The Shirt

Every Christmas, at some point, I think about the shirt. I was still in elementary school, back when Christmas happened at Nana's house instead of ours. Years later, when we started hosting, she would walk into our house and say it looked like it belonged in Better Homes and Gardens, marvel at the "five-course meal," and eventually establish herself as the official provider of the deviled eggs. But this was before all of that. We were at Nana's house opening presents when I picked up a box, tore through the wrapping paper, and found the ugliest shade of green I had ever seen. Green is my favorite color now. I would still shudder at this green. The best way I can describe it is if pine and puke had a baby. It was a long-sleeved shirt, which was already a problem. I didn't willingly become a long-sleeve person until I was probably 20. But the sleeves were the least offensive part. There were two enormous brown pom-poms hanging from the front. Their strings crossed over each other through this little open V at the neckline in a way that I assume someone, somewhere, had intentionally designed. I gave Nana the obligatory: "Aww, thanks!" Then came the words every child pretending to like an article of clothing fears. "Go try it on!" So I did. It was worse. Not only did the color somehow make me look almost yellow, but the shirt was at least a size or two too small. I mean tight. It also itched. I have always had sensory issues with clothing, and this thing felt like someone had vacuum-sealed me inside an Oriental rug. I called Mom into the bathroom to "see it." I think I was crying. She took one look at me and explained that I needed to go back out, show Nana, and thank her. I did not want to do this. But I also didn't want to hurt Nana's feelings. So out I went, vacuum-sealed Oriental rug and all. I don't remember exactly what I said, but I'm sure it was something convincing like: "Yeah... I don't think it fits." Nana immediately offered to exchange it for a bigger size. This presented a problem I had not anticipated. Because the size was not the problem. Or, at least, it was nowhere near the biggest problem. In fact, in all ways, it was the smallest problem. But I didn't have the heart to tell her that. So I agreed. Mom assured me later that I would never actually have to wear it. As far as I remember, the shirt sat in my closet for years. I don't know when it finally disappeared. Maybe it was donated. Maybe Mom quietly disposed of it. Maybe it's still out there somewhere, waiting to ruin another child's Christmas. What I do know is that the experience permanently changed gift-giving policy in our family. I told everyone: Do not buy me clothes. To this day, my other grandparents know that clothes are only an acceptable gift if I provide a specific link to the exact item. There was probably another layer to all of this that I couldn't have explained at the time. I believe I was still in my tomboy phase then, mostly wearing boys' clothes whenever I had a say in the matter. I wouldn't come out as trans until I was 21, when Nana was fighting her own battle. I never got to tell her that part of me. Years later, in high school, she asked me why I liked wearing boys' clothes and looking like a boy. I didn't have an answer for her. I didn't really have the words for myself yet. I wish I could answer her now. There are bigger things I wish I'd gotten to tell Nana. Things I wish she could know about the person I became. But every Christmas, somewhere between the decorations and the presents and the deviled eggs, I inevitably think about her. And that godforsaken shirt. I can still see those two giant brown pom-poms. I can still feel that thing itching. And Nana, if there's any chance you can read this from the other realm: I loved you very, very much. But that shirt was absolutely f***ing hideous.