I want to talk about a matter of serious import to me and to many other men who have either abandoned or who are struggling with the Mormon faith. This concerns a nearly universal mandate that focuses on the external, and yet is perceived by many to be a reflection of internal purity and righteousness.
Recently, a dear friend of mine has chosen to perpetuate this cultural commandment. While I have the greatest respect for Bored in Vernal, I cannot let her propagate the Myth of the [so-called] Best Look in the World unchallenged.
I abandoned white shirts many years ago. Though they appeared clean and pure, I feel like they portrayed an image that ran counter to the blackness in my dark soul. My first experiments seemed harmless enough–a white shirt with blue pin stripes from Armani, a powder-blue oxford broadcloth, but before long, I was distracting the Elders with dark checkered patterns and pink shirts with french cuffs. What’s more, I liked it–it was like the little polo rider above the pocket was crying out, speaking for me, “Look, this is me! This is who I really am!” It felt good to stand up and stand out in the legion of white-shirted conformists.
Soon I realized that yes, black was slimming. Black hid stains. Black worked just as well at work as at the cocktail parties I was now attending. Everything that had been hidden from me by a life in white shirts was revealed–no longer could they pull the wool over my eyes.
As I write this, I want you all to know that I’m wearing a black shirt. I take my black shirt philosophy seriously. Sure, there are variations among us black shirt wearers–purists may scorn those who wear, say, charcoal grey or black broken up by red and orange stripes, and the debate between pants-deniers and those who want to reach out to fellow pants wearers has been worn ragged by the media. But I just wanted to say to all my fellow black shirt wearers, and those of you who are considering a life in darkness: I’ve got you covered.
The original Man in Black.