I’m drawn to certain colors in this life, and I have stuck with them over the last fifteen years or so. Blue, purple, gold, sometimes red, and of course, black. Black may be the absence of color, but in reality, it’s all the colors mixed up together to form a perfect circle of darkness. I like green sometimes, but rarely will you catch me wearing an article of clothing that is pink, yellow, white, periwinkle, brown, or orange.
My Mom however, was a huge fan of the color orange. It didn’t matter what it was, if it was available in orange, she wanted that one. I never understood why she was drawn to that color, but over the years I would always keep a lookout for something she might enjoy, and something that was orange. I think there are a dozen or so pictures of her wearing this Dunkin Donuts beanie she got one winter. One time I was walking the aisles of Walmart and looking for her, and the only reason I found her was because I spotted that orange beanie from the home and garden section.
I never really liked the color orange on me, and I think the only time I wore it was when I was wearing Philadelphia Flyers fan gear, and even then, orange wasn’t necessarily the primary color of the shirt or jersey. There was some orange in it, but that’s as close to that color as I wanted to get.
I wasn’t scared of orange, but at the same time I knew it represented being in police custody, then pumpkins. I like the latter, but me in an orange jumpsuit would never be a good look.
Four years ago this week, I put on that orange jumpsuit for a few nights and days, and you wouldn’t be surprised to hear that I was in fact in the custody of the police. I remembered why I wasn’t very fond of that color. It’s not actually the color itself, but what accompanies it. Steel. Handcuffs and orange jumpsuits were like my shirt and tie I wore to the office.
I swore when I got out of jail, I would never wear orange again. I hope I didn’t swear on anything or anyone important, because less than a year after my Mom died, I would find myself wearing that orange jumpsuit again, but this time it was a lot longer than a three day weekend.
I would sit in my cell and wonder if there was some rhyme or reason to this madness. I get why prisoners wear orange, but was my Mom looking down on me from Heaven thinking..”I’m not happy that you are in jail, but at least the orange jumpsuit really does look snazzy on you!
If she had the chance, I’m sure she wouldn’t even comment on the color of the jail attire, but she would have used the word snazzy exactly the way it was intended.
So when I finally get out and start working again and buying new clothes, I load up on the black. I also go to the nearest thrift store and get a maroon shirt. a purple, a red one, and a few different shades of blue and I am content for the next few months, until I buy a new Bitcoin t-shirt with just the orange logo on a black shirt. I think to myself this is probably the first time in over a year I had worn orange and to my surprise, my PTSD wasn’t triggered. I don’t even know if I suffer from PTSD, but for awhile there, certain things I heard or smelled or ate reminded me of jail and my Mom dying and that really sucked. It definitely was something I knew was going to take awhile to process, but it was under control.
A little before my probation was done, I decided to purchase a new backpack to carry my laptop and to provide ample storage space for my move back to California. It’s a black 5 compartment urban backpack with orange inner lining. It’s really fucking cool and it reminds me of Halloween, which is just a few weeks away at this point, and so is my departure date. In fact, I left Philadelphia on October 31st of 2021 at 830am., and I never looked back.
But, if I were to look back, I’d see my orange and black backpack, and my orange shoelaces which I found myself purchasing as if I was looking for them all along. I spent a little money this week because I have been saving for months now, and sometimes it feels good to buy that thing that will give me instant happiness. The art of finding it on the shelf, thinking it was made for you, and then purchasing that thing is what I like the most. I know that no one has ever owned this particular shirt, or pair of shoes and I wonder if the inanimate object I’m gushing over loves being owned by me as much as I love owning it. I don’t think I’ll ever get an answer, but I do feel connected to that color orange now, and I’m just going to go for it,
I went to freeross.org and donated $25 and purchased a replacement t-shirt I lost after my arrest. Ross Ulbricht was the alleged creator of the Silk Road. The first of many free online markets places, otherwise known as darknet markets.
Anyway, they had about 7 or 8 choices of color. I looked at all of them and realized Heather Grey is not a good match, light blue makes me look like a cotton swab, forest green is just a few shades away from crappy brown, yellow and white look nice but I know I would spill something on it immediately.
’ll take the orange one.”
Why did I choose this color for this shirt? I have never worn an entirely orange t shirt since I was in jail, and ooohhhh , riiiiiight that makes sense now. I need to be reminded of it and I need to remember my Mom too. Plus, I know what it’s like to be Ross Ulbricht. I didn’t run a drug market or order 20 fakes IDs to my apartment in San Francisco, but he is in prison for life. No eligibility for parole and I believe he is the only non violent offender who was denied bail and got a life sentence.
He’ll be wearing orange for the rest of his life. My six months felt like a lifetime for sure, but they did pass and now Im here and I’m lucky to be out.
I guess I met the power of Orange, and I’ve learned to just steer clear of the steel, but indulge in the color. It actually does look good on me.
The day I left jail I walked into a grocery store and I was blown away from all the colors on the shelves that I forgot existed. The shampoo bottles were so bright and alive, I felt like I was tripping on acid. It was one of those moments I have just so I can be reminded of where I came from and where i never will go back to.…..which was a four story concrete building attached to a courthouse in Mt. Holly New Jersey where everybody walked on the right side of the tan hallways while wearing Orange onesies, or Red if you get into a fight.
Complaining Is An Art Form 