These Colors Don’t Fade: My Future Spelled Out in College Merch

In the last weeks of my junior year of high school, members of the graduating class walked the halls with a glow that, at the time, felt far removed from my own life. My summer promised little other than standardized test preparation, and senior year felt impossibly far away. But on May 1, the thought of it had never been so stifling. Seniors clad in T-shirts of every color were labeled with the college of their choice, and the class of 2019 crowded in the library to celebrate that impossibly unfamiliar prospect of “the future.” 

It was those shirts that I couldn’t get off my mind. Throughout the day, I heard whispers about the important distinction between crimson and carnelian red, between blue and maize and blue and gold. The shirts represented grades, talent, luck, ambition, careers. And for those of us who could think of nothing but which school we’d be repping in 365 days' time, those shirts felt like they meant the rest of our lives.

I came to high school with little understanding that what shirt I’d be wearing on May 1 of my senior year actually mattered. Names and colors apparently opened doors to rooms I didn’t even know existed. But I was entering the kind of high school where the college application frenzy began far before the 11th grade. For many, it started at an interview for pre-kindergarten — I still can’t picture an interview with a 4-year-old, but in this environment, it was a crucial first step orchestrated by parents securing that preordained future at the “right school.”

My own parents are from Slovenia — a country so small that its full name doesn’t fit on most maps. There, the choice of university is based on little else but location and course of study. There are no mascots, school colors, spirit shops or college visits, so it’s unsurprising that “right schools” weren't on my radar until my older sister entered her junior year of high school. But even then, my middle school self couldn’t comprehend the weight of the choices she had to make.

When I took her place, I finally saw it for myself. It’s always a career and never a job, always a next step and never a still moment. In May of 2020 I committed to a purple T-shirt and to four years of chasing the next goal. When I arrived at Northwestern, it was quickly clear that having “only” one major seems like taking the easy route, that joining a club takes as much effort as applying for a job and securing a summer internship is a given. We’re frequently reminded that we worked hard to get here and our reward is this: “Northwestern.” One word stitched into purple-dyed cotton to encompass our dedication, our effort, what the rest of our lives could look like.

This prophetic language is enough to make you forget that the world of our purple sweaters is an insular one. A world in which an achievement is merely a benchmark. I watch myself pursue it, giving up the time to take a breath for the sake of what’s coming, to avoid some dismal misstep at this first stage that we’ve been told is so crucial. It seems like a futile concern at times — after all, what do I know about the right steps when I haven’t taken any on my own?

Northwestern is a privilege, a product of the sacrifice and hard work of my family that I’ll never diminish the value of. For that, I’ll never stop wearing my sweater. But there was a time when a name on a sweater felt like the whole world, and there are some moments where it still does. As time passes they feel more infrequent, further away. I’m grateful for the distance.