Everything I Need to Know About You Is on Your Chest

There’s an entire day dedicated to the t-shirt. June 21, Berlin, the International T-Shirt Day—a runway where the only garment that matters is the one you’ve been sleeping in since Tuesday. I couldn’t make it, which is fine, because my attendance would have been derailed by what I can only describe as sexual obligations, which is exactly the kind of conflict the t-shirt was built to transcend.

The t-shirt is the most democratic piece of clothing ever invented. A band shirt is a loyalty oath. A slogan shirt is a personality test. A plain white tee is either a blank canvas or a confession that you’ve given up on the whole enterprise, and both of those things are equally interesting. No other garment carries that much weight while technically being disposable.

I’ve kept shirts I should have thrown out because they hold a specific memory—a night, a summer, a version of myself I’m not sure I believe in anymore. The fabric gets thin, the print cracks, but you fold it back into the drawer anyway. That’s not nostalgia exactly. It’s more like evidence.