In December 2017, right before we moved to London, my brother in law Michael gave M and me matching American flag t-shirts.
These weren’t subtle. They were stars, stripes, and a giant screaming eagle plastered across the front and back. The kind of shirt that announces your citizenship from three blocks away. A reminder of where we came from, he said.
There’s exactly one photo of M and me wearing them together. That’s because M wore hers once, for the photo, and never again. Too ridiculous, she said.
I agreed completely. Which is why I decided to wear mine every 4th of July. And Thanksgiving. And any other vaguely American holiday I could justify.
When I started going into the office regularly, I’d wear it on the 4th. People would see me and say, “You wore that to work?” And I’d say, “I didn’t wear it on the tube. I changed into it when I got here.” Which was true. I’m not completely insane.
But once I was in the office? Full patriotic regalia. At weekend barbecues? All day. Sometimes I’d put it on while getting ready for Thanksgiving dinner, though I’d usually swap it out before sitting down. Even I have limits.
It was supposed to be a gag gift. A one-time laugh. But eight years later, I still pull it out of the drawer and think, yeah, today’s the day.
I love that shirt. In a creepy sort of way. I miss you Michael.
Photo from the BBQ last year