolored socks, all with different whimsical prints. I fingered a deep turquoise pair with tiny fuchsia-colored flowers on them. They were beautiful.
“Why don’t you grab them?” Mom’s voice called my attention away from the socks. I looked at her, bewildered. “Dad’ll never notice them. I think they’re great. Go on.” She smiled encouragingly, holding out her hand. I passed them to her, hesitating as I put them into her open palm before throwing myself at her in a giant hug.
“Thanks, Mom,” I whispered into her hair.
“Anything for my baby boy.”
The conspiratorial kinship we shared at that moment is nowhere to be found now. I wait for her to call out to me, to bring me to her and tell me it’s all going to be ok and that I’m still her baby boy and that she loves me, but the words never come. Instead, she buries her head in her hands, overcome with heartache for the loss of her only son.
Later that night, as I lay in bed, finally able to cry, I hear my parents’ slip into their room after tucking the girls in. They don’t come in to say goodnight to me, instead going straight into their room across the hall. Their voices are muffled, but after a moment I can hear Mom begin to cry. Dad’s voice starts low but begins to rise. I know I shouldn’t, but I creep to the door, opening it a crack and sticking my ear to the hallway. I can just begin to make out what they’re saying.
“My fault?” I hear my mother ask through sobs. “All I did was love him, same as the girls!”
“And that’s the problem, Marianne – you were too soft on him! You coddled him! It’s alright for the girls, but you treat him like he’s some kind of baby!”
“I didn’t think –”
“That’s the problem, Marianne,” my father interrupts, “you don’t think. You don’t think about what you’re doing to him. You let him wear those ridiculous clothes, you let him cry, hell you even have him help you bake! How are you surprised that he’s –…” He cuts himself off this time. “That he is what he is.”
I am frozen in the doorway. That I am what I am.
I am suddenly tired and turn away from the growing voices. I crawl into bed again, exhausted and out of tears. As I drift off to sleep, I recall the final moments of the day shopping with mom as she came to say goodnight.
“Mom, why did Dad really make me take that stuff back?”
Mom hesitated, thinking. I knew the face; it was the one that said she was trying to find the right words for something that she’d never had to think about too much. She’d never voiced the concept before and wasn’t quite sure how to proceed.
“Well, sweetie, Dad just doesn’t really understand about fashion. He thinks that liking certain colors or styles might mean something else.”
“But what? I just like the colors. They’re in – you know that.” At our weekly outings to the local library, I pored over the latest fashion magazines – Vogue and GQ – while the girls looked for illustrated kids’ books.
“I know, honey.” She paused again, eyebrows knit together as she thought. “Alex, you know how we’ve talked in church about what God wants and the things that offend Him?”
I knew very well. Each Sunday had been spent in church for several hours. Children’s ministry, Sunday School, the main service – I quickly flicked through all the things that I had learned at church, trying to find out what sin I had committed, what commandment there was that prohibited me from wearing a salmon-colored shirt.
“Of course, Mom,” I responded, still visibly confused.
“And you know how one thing God wants is for men and women to get married and have children?” She waited for me to nod. “And how some people offend God by trying to mix up his commandments?” She paused again, waiting for me to understand. I didn’t. “Some people think that it’s ok for a man to marry a man, or for a woman to marry a woman.”
I waited for more explanation. What did this have to do with me?
She sighed. “Honey, Dad thinks that wearing a pink shirt –”
“Salmon,” I interjected.
“ – a salmon shirt means you like boys and that isn’t what God wants.”
I was stunned. “I don’t like boys.” I didn’t like anyone. I had friends that were boys and some that were girls, but I hadn’t like liked anyone yet.
“I know you don’t, sweetie. I know you’re a good boy. I’m sure there’s some cute girl in your class that’s caught your eye.”
“I don’t like girls either.”
Mom smiled and chuckled. “You’re right. It’s too early to talk about girlfriends. For now, you just keep being a good boy, and don’t worry about too much else. Except for school. Keep those grades up.” She stood and turned to leave before turning to face me again. “God is very happy with you that you’re not hurting him like Dad thinks. You’re such a good boy.” Her long pink fingernail clacked the light switch off, leaving me darkness, wondering why anyone would care about liking girls or boys when there were games to be played and TV to watch.
The next morning, my door bangs open as the girls rush in, leaping into my bed and pummeling me with stuffed animals.
“Wake up, sleepyhead! It’s pancake time!”
I am too tired but getting out of bed now will keep me from dwelling on the previous night’s discussion. I trundle to the kitchen, sisters in tow, to get the pancakes going. The Saturday morning tradition has been more to allow Mom and Dad some time to sleep in than anything else. But when they come out of their rooms, it is clear that my news the night before hasn’t been forgotten.
“Good morning girls. Alex, can I talk to you outside for a sec?” Mom pours a cup of coffee as she speaks, her floral robe loose around her silk pajamas. I follow her out the back door, Molly pushing past us to find her favorite toy.
Mom doesn’t waste any time. “Alex, you lied to me. You said you didn’t like boys.” She is distraught.
“Mom…I was twelve. I didn’t like anyone. I –”
“But you said!” She turns on me, eyes full of tears, and I can see her hand is gripping the coffee mug too tightly. I gently take it from her; she allows it.
“I didn’t lie. I just…hadn’t had any crushes at that point. I didn’t know what a crush was. It seemed stupid. I just wanted to play kickball and watch TV and wear nice things. I –”
She is unrelenting and cuts me off again. “So you’ve had a crush now? On a boy?” She looks away, disgusted. “I defended you. I defended you against your father. He knew what you were. What you are.”
So she does hate me.
She stands straight all of a sudden, regaining composure. She takes the coffee from me and clears her throat.
“You are not to tell the girls. You are not to tell anyone. You will attend church as usual with the family and we will fix this.” She reaches over, stroking my face with all the tenderness I remember of her. “We’re going to fix this.”
I don’t know how to tell her that I’ve been trying to fix this already. That as soon as I had my first crush – on a boy – I have been saying extra prayers and reading more scripture than any of the other kids my age at church. I don’t know how to tell her that I waited until I was sure it was real before I was able to tell them. I don’t know how to tell her it’s a thing that can’t be fixed. Because I tried.
She turns on her heels and goes inside to sit down with the girls, exclaiming over the lovely sliced strawberries and fresh blueberries. I follow her in and greet Dad as if nothing has happened and he returns the favor.
On Monday I arrive to first period and collapse into my desk next to Carmen, a peppy Guatemalan girl and my very best friend.
“Oh my god, tell me everything. How did they take it? Were they furious? What did – hey, Alex, are you okay?”
I don’t know what to say. “No, I’m not okay, because my parents basically dismissed everything that I said because they think I’m just misguided or brainwashed”?
“They said they’re going to fix me.”
“Fix you? What does that mean?” She tucks her legs under her and turns in her seat to face me. “Alex … you’re not broken.” She puts her hand on my shoulder and I can feel the tears rise within me as her slender hand reminds me of my mother and all I can do is wish that Mom had said those words.
“Hang on a sec, Alex.” She squeezes my shoulder and pushes herself out of her chair. She walks to Ms. Hopper, who is greeting students at the door before the bell rings to signal the start of class. They speak for a minute before Carmen ushers me over.
“Take your time, you two.” Ms. Hopper smiles as she steps aside, letting us slip out into the hallway where the stragglers were speed walking to get to class and avoid a tardy.
“What did you say to her?” I ask. I came out to my parents, not the whole world just yet.
“Just that you wanted to go talk to Dr. Rose and that you needed me there for moral support.”
I grin. Carmen has been able to sweet-talk teachers since I met her in 4th grade.
“Thanks, Car. Okay, where are we really going?” I expect that we’ll hide out in the stairwell or maybe the nurse’s office.
“To Dr. Rose’s office.” The bell rings, but Carmen doesn’t stop.
“No way! I can’t talk to her!”
“Why not?” She keeps walking, leading us toward the counselor’s office in the new administrative wing of the building. “Dr. Rose is awesome. I talk to her all the time. She gives pretty good advice, and she’s pretty open-minded. And she’s, like, a real adult. I love you, man, but I don’t know what kind of advice to give you. She’s cool. It’s fine.”
We arrive at the office door and are greeted by a carved wooden sign spelling out “Rose,” adorned with carved wooden flowers of the same name. Carmen gives a confident knock on the door. It swings open to reveal a petite Black woman who seems too young to be a doctor of any kind. The dimples in her cheeks deepen as she greets Carmen.
“Hola, chica! Como estás? Come on in; who’s your friend?” She glances at me and extends her hand. I take it and give it a quick shake.
“I’m, um, I’m Alex. Hi.”
“Hi Alex, I’m happy to meet you. What can I do for you two today? I hope you didn’t just forget to do your homework. I’ve had to send away about seven sophomores this morning – turns out a big project was due for biology or something and they all forgot to do it.”
“It was geometry,” I reply shyly, thanking the gods that I had managed to put my “ABCs of Geometry” booklet together before the big talk on Friday.
“Well, whatever it was,” she continues, smiling, “they didn’t do it and they’ve gotta pay the price. I’m here to guide, not to help truants.”
“Well, Dr. Rose,” Carmen says, “we did our projects and we’re not here to skip class. We’re here because my friend needs some help and you’re the expert here, so I thought I’d introduce you. I’m just here for moral support, but I can get outta here if you need me to.”
Dr. Rose looks at me, letting me speak. “No, it’s fine, she can stay. Carmen, you can stay.”
“Great,” she sighs as she tosses herself onto the pillow-laden sofa across from Dr. Rose’s desk. “I’ll go if I have to, but we’re just reviewing independent clauses today because those dummies didn’t get it the first time.”
Dr. Rose and I follow suit, with her settling into the high-backed chair behind the desk and me into the sofa next to Carmen.
“Alright, Alex. Talk to me. What’s on your mind?”
I look over at Carmen, who gives me an encouraging nod.
“I don’t know where to start.” I look at my hands folded in my lap, stroking one thumb with the other.
Dr. Rose waits a moment before speaking and I look up at her, expecting to see annoyance. Instead, her kind eyes smile at me, knowing. “Start wherever you think the beginning is.”
I thought for a moment, remembering a pink shirt and a clandestine pair of socks.
“It was the summer before seventh grade,” I begin.