What a strange spring we've had. Near ninety degree weather in March. Followed by forties and windy. I miss the good old days when we had two good months of mid-60 degree weather. Now those were seasons to remember. When the tulips teased their way to the surface. When the robins rousted you out of bed each morning. When you still needed a sweatshirt in the morning and evening, but could get by with a long sleeved shirt midday. Tonight made me think of those seasons past. Cool. Light breeze. Perfect night for a hoodie.
I grabbed my pale, light gray hoodie emblazoned with my high school mascot--a profile of a proud, strong Warrior. As I left the house for my nightly walk, I threw it over my head and settled in to a comfortable stride. About ten minutes into my neighborhood stroll, memories of hoodies past surfaced. In normal times, I imagine that I wouldn't think twice about sweatshirts. But these are not normal times. These are abrupt times. These are times for rash decisions. Or indecision, if you think about it. These are times when assumption precedes fact. These are times when hoodies have meaning. And I don't know about you, dear reader, but mine have meant nothing but comfort.
I am now about six years old. It is fall and my siblings and I are gearing up to rake leaves in our much too big back yard. I can't wait to burst out into the crisp, autumn air in my brand new, bright red zip-up hoodie. It is so bright, I'd say it is deserving of the adjective "brilliant." The hood tightly pulled around my head keeps the wind out of my ears. It is like having my mother's hands sheltering me from the harsh elements. Cupping my head so my ears don't go red. I love my new sweatshirt and the warmth it brings. I can't wait to go to school on Monday and show my friends.
Fast forward a few years and I am now in high school. It's early in softball season, when some games are played in the bitter cold. Makes your hands sting like crazy if the ball hits the bat in just the wrong spot. I'm wearing my typical gear--my older sister's black army t-shirt with a snarling bulldog on the front. My gray uniform jersey proudly bearing the number 13 on the back. And sandwiched in between is my tattered, dark gray hoodie. Thick enough to keep me warm, but thin enough to allow adequate movement. I can even scrunch the sleeves up to mid forearm without them bunching up like Popeye arms. I love this sweatshirt and the comfort it brings me. It is my good luck charm. Sad is the day when the weather is too warm to wear a sweatshirt. Why does the season have to change mid-season?
Later on in life, when I've moved beyond worrying about the future and have begun lamenting about the past, my hoodie of choice brings me back to grad school. My first true taste of "campus life." Back to friends who challenged me, but loved me nonetheless even when I did not feel up to the challenge. Back to a time when I had to prove myself once again, while reassuring myself that I didn't have to prove anything to anyone. Back to a time that I am glad to have experienced and don't want to forget. This smokey gray hoodie with the old gold and black lettering brings me comfort. Just like the other hoodies I have known. And that is how it should be.
A good sweatshirt is like a hug from a friend. The hood on my head is like a pat on the head after scoring a run. It is my one and only tailgating. It is walking with the folks I love and love me back.
Always.
Never a target. Never a symbol. Never an invitation to assumption, hate or violence. And if some small mind out there decides to make it as much, then I at least hope that for one young man who died too soon, that his hoodie was at the very least, one last hug.
I grabbed my pale, light gray hoodie emblazoned with my high school mascot--a profile of a proud, strong Warrior. As I left the house for my nightly walk, I threw it over my head and settled in to a comfortable stride. About ten minutes into my neighborhood stroll, memories of hoodies past surfaced. In normal times, I imagine that I wouldn't think twice about sweatshirts. But these are not normal times. These are abrupt times. These are times for rash decisions. Or indecision, if you think about it. These are times when assumption precedes fact. These are times when hoodies have meaning. And I don't know about you, dear reader, but mine have meant nothing but comfort.
I am now about six years old. It is fall and my siblings and I are gearing up to rake leaves in our much too big back yard. I can't wait to burst out into the crisp, autumn air in my brand new, bright red zip-up hoodie. It is so bright, I'd say it is deserving of the adjective "brilliant." The hood tightly pulled around my head keeps the wind out of my ears. It is like having my mother's hands sheltering me from the harsh elements. Cupping my head so my ears don't go red. I love my new sweatshirt and the warmth it brings. I can't wait to go to school on Monday and show my friends.
Fast forward a few years and I am now in high school. It's early in softball season, when some games are played in the bitter cold. Makes your hands sting like crazy if the ball hits the bat in just the wrong spot. I'm wearing my typical gear--my older sister's black army t-shirt with a snarling bulldog on the front. My gray uniform jersey proudly bearing the number 13 on the back. And sandwiched in between is my tattered, dark gray hoodie. Thick enough to keep me warm, but thin enough to allow adequate movement. I can even scrunch the sleeves up to mid forearm without them bunching up like Popeye arms. I love this sweatshirt and the comfort it brings me. It is my good luck charm. Sad is the day when the weather is too warm to wear a sweatshirt. Why does the season have to change mid-season?
Later on in life, when I've moved beyond worrying about the future and have begun lamenting about the past, my hoodie of choice brings me back to grad school. My first true taste of "campus life." Back to friends who challenged me, but loved me nonetheless even when I did not feel up to the challenge. Back to a time when I had to prove myself once again, while reassuring myself that I didn't have to prove anything to anyone. Back to a time that I am glad to have experienced and don't want to forget. This smokey gray hoodie with the old gold and black lettering brings me comfort. Just like the other hoodies I have known. And that is how it should be.
A good sweatshirt is like a hug from a friend. The hood on my head is like a pat on the head after scoring a run. It is my one and only tailgating. It is walking with the folks I love and love me back.
Always.
Never a target. Never a symbol. Never an invitation to assumption, hate or violence. And if some small mind out there decides to make it as much, then I at least hope that for one young man who died too soon, that his hoodie was at the very least, one last hug.
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