Using T-Shirts to Communicate
In Africa, divine forces use t-shirts to participate in earthly dialogues.
If you mention Ohio in casual conversation, you may find yourself sitting next to a girl wearing a "University of Cincinnati" t-shirt on your next mini-taxi ride. And it is likely that you will pass a child wearing a "Dallas, Texas" t-shirt following a discussion about the myth of the American cowboy.
A morbid but common expatriate nickname for t-shirts is 'dead white men's clothes.' They are donated in bulk to Africa by Western charities, shipped overseas, bundled into huge cubes bound by thick cable, and trucked out of ports to local markets all over the continent. They are a common sight in both cities and rural areas and may be the most ubiquitous article of clothing in Africa.
What is written on them is not important. Literal meaning takes a backseat to color, design appeal, and the status of possession. Most of the shirts I see refer to obscure facets of local American culture: local high school track teams, local art festivals, local concerts, local colleges, local cheerleading conferences. Such grass roots fashion commemorations have little significance in neighboring states, much less other continents. By the time these donations reach their new homes, they are nothing more than an ornate collection of threads, devoid of reference and meaning.
Very few of the proud new owners know what kind of statement they are displaying as they walk around town; but for expatriates, random glimpses of home pop out at oddly appropriate moments. Many of these coincidences seem engineered by a larger intelligence.
One afternoon, for example, I felt suddenly homesick. I was jammed onto a crowded central street, wading my way through honking traffic, rowdy vendors, and clouds of diesel fumes. Suddenly a child flashed by, draped in a shirt bearing the logo of a community college in the town where I grew up. It was a genuine shock to see something so specific, so familiar, and over 7000 miles away from its origin. Many travelers tell stories about the sudden appearance of logos, town names, and other reminders of a past life. An Occidental College t-shirt appears on a child in a remote village. A student parades the t-shirt of a rival Maine high school sports team. A Pearl Jam t-shirt is worn by the driver of a passing pick-up truck.
The majority of American t-shirts are printed up to display clannish pride, worn to the point of boredom, tossed in a bag, and delivered to the Salvation Army - most likely during a major holiday when people feel extremely generous and/or ready for a wardrobe change. It's reassuring to know that they have a useful second life: not only do they clothe needy Africans, but they also provide omens for needy Westerners.
If you mention Ohio in casual conversation, you may find yourself sitting next to a girl wearing a "University of Cincinnati" t-shirt on your next mini-taxi ride. And it is likely that you will pass a child wearing a "Dallas, Texas" t-shirt following a discussion about the myth of the American cowboy.
A morbid but common expatriate nickname for t-shirts is 'dead white men's clothes.' They are donated in bulk to Africa by Western charities, shipped overseas, bundled into huge cubes bound by thick cable, and trucked out of ports to local markets all over the continent. They are a common sight in both cities and rural areas and may be the most ubiquitous article of clothing in Africa.
What is written on them is not important. Literal meaning takes a backseat to color, design appeal, and the status of possession. Most of the shirts I see refer to obscure facets of local American culture: local high school track teams, local art festivals, local concerts, local colleges, local cheerleading conferences. Such grass roots fashion commemorations have little significance in neighboring states, much less other continents. By the time these donations reach their new homes, they are nothing more than an ornate collection of threads, devoid of reference and meaning.
Very few of the proud new owners know what kind of statement they are displaying as they walk around town; but for expatriates, random glimpses of home pop out at oddly appropriate moments. Many of these coincidences seem engineered by a larger intelligence.
One afternoon, for example, I felt suddenly homesick. I was jammed onto a crowded central street, wading my way through honking traffic, rowdy vendors, and clouds of diesel fumes. Suddenly a child flashed by, draped in a shirt bearing the logo of a community college in the town where I grew up. It was a genuine shock to see something so specific, so familiar, and over 7000 miles away from its origin. Many travelers tell stories about the sudden appearance of logos, town names, and other reminders of a past life. An Occidental College t-shirt appears on a child in a remote village. A student parades the t-shirt of a rival Maine high school sports team. A Pearl Jam t-shirt is worn by the driver of a passing pick-up truck.
The majority of American t-shirts are printed up to display clannish pride, worn to the point of boredom, tossed in a bag, and delivered to the Salvation Army - most likely during a major holiday when people feel extremely generous and/or ready for a wardrobe change. It's reassuring to know that they have a useful second life: not only do they clothe needy Africans, but they also provide omens for needy Westerners.
posted by LookingGlassLand.com at 6:27 AM
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