I first saw it scrawled in rust-red brick on the back wall of an abandoned Goodyear shop in North Newark. The words were chipped but stubborn: “THEY PAINTED OVER OUR NAMES.”
And so they had.
The city had tried to erase its own children. Graffiti gone. Murals whitewashed. A culture repaved in beige. But this shirt is a refusal to disappear.
Cut from black, heavyweight cotton, this tee bears those same haunting words in distressed block lettering—like they’d been stenciled with a roller dipped in asphalt and memory. Centered in the phrase, a single red brick remains unpainted. Unforgiven. Still visible.
You could wear this shirt to a rally. Or under your coveralls in the shop. Either way, it whispers through the concrete:
