Re-read Sharon Olds’ “My Father’s Shirt,” and Patricia Hooper’s “Wearing My Son’s Shirt” plus selections from Brevity (see post below).
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Assignment for Tuesday: A short (500-700 words), essay-ish vivid piece about wearing someone else’s clothes. Or about your favorite piece of clothing. Or a piece of clothing you always wanted and never had. Tie in to Fashion Week/season for possible publication. E-mail to lljakiela@gmail.com by Monday/11 p.m. Workshop Tuesday.
Matthew Wukovich
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Assignment 2
Clothing
Everyday I walk into my room, I see two pieces of clothing that are a constant reminder of what my life might have been. Reminders everyday of what caring for others really means. I walk over to the old ripped campo Army military cap, and pick it up. It feels incredibly fragile in my hands. The middle of the bill of the hat is torn up, with little pieces of thread barely hanging from it. It has not been warn in nineteen years.
As I put it on my head, a feeling of wonder and a thousand thoughts and questions come to my mind. What is this hat’s story? What wonderful and horrible things has this hat been through to get to today? This hat now links to generations together: father and son. My father received this hat in the Army. It’s the hat he wore when he said goodbye to my mother, my sister, and me before leaving for Saudi Arabia. It was with him through his two week journey in the desert, with the hot and bright sun beating down upon it. It was a companion with my father. The hat and Dad together, braving the roughness of the desert, waiting to stand upon United States soil to be reunited with family.
Next to the cap are his old dog tags. These dog tags were worn around my father’s neck for most of his military career. The dog tags are red and scraped up, but still worn proudly. As I put it around my neck, I think about the story of my dog tags. Unlike the hat which was merely used to protect my father’s head from the sun, these tags stayed with him forever. Boasting his name, number, and his allergy to Benadryl, these tags were with Dad all throughout his training.
And then I think of how they came to me in my possession. How they were there when disaster struck that fateful day. The hat and tags were with my father when the scud missile hit the warehouse. They were there when my father’s best friend carried him out of the warehouse to safety, only to find out there was nothing he could do. And then, they came to me. I asked for the hat one day when going through my dad’s old medals, and my mother agreed. Ever since, it’s been kept safe on my dresses in it’s special corner, never to be disturbed. A silent reminder of what giving your life for people you do not know really means.
Those dog tags, however, mean so much more. As I hold the red metal plate of the tag in my head, I flashback to when they were given to me. The date of my graduation was June 1, 2007. I am getting ready to leave for graduation in an hour, when my cousin suddenly stops by to say he has a gift for me. He reaches into his pocket, and them out of his pockets. I look at them confused, not sure what they are.
“These were John’s,” he tells me, as his eyes fill up with tears.
My father meant a lot to my cousin, and my mother gave him the tags as a reminder of him. And on this day, they are given back to me. He tells me to take special care of him, as he took care of them for me specifically for this day. He tells me how proud Dad would be of me as he hugs me. And then, I wear them to graduation as a tribute.
The hat does not leave my room. It’s too old and beat up, and would easily fall apart. It’s a reminder to me of how fragile our lives really are. But the dog tags, I wear often. Especially when I am doing something that presents a challenge. When I wear these, I feel like I am given strength from a greater power. They are reminder of what courage is.
Two pieces of clothing: one brittle, one beat up and scratched. Both linking two lives together in their own separate ways.