| Real Life - The Yellow Shirt |
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I loved my yellow shirt. It defined me; and I was wearing it when I met my future wife. Not that marriage featured in my game plan, of course; “commitment” wasn’t in my vocabulary. It was due, in part, to a tense relationship with my dad. I can’t blame him. He was a good father and wanted the best for his kids. Life dealt him a bad hand, that’s all. He belonged to a competitive family. His brothers and their children “did well” and he wanted to be like them. But he was unlucky. He missed out on vocational training because of WWII. And when it was over he was diagnosed with tuberculosis. In those days the cure was operation, medication, and a lot of restful fresh air. So he was “off work” for two years, recovering in hospitals and sanatoria. When they discharged him he was given 10 years to live. He couldn’t foresee he’d survive into his eighties. He believed the prognosis completely and came home bowed beneath its curse, with no prospects and expecting to die before his kids left school. So his ambitions fell on me. The best way to describe us is that dad loved me but was disappointed in me. And I loved him but could never share his expectations. We argued; we fought; we had some wonderful times – usually with a football or a cricket bat – but I rebelled… …Which is why the yellow shirt defined me. It was brash, clashed with my hair and screamed, “Look at me. Notice me. I’m my own man.” It was the era of the Rolling Stones, Beatles and vinyl. I worked in the record industry, which sounds important but I was just a messenger. I took tapes to and from the studios. And that was it. Occasionally I’d bump into the rich and famous. So in pubs I could name-drop and be the coolest kid in town. My flat mate played bass guitar, sometimes recording stuff with his group, sometimes playing sessions. When I admired his shirt one day he flung it across the room and gave it to me. “It belonged to Eric Burdon,” he said. I gloated over it and imagined him wearing it, folk-rocking his way through The House of The Rising Sun. When I put it on my bragging rights were secured. But… it was one thing failing to live up to my father’s dreams; I couldn’t live up to my own dreams either. So my kudos was vested in a hand-me-down shirt handed down again to me. It summed me up. It was the only thing in which I shone. Anyway, I danced with my future wife at a party. And while the Beatles serenaded Michelle we swayed and, weirdly, I talked about Jesus! He fascinated me; that’s all. But, as the fascination grew, I trawled through memories of Sunday School and wondered about his secret. Why did crowds flock to him? Why were “sinners” especially attracted? And why was I? The girl got interested too. I was reading The Brothers Karamazov at the time. It was about a family of perverse, argumentative sensualists. It was like reading about me. One Karamazov was different, though. He was a monk, a peacemaker sensitive to the feelings of others, serving them. He seemed to be truly Christ-like and I wanted to be him; to be different. The girl and I became an item. We looked into yoga and Zen and all sorts but kept coming back to the Christ-like character and to Jesus. Then we threw in our lot with him, to learn about him, to follow his way; and eventually to be spiritually charged by him. That’s when the word “commitment” entered my vocabulary; and when the shirt’s appeal began to fade. The time came when it wasn’t needed any more. I wore it one last time and threw it away. By Dave Winfield |
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