I was at a football game last weekend in central Maine, the last game of the season between crosstown rivals. About halfway through the first quarter, I noticed that Ì¢âÂÒourÌ¢âÂå team members were all wearing pink socks. Then I saw that Ì¢âÂÒtheirÌ¢âÂå team was doing the same. Cheerleaders for both sides sported pink hair ribbons. I asked a local parent if it was for Breast Cancer Awareness Month. When she confirmed my supposition, I told her, Ì¢âÂÒThat would never have happened at my high school.Ì¢âÂå
In the late Ì¢âÂèÏ60s, you would never get football players to wear pink socks; I donÌ¢âÂã¢t care who you were. The jocks (Ì¢âÂÒtheirÌ¢âÂå group) cut their hair short and wore team jackets; Ì¢âÂÒmyÌ¢âÂå group wore our hair long and preferred bellbottoms. The fashions were walking statements of beliefs and priorities: Ì¢âÂÒtheyÌ¢âÂå were with the established order and waved the flag, Ì¢âÂåweÌ¢âÂå questioned authority and marched in anti-war protests. The fashion then did seem to reflect both beliefs and actions of the opposing sides.
Times have certainly changed, and fashion now seems to me a grab-bag fusion of colors and shapes that can be combined in endless permutations without necessarily having to say anything. But the Maine cheerleaders performed together at the half, shaking their hair ribbons in time with each other, and the opposing teams met after the game in the middle of the field to shake hands with each other, each hulking player wearing their pink socks. In their fashion, perhaps they all had more awareness than they had before the month began.
May it be that this generation finds more targeted solutions, more humane treatments, or even a cure for breast cancer? May one or more of those young people on the field be a part of that wondrous day? All I know is they are already decades ahead of where we were, and that the Ì¢âÂÒlife-affirming, life-sustaining, loud and insistent actionÌ¢âÂå Judith calls for in her post may have already begun, in a small way, on a field in Maine. You have to start somewhere.
Judith writes, Ì¢âÂÒAwareness isnÌ¢âÂã¢t enough.Ì¢âÂå
And yet Ì¢âÂå_ itÌ¢âÂã¢s a start.
I was at a football game last weekend in central Maine, the last game of the season between crosstown rivals. About halfway through the first quarter, I noticed that Ì¢âÂÒourÌ¢âÂå team members were all wearing pink socks. Then I saw that Ì¢âÂÒtheirÌ¢âÂå team was doing the same. Cheerleaders for both sides sported pink hair ribbons. I asked a local parent if it was for Breast Cancer Awareness Month. When she confirmed my supposition, I told her, Ì¢âÂÒThat would never have happened at my high school.Ì¢âÂå
In the late Ì¢âÂèÏ60s, you would never get football players to wear pink socks; I donÌ¢âÂã¢t care who you were. The jocks (Ì¢âÂÒtheirÌ¢âÂå group) cut their hair short and wore team jackets; Ì¢âÂÒmyÌ¢âÂå group wore our hair long and preferred bellbottoms. The fashions were walking statements of beliefs and priorities: Ì¢âÂÒtheyÌ¢âÂå were with the established order and waved the flag, Ì¢âÂåweÌ¢âÂå questioned authority and marched in anti-war protests. The fashion then did seem to reflect both beliefs and actions of the opposing sides.
Times have certainly changed, and fashion now seems to me a grab-bag fusion of colors and shapes that can be combined in endless permutations without necessarily having to say anything. But the Maine cheerleaders performed together at the half, shaking their hair ribbons in time with each other, and the opposing teams met after the game in the middle of the field to shake hands with each other, each hulking player wearing their pink socks. In their fashion, perhaps they all had more awareness than they had before the month began.
May it be that this generation finds more targeted solutions, more humane treatments, or even a cure for breast cancer? May one or more of those young people on the field be a part of that wondrous day? All I know is they are already decades ahead of where we were, and that the Ì¢âÂÒlife-affirming, life-sustaining, loud and insistent actionÌ¢âÂå Judith calls for in her post may have already begun, in a small way, on a field in Maine. You have to start somewhere.