My Red Shirt and Me The red shirt incident begins with a rather ordinary red shirt. Not a brightly colored red shirt, not a dramatic cherry or firehouse red, more like a faded burgundy. But, for several days, my very iden tity was bound up in its redness. It was me, and I wore it with the pride a matador takes in his splendid cape, a hero in his medals of bravery, or a nun in her religious habit. I'll never forget the bound less joy I felt wearing that simple, pullover, short-sleeved red shirt in the hospital--or the rush of relief that I experienced when, at last, I decided to surrender it....