My partners in crime dropped it into my hands one day. We were standing in the local Wal-Mart—hangout spot for all the Bedford kids—and we were browsing through the clothing section. “Wear it. It suits you.”
It was a red baseball cap—solid red with a lightning bolt insignia on the front. The lightning bolt is the brand of many popular companies and people; from Lady Gaga to sports racing, ACDC to Harry Potter.
“You want me to wear a Gatorade hat? I don’t even drink Gatorade!”
“Are you serious? This is the symbol of The Flash. THE FLASH!” And so it began… I donned the hat of this second-rate superhero and was changed forever.
I was never too popular in the early years of secondary school. I kept mostly to myself. I had social anxiety problems and my love of rules and academics made it difficult for anyone to see me as a worth-while friend. I eventually joined a group of other outcasts, a couple of nerds who, likewise, had issues making friends. As time passed we got close, but I always felt like I had this…emptiness—a lack of identity that I couldn’t seem to fill.
“Please don’t cut your hair,” L whined. It was my senior year of high school and my hair was about six inches long. “The Magical Mystery Mullet”, I call it nowadays. It wasn’t a real mullet, but it occasionally looked like it. L, who was a year younger than me, had the biggest crush on me and loved the hair. The trouble was, it was too long, and I couldn’t keep it under my hat.
“Lose the hat, then!” she would tell me. It wasn’t that simple though. It should’ve been. I’ve committed many a fashion-sin by wearing it: according to most fashion gurus, complementary colors match. But the complement of a hat as red as mine is…green. I didn’t know it then, but apparently wearing red and green together is an unholy abomination. It made me look like an elf.
I never wore the hat for fashion, though. Instead, I stuck to its original purpose. In the early days of baseball, teams would all wear these caps that were designed to block out the sun. Their shared cap logos created a sense of identity and belonging, bringing them closer together. I wore my hat, with its Flash logo, as a way of joining a family. Men and hats have a long standing tradition—an understanding, so to speak. They don’t always work for us, but they also serve to dominate personalities. It’s quick to recognize popular figures by what type of hat-wear they are. Cowboy hat are worn by rugged men, fedoras by the classy, top hats by the posh, berets by artists, chullos by potheads—the things that we wear on our heads often identify who we are and they can drop us into stereotypical roles.
When I started wearing the hat I became someone different. Instead of the old names people called me—weirdo, loser, faggot—the hat gave me a new name: “Flash.” The new nickname gave me a place from which I could build a self-defense for myself. People could insult me, but I had a secret-identity now. I began to model parts of my life after the superhero himself. A true underdog, often ridiculed for being the “fastest man alive,” the Flash was a scientist who was struck by bolt of lightning, giving him the ability to move at super-speeds. My favorite incarnation of The Flash was always the youngest: Bart Allen. He was just a teenager, like me, but he always felt out of place in time. His friends treated him like he was dumb, when in actuality, he only acted dumb. Bart was a kid who was quick to love, quick to stand up for himself, and quick to make decisions: everything I wanted to be.
Like the Flash, my life began to move at speeds I’d never known before. Classes flew by. I became involved in plays. I made friends. I was branded King of the Nerds. The hat made me stand out—a beacon that signaled my entrance into any building. I became popular. I made mistakes. I became a teenager.
I started living.
Since the use of my nickname “The Flash” has become widespread and commonly used, I found that I have a point from which I can now defense myself. I’ve never really stood up for myself too much, but nowadays, when people insult me, they insult The Flash. And when they insult The Flash, then I take it personal. It should be pointed out, btw, that The Flash is not a spaceman from cheesy sci-fi adventure comic strips—that’s Flash Gordon. Every time someone makes that mistake, I want to hit them. The Flash is a DC Comics character. He’s had many incarnations, too many to describe, but he’s always been an underdog like me. And he’s always had a home: The Justice League.
With my new name, there came, as well, a new home. My own, personal Justice League began to form around me. The members of my group all shared certain qualities and characteristics as some other characters that the Flash might’ve had: there was the cold, and standoffish Batman of the group, my do-gooder best friend Superman, and the friend-who-could-down-ten-glasses-of-water-at-a-single-meal-sitting Aquaman. We formed our own little Justice League, and within that, I found a group of people that I could consider both home, and family.
This hat, though, began to consume my life. Like a leech feeding off of its host, the hat took my identity away. I was no longer that shy kid that no one liked. It was transforming me in a very horrific way. I remember being terrified as people started to actually like me and pay attention to me. Because the hat gave me a name, others thought they could give me names like “Club President,” “honors student,” or “boyfriend.” What was the hat’s game? What is it trying to prove? It would just sit up there, atop my head, and leech my brain, turning me into its hat-slave.
Well I would show that hat who was boss. I tried a few days to just not wear the hat. A bizarre phenomenon occurred, though. Without the hat, I felt empty. Impure. Like something was missing. Had so much of my soul been put into the hat that I could no longer survive without it? Or did I rely too much on the hat to characterize me? My friends now associate me with The Flash, and The Flash with me. Whenever something pops up that is related to the character, the images or videos are immediately sent to the various forms of social media that I subscribe to. Am I the new Flash? Is that who I am? Has Walter died and been replaced with some sort of alternate version? Who am I?
I’ve never considered the concept of “soul” seriously. I prefer to believe in “essence” and “being”, which are more personal and malleable versions of the same general idea. I believe that my essence has become fused to this hat. I began to worry about myself. Was I really relying on that hat so much for my personality?
Nirvana is a state of mind where the soul has been liberated from the effects of karma and bodily existence. I’m not particularly religious, but this idea of a perfect state—of Nirvana—has always appealed to me. I’ve always been alone, left to take care of myself, practically, until that hat and my friends came along. Now that it consumes my life, I feel too attached to it. So to give it up—to lose the hat…
I gave the hat to L. It was one of the hardest decisions that I have ever made in my life. I know that that probably sounds sad, but in those says, it was a big deal for me. From the moment I met her, I knew that we were in love. It wasn’t the type of sexual love that many people think of or feel. Like most of the complicated emotions in my life, this was…different. The term “soul-mate” gets thrown around a lot. I reserve this term for L. That’s why I gave her the hat. If it is, indeed, my soul, then who better to keep it?
I’m not sure she understood the significance of my action. I’m not even sure I understand these things. That hat made me a person, and I gave it away. It’s always meant so much to me, and I allowed it to slip away. I didn’t feel this “nirvana” when it happened, though. I ended up buying a new hat, but I don’t think it has changed anything.
In the end, I’ve only learned one thing. Growing up with a possession, no matter how seemingly insignificant, can completely change a life. For you it may be that teddy bear your dad gave you before you left for war or that first merit badge from scouts. These things bring us a type of comfort that you can’t find anywhere else. For me, it was this hat that was given to me by my first friends. This hat that made me the man I am today—it is my comfort. It is my heart and soul, and plays as much a role to my life as a body part or a significant other may play in yours. Without that hat, I probably would’ve grown to attach to something else, but the hat transformed me, and it has made me all the better.
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