Gatsby's Shirts

My English teacher was young and reminded me of Jordan Baker.  We were reading The Great Gatsby.  Her only resemblance was that she looked athletic.  She hung around with one of the girl's gym teachers and probably played tennis.  That is what I imagined, though I couldn't see her seemingly floating above the couch on a sweltering summer's day as Daisy and Jordan appeared to Nick to do.  There was a limit.  

Gatsby was a revelation for me.  There was splendor, there was love.  And there was transformation.  Gatsby had done it, even though it did not end well for him.  More troubling for me than Gatsby's death, however, was the scene where Nick brings Daisy to Gatsby's mansion, the scene where Gatsby attempts to impress Daisy by showing her his shirts.

"He took out a pile of shirts and began throwing them one by one before us, shirts of sheer linen and thick silk and fine flannel... shirts with stripes and scrolls and plaids in coral and apple green and lavender and faint orange with monograms of Indian blue. Suddenly with a strained sound Daisy bent her head into the shirts and began to cry stormily.

"'They're such beautiful shirts,' she sobbed, her voice muffled in the thick folds. 'It makes me sad because I've never seen such--such beautiful shirts before.'"

The shirts were important, our teacher suggested. Why did Daisy cry? What was wrong with the shirts?

The question would stay with me. Transformation was possible, right?  

A young, poor boy such as I would stand befuddled before Daisy and her tears.  What was the teacher trying to say?  

I would be forever haunted by those shirts.