Scratchy shirt: A separatist tale

Written by Christa Bedwin, a Canadian raised in the Rockies. “I hate this scratchy hair shirt that we wear,” said Al to his siblings. “Edward, give me your shirt. Your shirt must be better than my shirt.” Edward was, indeed, very much smaller than Al, so he didn’t argue. He took off his shirt, and, shivering naked in the Maritime fog, passed it to Al. Al pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside, not even thinking of Ed’s nakedness. Edward’s shirt didn’t even get over his arm, never mind his whole big muscly chest and fat belly. Bellowing in rage, he threw Ed’s tiny shirt all the way back to the east. “Huron,” he commanded, “you are bigger than me. You are always stealing my stuff. Give me your shirt, Right Now!” Now, it’s true, Huron was bigger than Al, and Huron did not have to give Al his shirt, but Huron also knew that his shirt was just as scratchy as Al’s. Huron’s life was no easier. And Al was always yelling, selfish, screaming. Easier to quietly give in and let him learn on his own. Al put on Huron’s shirt while Huron stood there, as big and strong and fat as Al, without his shirt, not showing how much he was shivering without it. “This shirt scratches as much as mine does, and it has holes in it,” raged Al. “Well, it’s twice as old as your shirt, Al.” Grumbling, Al took his own shirt back, throwing Huron’s back to him. He stomped, and stewed, and turned his attention to his sister. “Columbia, your shirt is so much more beautiful than mine and you are the same size as me. Your shirt is nicer colours. Give me your shirt, Now!” He screamed the last word, as he didn’t think that Columbia was moving quickly enough. Indeed, Columbia’s shirt was beautifully woven with indigenous designs and colours. She gave it to Al and stood there, shivering, crossing her arms over her nakedness. Al put on the shirt, tearing it roughly as he pulled it on over his big muscles. Just as quickly, he tore it off again and threw it at Columbia. “This shirt is just as scratchy as mine, too!” he roared. All of our shirts scratch. That’s just normal life in Canada, Al. His siblings stood in a protective circle around him, wishing that he would calm down so their family home would be peaceful and prosperous again, instead of the war zone Al seemed to always want. “Hey, Big Boy,” cooed a voice from outside the circle. Al pushed Saskia and Columbia roughly aside, ignoring their caring embraces, dazzled by the sparkle to the south. “We have soft shirts down here. Modern shirts. Sporty shirts.” When she gauged Al’s drooling, longing expression, she closed the deal. “With diamonds on them.” “In fact,” she said. “You don’t even need a shirt down here in Florida. Take that old thing off and join me in the pool at Mar-a-Lago.” Al ripped his shirt off so fast this time that he shredded it. He didn’t care. He left the rag on the ground and started to run south. Wab Man tried to stand in his way and reason with him, and Al just kicked him in the knee, disabling him for his compassionate attempt. When Al got to the poolside, though, with Columbia, Saskia, and Wab Man lying on the ground in his wake, Mar-a-Lago wouldn’t let him in. Wouldn’t share their soft diamond-studded shirts. “But, but…” “You can watch from outside the fence, Al, with Puerto Rico there. They don’t get a diamond shirt either. I’m glad you’re down here, though, because you’ve made it so much easier for my daddy to take over the rest of Canada, now that you have disabled your siblings. Thanks!” And she blew him a kiss before she turned on her pink high heel and flounced back to the pool under the palm trees. Al sank down in the dirt beside Puerto Rico. “What did I do wrong?” “Simple. You failed to count your blessings, and all that’s left now are curses.”