THE RED JEANS

I still remember my first pair of jeans. How could I forget? It was, for me, a source of pride and embarrassment all wrapped in one piece of garment. It is hard to believe that a simple pair of jeans could unwrap so much emotion that I still remember it vividly, even years later.

         For kids these days a pair of jeans is no big deal. Kids grow up with jeans.
         I didn’t have my first pair of jeans until I was in high school. Before that I wore lavalava and shorts, mostly hand-me-downs, from I don’t know who. I never really cared who donated them. I was happy whenever I got a pair of shorts.
         When I was in high school at St. Josephs, Tenaru, I was determined to get myself a pair of jeans because most of the other kids owned one, or a few. So, I saved for it. Whenever relatives and wantoks gave me money, I would put some aside. It was my project: the jeans project. I eventually had enough money. And when the opportunity to go shopping came up, I grabbed it.
          The trip happened during the school’s sports afternoon. A few friends and I snuck out of school. We were careful not to get caught. It was a boarding school and we were not supposed to leave the school compound, especially during school activities such as sports. This was a rule that the Sports Master – that’s the teacher responsible for trying to beat us into sports men and women – enforces with ruthless efficiency. That afternoon, we beat him. We snuck out without getting caught.
          We were on a shopping mission. Our destination was a small secondhand store at Grass Hill, a settlement a few miles from the school. We trekked across the Tenaru River, followed paths in the thick tropical rainforest that students had made for school getaways, past the Nazareth Apostolic Center – where the Catholic Church trains catechists – and on to the grassland that marks the beginning of the huge Guadalcanal Plains. The secondhand shop was owned by a family and perched on a grassy hill; that’s why it’s called “Grass Hill.”
           Armed we a few dollars, we descended on the secondhand store. I went with one objective in mind: to purchase my first pair of jeans. I found it tucked away in between other clothes. I tried it, and it fitted me well. I was ecstatic. It was meant for me, and perfect for a first. (That was what I thought at that time). It was bright red!! (Now, thinking of it, who wears a bright red pair of jeans? lol). I hastily bought it. It was the best thing I ever bought.
           I couldn’t wait to wear it. And the first opportunity I had, I slipped into it and proudly paraded around the school. Whenever we didn’t need to wear the school uniform, I would pull on my bright red pair of jeans and walk around the school with a spring in every step. I was the happy owner of a red pair of jeans.
         But, that changed suddenly one day. Everything crushed abruptly: my pride and joy melted. The spring in my walk turned into crawls. I walked around like a scared dog with its tail tucked between its legs.
         It happened when someone pointed out that it was a girl’s jeans. The word spread around the school that my bright red pair of jeans was a girl’s jean. I was wearing a girl’s pair of jeans!!
           I can’t remember what I did with the pair of jeans. Maybe I threw in the trash bean, or burned it. I didn’t care. I hated the pair of jeans and the fact that I spent my savings on it.
           I was so traumatized that I didn’t buy another pair of jeans for a long time. The next time I bought one, I made sure it was for boys. This time, I double-checked with my jeans consultants.