When I was eight, mum bought me a pair of boxer shorts. They were cool; they had the cast of Space Jam on them. Michael Jordan was surrounded by Bugs Bunny and his Looney Tunes friends, all wrapped around my crotch.
I’d never worn boxer shorts before, the satin fabric was wild. However because my mum bankrolled my clothing, I was unaware that boxer shorts were underwear because she was unaware that boxer shorts were underwear.
Why isn’t all clothing made of this material?! They’re so comfortable. These are definitely for wearing outside in front of other human beings during the day.
So the following mufti day, I wore my ‘cool’ new shorts to school. I wore a blue t-shirt, my (boxer) shorts, a pair of white socks and black sneakers (because it was the 90s). The whole idea of a mufti day was still a new concept for me; we’d only migrated from Iran a few years prior. I didn’t know if there were any rules or if there was a proper way of doing it. The irony was that mufti day really only had one rule: don’t turn up in your underwear
I arrived at school and wasn’t informed by anyone about my fashion faux pas. People giggled and pointed, but this wasn’t out of the ordinary for me in a school of mostly white students. There was always something different about me, so it was just another day at the office.
There was always something different about me, so it was just another day at the office.
My best friend saw me and said: “You’re not meant to wear those that way,” explaining that my shorts were indeed underwear. But even then, it didn’t sink in. I just thought he was jealous. I knew for a fact that these were cool shorts because no one else had a pair. (The reality of course was that other people probably did have these shorts, they were just wearing them underneath their clothes.)
Soon the pointing and laughing began to make sense. How did this happen? My mother (an academic no less) had picked these shorts out herself. Michael Jordan, Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck… they all approved.
The profound horror of turning up half naked to school like a fun-sized psychopath had me in fight or flight mode. My mission was to finish the day and get home as soon as possible. My options were limited: I couldn’t just leave right then and there. I was being held hostage by the public education system. I couldn’t change, because I didn’t have the pants I was supposed to be wearing. The taunts and ridicule began to increase as word spread.
Navigating the world for a first generation migrant child feels a lot like you’re meant to follow rules from a rule book that doesn’t exist. And not having the book, makes you feel that a grave error is just around the corner. My fashion mishap wasn’t my only mistake that day.
The taunts and ridicule began to increase as word spread.
That mufti day was my friend’s birthday, and I’d written him a birthday card. I was excited to give it to him, but because I was still learning English, my message read: Happy Birthday, Best wishes and have a lovely year. And then at the very end: For Cyrus.
I left this poorly written card behind in class just before lunch. When I went back to get it, my teacher had picked it up and was reading it. As I approached her she said: “Did you write a birthday card to yourself? Why would…” and as she said this, she looked up at me, noticed I wasn’t wearing any pants, and a look came across her face that said: ‘No amount of my 40 years of teaching experience can fix you.’
At the end of the day, as I waited for my mum to pick me up, the lollipop lady (a very old woman named Shelly) noticed what I was wearing. She said, dead pan, "You’re not wearing any pants.” Finally, someone said what needed to be said… seven hours too late.
That evening I reflected on the day. I still liked the shorts, and I continued to wear them... inside the house. But I still felt cheated, why couldn’t I wear these as real shorts? I agreed to abide by society’s rules, but felt I had a fair point. I looked at Michael Jordan and my Looney Tunes friends smiling back at me, they knew where I was coming from.
