Every morning for the last couple of years, not long after I get out of bed and look in the mirror, observing that, yes, it is indeed another bad hair day, I have slipped on my head a trucker’s hat that reads, in shit-brown lettering, Stop ‘N Shop, Leland, MISS.
The mesh on the hat is a particularly unusual shade whose color I can only describe as swamp–its original shit-brown, in coordination with the screen-printed lettering, having greened from overexposure to the sun. The green is sort of iridescent, like a fly. The foam front of the hat is a fleshy tan. The bill is more of the shit-brown, creased from much use.
If one knows me, one would immediately look at the hat and assume that sort of irony that my particular generation is known for. I am not a trucker. I will never be a trucker. In fact, by wearing a particularly ugly gimme cap that even a trucker might eschew, I am somewhat making fun of truckers, which makes me a sort of passive-aggressive prick, another trait my generation is known for.
If one knows me even better, like through the years knows me, one might also know that I have something of the late David Foster Wallace’s need to contain my brains in my head. DFW was rather infamous for his trademark bandana, something he wore as a means of containing the verdancy of his intellect. (His more self-deprecating quote was, I believe, “I’m just kind of worried that my head’s gonna explode.”) My intellect isn’t so much verdant as it is scatter-shot, but I associate with the urge. (Incidentally, he also wore the bandana because he perspired a lot, another similarity we shared.)
Neither of these assumptions, though, about why I wear the Stop ‘N Shop trucker’s hat does complete justice to its ever-presence in my wardrobe. You see, the hat (or rather hats, as I currently have three of the original five, the other two of which were retired by my wife) was given to me by Bill Yee, my wife’s stepfather, and the owner of the Stop ‘N Shop in Leland, Mississippi for over thirty years. My hat wearing is a show of respect.
When my wife and I were married, Bill, whom married my wife’s mother long after my wife had left home and whom I had never had occasion to meet prior to our wedding, handed us one of those ubiquitous red envelopes that those of Asian descent are known for giving. It contained a completely uncalled for sum of money, the magnitude of which, having been given to the household of a son-in-law who was essentially a stranger, indicated that he was a man bound by tradition and duty. My wife and I having both lost our jobs in the recent dot-com crash, and having a bun in the oven, the money was much appreciated.
While Bill is not a poor man, he would not be considered rich either. He’s retired, lives within modest means in a small house in Leland, and escapes to the Mississippi River to fish five times a week. I imagine that the money in that red envelope took a goodly amount of time to save, given the lousy economy of Leland, Mississippi, and the extreme competition his little Stop ‘N Shop faced from the chain groceries. His success hinged on living a life of fourteen-hour work days and vigilant thrift.
When I wear Bill’s hat, I think of all the work that went into the contents of that red envelope. I think of the shoplifters and the holdups and the prejudice that his little band of Mississippi Delta Chinese had to fear on a daily basis. I didn’t deserve a penny of his cash, but I know enough about Chinese tradition to know that what goes in a red envelope must be accepted.
I also know that when one receives a red envelope, a sign of respect must be returned. Every morning, I throw a swampy thing on my head. It keeps me humble. It reminds me to work hard. There’s less irony in it than you think.