Labor Day, as a teacher, for me, marks the definite last day of summer break. The alarm is turned back on with no longer the (presumptuous) idea to stay up late at night.
Labor Day gives a bittersweet smell in the air of summer flowers losing their aromatic potency, wilting away, as autumn creeps to take each petal down along with all leaves from deciduous trees unable to fight off the inevitable “fall-ing”.
The feeling of clinging warm air in the afternoons fools the mind to believe such warmth is here to stay and shall never suppress while the infamous chill of the night begins to sneak in bed with you, and whether uninvited or welcomed, with its cold air, whispers the sweet nothings, “I’m back. Did you miss me?”
There are the school work days already contractually approved for one to delve into and render duty and devotion to hearts, minds, and spirits, one day at a time. Each day awaits to be seized before becoming just a marked (or, blurred) memory.
I have this joke about Monday and Friday. When I was a stay-at-home mom for our first three children until they were school-age, I judgmentally, with ruthless naivety, recall uttering to incredible working moms around me at a soccer game, “What’s the difference between Monday and Friday? Every day is the same to me.” Oh, those loving, polite eyes that had kindly embraced my spoken words back then! Although I had my teacher’s certificate ready to put into action at the age of twenty-two and had known the juggles of work and school since the age of fourteen, I had yet to experience and understand the demands of the Monday thru Friday push as a working adult.
Now, a working mom myself, I playfully voice out (because in reality, I’m proud-fully square as ever, finding great content to be with only one man for three decades and counting!) that I treat Monday and Friday as if they were two separate relationships I neither can let go. Thus, I spiritually address each as if two were absolutely different personalities, separately visiting me on their scheduled days.
When Monday arrives with overwhelming alacrity, always on time, I hear myself saying to Monday with that pretentiously, two-sided sword, blade-cutting, gut-wrenching, hardly ingenious explanation of dismay and dissatisfaction for its once again mere presence, “It’s not you; it’s me. I, I just find Friday so much more, well, exciting!” Friday nears and I’m bouncing on clouds days before, already looking forward to its loving embrace, with every hope nothing will detain its much anticipated arrival!
I ridiculously and tirelessly mess with my spirit to the point of no holding back. I really do.
From the psychological marking of summer ending to autumn literally (when leaves and temperature come into mind) falling, to the now back to the usual routine of crawling out of bed led by Monday all the way to rushing out to meet Friday, Labor Day does all that and then, some, for me. The shallow surface of the mind that must find laughter and giggles, that is. And yet, there is that solemn understanding to me of what Labor Day is commemorated for and all of a sudden, I think back to my Papa, who would have just as been proud as my husband that I, indeed, am a teacher. I hush myself, feeling rewarded to labor.
Then, THAT question enters with subtlety -What to wear following Labor Day?
Here it is: Do I dare wear white given the social class rule that out of respect of those who labor, we should refrain wearing white until spring? Contrarily, should we give honor to such rule truly belonging to the non-working class who are to intentionally wear white all throughout fall and winter, subject to the notion that they can and will as a reminder to the rest, labor is for all others?
Are we still THERE?
Should I allow such understanding as an acceptance that a certain color only be worn by the non-working class, imbedding into minds that such color marks greatest hierarchy? Oh, but there to that interesting point of potential moment of indecision I solemnly laugh, thinking back to Queen Latifah, an amazing actor and inspiring image of genuineness, who once said, more or less in a movie, “If it’s clean and ironed, I’m wearing it!” I recall therapeutically laughing to this the way I understand Kevin Hart at his “Laugh at My Pain” comedy tour. Some things just have to be felt to be understood with the vice versa taken openly into effect.
Yes. Truth be remembered. I don’t recall Papa ever owning a white dress shirt, nonetheless, to see a wide array of them hung an inch apart in a well-lit closet. This was far from my world of memory with Papa. And yet, boy! Did he love to dress up in a shirt and tie whenever he had a chance! If he could have afforded the full suit, he would have surely worn the whole ensemble, no doubt! The colors he chose, however? Light brown or mustard colored. No white to wear for fall and winter trips and vacations? Surely, no, because the furthest trip our family had ever taken was emigrating to America. Next to that was driving to the coast once- ever, as a family trip. A working class, indeed. Papa unfortunately got the mental beat down that he was nothing more, if not less than, a hardly English-speaking immigrant. While a respected businessman back in his native country, he was most definitely part of the working class here in America.
Those dress shirts of Papa’s were always cleaned and ironed, however. Why not a white shirt? The light brown and mustard-colored ones lasted longer around the neck collar. As we know it even today, white clothing just requires more careful handling and cleaning to keep upstanding and presentable.
Papa hung onto his dress shirts for as long as he lived to wear them. That “ring around the collar” was and still is surety that it was time to let a shirt go. No one had to worry about Papa wearing white. They just weren’t ideal. Perhaps a Segway to inadvertently give power and permission to those who can afford to regularly dispense of them. From my recollection, we shopped for Papa’s dress shirts at Goodwill. White shirts hardly if never ever made it to the used department.
I think today how great Papa would look in a white shirt, lavender tie, with a pocket square fused into the same purple tint nicely folded into his front pocket, encompassed by a three-piece, light gray suit, matched with nice, shiny shoes, bold color of his choosing. Distinguished, as always, he would look. He would be 89, I believe, this last month of July. Would I think to connect the color white as a means for social class acceptance? I doubt I’d even remember to care. It would be the pride in his eyes, the smile on his face, and the strength in his strut I would take in.
Which of the classes hold the insistence to point out the divide and difference? Who is to blame for holding onto such a subliminal message? Should there be a standing class connected to a color… still?
Here’s to Labor Day to each and every one of us. Teachers, homemakers, blue collars, white collars, no collars- no difference. If I’m wearing white the day after Labor Day and all the months to follow until spring and thereafter, it’s because it was clean and ironed, and to add, exactly what I needed to add that extra spark to my day. And just like many colors that embrace me in my closet, squealing with joy as each scream at me, “Wear me! Wear me!”, I’m going to put on whatever color that calls to my heart, mind, and spirit each day.
The colors don’t wear me. I wear the colors.
I already know, before even my alarm wakes me or Monday pulls me out of bed, my students may or may not notice the colors I wear throughout the week. I’d like to think, from tint to tone, all colors are beautiful when worn right. It will be my way of greeting and if I remember to smile that will be a test of my character. I only know this to be true because I was a kid once.
