The year: 1995. I: a senior at Northwestern University.

Northwestern, after decades of futility in football, somehow found itself 10-1 and going to the Rose Bowl.

I did the only reasonable thing. I asked my girlfriend to shave my head, except for an “N” in the back. She did the only reasonable thing. She shaved an “N” into my head. Today, she’s my wife.

A couple days later, I was mistaken for a skinhead. As I walked by an older couple (who were likely younger than I am now), she leaned to him and stage-whispered, “This is this whole new subculture that I’ve been hearing about.”

I coined the term “Subculture of One” in the aftermath as a winking nod to this not-quite-encounter. My girlfriend got me “Subculture of One” business cards. It was a good laugh and a great tagline.

Had it happened today, I’d have been aghast. I’d have stopped and corrected them. But back then, I was just amused by the silly out of touch old people. I didn’t know anything about signaling or microaggressions or all the subtle, unthinking ways that we cause harm to others. I try to be more careful now. More thoughtful.

I’ve come back to that phrase a lot in the decades since. I like the notion that each of us is a subculture of one. I’ve also thought a lot about the reaction that spawned it. How often are we misjudged based on these superficial misconceptions? And how fortunate am I, as a middle-aged white dude, that the worst consequence I’ve ever had to bear as a result was a passing stage-whisper?

I chose the phrase for this site because it carries a lot of meaning. It reminds me of a time and a place that I loved. It recalls a silly vignette. It inspires a commitment to enrichment. But today, I think its primary purpose is to remind me to be thankful for my tailwinds and to be mindful of others’ headwinds.

The tale also has an element of the absurd. I later tried - and failed - to dye the “N” purple. The circumstances of that failure make a good story of their own. One for another time.