A man doesn’t wear rock’n’roll t-shirts

marc

Do you remember that time when you picked my t-shirt from the floor, you wouldn’t give it back to me saying -laughing- that I was a grown up now, I was no kid, no more, and a man doesn’t wear rock’n’roll t-shirts? when you said that you would have preferred so much more to enclose my wrists in a fine shirt? Like they do in the movies I love, you said: they kiss, they pant, then to avoid censorship the camera moves to the ceiling, shadows, fade-out. Next scene, he is putting on his shirt, sometimes even before the briefs! And you laughed.

and I told you that I managed to wear a shirt myself, sometimes. And a nice one, a serious one too, not that polycrome shit worn on a t-shirt, and in any case could you just leave me alone on that, thank you very much?

Anyway yesterday I entered the classroom, I stopped on the doorway, and looked at the guys. They all had a shirt on, an “adult” shirt no less. All of them, laptop, mobile, jeans, shirt. I look down at my chest, and I see my old Born to run vintage t-shirt, a bit faded, worn just to the right point.

I look at my fellow students, all those shirts, all of the crapping them.

When I wear my shirt, do I lood adult, man, experienced as you do now?

Did you make arrangements in the night to come here dressed like men, did you set a whatsapp group in the night? and all of the same colors, all those light blues and whites, no stripes, button down! Aren’t you uncomfortable for a whole day in class? do you iron those things by yourselves? is there a dress code in college that starts somewhere in the middle of the semester and I lost the memo? And everyone is looking at me, eyes fixed on Bruce and Clarence.

But do you know even a fucking thing on Bruce and Clarence? do you even know who Clarence was? Just ask me, since you’re looking at him with so complete and utter fascination!

I’m sweating, I seat in the back of the classroom, and I look at them again, each and everyone of them. Maybe it’s envy, who knows, maybe it’s something inside me that I don’t understand yet, but screw them.

All of them, and you, even you, oh yes, even you.

 

 

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