Vintage T-Shirts Are the New Kleenex
How Gen-X Faunts Grieve & Thrive Through Social Media
Hi Faunts - Welcome to a new feature, “Debbie Upper.”
It could be a Debbie Downer, but it’s part of The Faunt.
So it’s not.
I hope you enjoy this first installment. Please share with anyone who you think could use a “Debbie Upper.”
Cheers.
Chi Modu’s Facebook Post, May 22, 2021
Our hearts are broken... We continue the fight. 💪🏾
The family requests privacy at this time. 📷
Remembering Modu
Below, you can see a photo of Modu, featuring his left side—an actual profile pic. His signature dreadlocks squished together in a ponytail. Laughing. Sunlit. His smile reminds me of what Joyce Henderson from the sitcom "St. Denis Medical" recently said of Tiger Woods: “Like, two layers of Dentyne Ice.”
I ugly-cried. My body sank into a love seat. My heart felt like a drag queen performer's toes in pointy-toe stilettos at brunch: crushed. I reread the post many times. I also looked at tributes on Facebook and X. I hoped that reading other people's words would bring him back.
Cherished Memories
This was my friend. He, a 2nd generation Nigerian immigrant from Jersey. Me, a native New Yorker—the daughter of a Black South African father and Black American mother. I spoke to him in good times and bad. I found a photograph of us at Jazid, a bar in Miami. A mutual friend snapped it when fashion magazines had lethal perfume samples inside. I wore a guayabera, and he wore a navy blue top. His dreadlocks were shorter then.
Photos, though, are not people. They are images of people and frozen memories.
A Lasting Connection
Hours later, I searched my closet for more clues (or was it evidence?):
A black t-shirt with his name silk-screened in white cursive.
A v-neck with short sleeves.
His favorite saying: Keep the focus.
I wore that shirt for days, and even with funky armpits, while standing six feet apart in Trader Joe's. That night, I dreamed of two people welcoming him to "heaven." One was Whitney Houston, I’m suspecting because Modu was a longtime Jersey resident. The other was a woman with silver hair—my mother, whom I almost didn't recognize. She also died of cancer at 54.
Conversations That Matter
Modu and I were in our 20s. He was the last person I shared my fears with about my mother's health. We were on the phone, him in Jersey City and me in Harlem.
A Tribe Called Quest had just released "Electric Relaxation." I played it on repeat. It may or may not have been playing in the background. Thirty years later, his last words still echo in my mind. I had asked him why I was single. He replied, “Because you don't let people see you.”
Unsent Thoughts
After his death, I wrote a note for his wife and children. Four years later, it remains unsent, unseen by them, hidden on a yellow legal pad in a box of COVID-era writings. I was angry and confused. I had no idea he was sick. I resented not having answers. The only conclusion I reached was that in sickness, he saw me as I used to be—fragile and broken. In his illness, I would have made it all about me. Ouch. Maybe this essay is that too.
Still, I never got to say thank you. Or goodbye.
Moving Forward
Four years later, his passing has fueled much of my creative work. The t-shirt sits under a sequined jacket I wore for a headshot when I was a comedian during COVID. His passing inspired much of my material. It was the only way I knew how to cope. His photographs—one of Tupac, another of Method Man—adorn my living room walls. Two months ago I considered selling them, gratitude stopped me.
With Modu, I felt seen. Without him, I feel seen. This means thawing out. I am learning to lower my guard and face what I must. I do this so my voice is heard.
A New Realization
Four years later, I have a new realization. Modu's death announcement pulled me back in time. I clutched his name against my skin for weeks. That vintage promo t-shirt became a link to someone who now exists only in pixels, photos, and memories.
For months and now almost four years, I faced the strange grief of social media connections as a Gen-Xer in midlife. We are technically active yet frozen in our teens and 20s. “Because you don't let people see you.” Seven words, on repeat. That’s why I got into comedy—to let people see me.
That’s the weird thing about mourning: at some point, you have to deal. The reality is I wasn't just mourning him. I was grieving an earlier version of myself, captured in Facebook posts and digital time. As Gen-Xers, we face midlife with our younger selves online. We deal with classic midlife questions while seeing digital mirrors of our past. Our grief, like our analog and digital selves, straddles worlds. Our hearts are broken... we continue the fight. Vintage t-shirts wet with tears request privacy during these times.