In Search of Marge

A Reflection on the Eighth Grade, an American Eagle Shirt, and Finding Your Voice

1995. I walked into an American Eagle store, saw a short sleeve, button-down shirt hanging among the new arrivals, and I knew in an instant that was the one.

From a distance, I appreciated how the various hues of brown suggested a Counting Crows earthiness and Nirvana-inspired rebellion even if my six-CD changer back at home had the following cued up at precisely that same moment: Chicago, the Jackson 5, Boyz II Men, Jimmy Buffett, the Greatest Hits of the 80s, and Shania Twain.

But like I said, the shirt only suggested Durst and Cobain.

Once closer to the shirt, I noted the plaid textures. So yes, a grunge, but also lines structured and organized, ordered and predictable. 

I took the fabric between my fingers and discovered another surprise - it was a seersucker-like material. So yes, earthiness, but also a dapperness. A refinement, even. 

In 8th grade, I could provide you nothing more than the dictionary definition of “paradox,” but I readily intuited the way in which the shirt captured so much of the complexity of who I was. Or who I thought I should be. Or who I hoped to become. 

I was shy kid who feared nothing more than saying something aloud lest I make a mistake and find myself shunned for life. Fortunately, this shirt would be my voice. It would declare me as one uniquely acceptable to a wide swath of social groups. 

Truly, the only decision remaining was this: Medium or Large?

I went to the dressing room and tried on the Medium. Was it enough? 

In the mid-90s, baggy, oversized shirts was the look. Remember Will Smith on The Fresh Prince of Bel Air?* He pulled off some of the most classic polos and plaids of the oversized days. And who didn’t want to float into a room with that kind of swagger?

I tried on the Large. Was it too much?

When I raised my arms parallel to my shoulders, the sleeves of the shirt hung with enough room to slide a couple of baseball bats right in there alongside my arm. Essentially, I was nearly wearing a large brown sheet with just enough contour for one to observe that, “well yes, it is technically a shirt on that boy.”

No matter. 

I spent 20 minutes pacing the American Eagle store back and forth with a singular question pressing me into unending angst: “Medium or Large?!”

• Which size was going to make most clear my full acceptability to the masses?

• And where was the Marge size that finally arrived circa 2015? 

• Why had the fashion genius who married “medium” and “large” into Marge… why had this person not been born 20 years earlier?

“Oh Marge!” - the Promise Land between a shirt for the family photo and one for a rebel without a cause. The space of carefully crafted cool-but-not-too-cool, fun-but-not-too-wild. 

I longed for Marge without knowing Marge by name or reality. 

The whole decision was about getting as close to Marge as possible.

I headed to the counter, and brought forth $30 – as high a price as I had ever paid for a shirt (but could you really put a price on all that those threads would declare about me?)

“Great shirt,” the clerk said as she folded my shirt and placed it in the American Eagle bag.

I hoped so. Medium it was. Medium it would be. Was it enough?

The next day I had my friend Luke Martin over to the house. My mom stopped by my room where we were, and said, “We’re going to do a family dinner tonight. Luke, you are invited, too. The restaurant is casual-nice.”

I could hear my new American Eagle shirt calling from the closet. 

That shirt was made for casual-nice.

And also…
grunge-refined
Portland-Charleston
garage band-golf
…and any other assorted combinations nearly unheard of. 

That’s how good the shirt was.

As I was finishing button it up, the only lingering question remaining had to do with the size. Was medium enough? The wide-world and their reaction to me was about to let me know.

Except.

Except for Luke Martin. Luke was a fun, gregarious friend who loved to watch WWF wrestling. He was bigger than me and sometimes tried out pile drives and body slams and arms twists on me.

As I finished buttoning up, I could see the WWF energy beginning to rev through his body. But, of course, I was wearing the Greatest Shirt in the World, and I knew I had to get moving. 

I dashed away from him; he lunged toward me.

I avoided his grasp, but my shirt did not. Apparently even the Medium had a good amount of excess fabric because Luke caught a bunch of the back of my shirt in his fist, and he promptly pulled…

There are certain sounds in this world that cannot be forgotten.

• The first cry of your newborn. 

• The fire engine screeching around the corner to get to your next-door neighbor’s house ablaze. 

• The deflated moan of the crowd when you are at the plate, bases loaded, and need just one run to win - and you strike out.

I shall never forget the zip-like sound of those complex threads being torn in half all the way up my back. 

“Luke!” I yelled, finding a voice of frustration and anger and clarity even I did not know I had. 

Where had this voice come from? 

It cried, it grieved, it demanded. 
It ached, it longed, and it stood. 
But one syllable, it nevertheless blanketed the room.

Luke obviously knew nothing about this voice of mine either. His hand released, he stepped back.

“Oh hey. I’m so sorry.” His voice soft. He meant it.

He even offered money to pay for a new shirt. I took him up on it.

“Yeah. Thanks. I mean…it’s new, and I like it.”

That night I wore a green polo shirt to dinner that made me look like a 7th grader. I was pretty devastated but also…I could tell something within had shifted. Changed. Been discovered, even.

—

A week later I was back at that same American Eagle with $30 that Luke gave me. I went to the same rack, felt the earthy-refined fabric, and pulled another shirt forth, gazing the whole way to the check-out counter as I through afresh of the earthy sophistication promised unto me. 

“Great shirt,” the AE clerk said as she folded my shirt and placed it in the American Eagle bag.

I hoped so. Large it was. Large it would be. Was it too much?

*This piece was written before this year’s Oscars, which surely changes how we hear Will Smith’s name. At the same time, it remains true that during the 90s his presence, particularly via the Fresh Prince of Bel Air, left an enduring impression upon a lot of kids of that era.