The Uniform
The other day Alex was playing with a group of kids from the local Catholic school. They were all wearing Red Polo Shirts, Brown slacks, and White tennis shoes. I couldn't believe it. Polo shirts! Slacks on the girls! And Tennis Shoes! How trendy is that! Could they truly call those uniforms!?
I too, went to Catholic School and I wore a uniform, long before it was fashionable or commonplace. The uniform consisted of a green and gray plaid v-neck jumper, white blouse with a peterpan collar, a dumb little beanie, and saddle oxfords.
I was expected to hang up the jumper as soon as I got home each afternoon, so it could be worn again. I never really understood that hanging up ritual though, because it was impossible to wrinkle those plaid skirts. I knew this to be true, because I did everything I could to mess it up.
I stuffed it into my sock drawer. I carelessly tossed it onto the closet floor. I rolled it up into a ball and used it as a pillow. But no matter what I did, the minute I put it on, it took on an “Oh my, how much starch did you use?” appearance. That jumper was the most wrinkle-defying garment ever produced on a sewing machine.
Looking so crisp and tidy annoyed me. I was convinced that trekking off to school in a more rumpled state would make me feel less conspicuous beside the neighborhood girls who got new clothes every September. But, I wouldn’t have minded spending my entire elementary career in the same dress so much if I could have worn something besides a plain white blouse under the jumper.
“I think all the stinky bleach you moms are using to make our shirts so blinding white is warping our brains." I complained to my mother. "I mean really! Our classroom smells like the Hunt Park swimming pool all the time! Do you mom's really think it’s healthy for kids to be sniffing so much chlorine?”
Getting no response, I continued on, “Don't you guys think it would be safer to let us wear colored shirts that don’t need any bleach instead? What’s the big deal with white anyway?”
“The big deal,” she replied icily, “Is that little girls should do as they are told and not be so impertinent.”
At that point I knew I was licked. To pursue my argument in favor of aquamarine and lavender blouses would have landed me in my room, with my rosary, praying for deliverance from my rebellious vanity.
The beanie I had to wear was a nuisance. It was sort of diamond shaped and matched my jumper. It had a thin plastic band sewn into the front seam that was supposed to keep it on my head. But, the band was so fragile that it rarely survived one semester of hop scotch and dodge ball recesses. So every morning I had to hunt up bobby-pins to secure the annoying little thing to my pixie-cut hair.
But the absolute worst thing about that uniform was the saddle oxfords. I hated those clunky black and white shoes. “Why, can’t we wear Hushpuppies?” I whined to my dad. I loved Hushpuppies. They were cool looking and lightweight, and best of all, they never had to be polished.
“Just think of all the money we could save if we weren’t buying gallons of shoe polish every minute of our lives!” I exclaimed to my thrifty father every time I sat down to cover my latest crop of scuff marks.
“Polish doesn’t cost much and no one ever died from shining a few shoes.” was his usual response to my gripping, which pretty much closed the Hushpuppy discussion.
But I wonder. Did the trauma of wearing ugly shoes and boring dresses cause me lingering psychological damage? Did I grow up with complexes and phobias because I wasn’t allowed to make my own wardrobe choices? Did wearing the same outfit to school for years stifle my creativity and cause me to become unable to think for myself?
Oh, I know that uniform made me stand out. It set me apart and spotlighted me as being different from the public school girls I grew up around. But, was that a bad thing? Our current cultural philosophy demands that we tread carefully, so that no one’s self- esteem is stepped on. But, is healthy self-esteem dependant upon us getting every silly thing we want or on our being exactly like everyone else?
Looking back on my Catholic School experience, I can truly appreciate what a blessing it was to grow up in an environment that stressed the importance of honoring God, respecting authority, and living within defined boundaries. Those things have served me well in the forty plus years that have passed since I donned that jumper.
Wearing a uniform to school didn’t scar me for life. It didn’t cause me to feel deprived or abused. It didn’t rob me of my individuality or my creative spark. My dreams are not haunted by plaid monsters in black and white loafers.
In fact, if the truth be told, I miss the boring old thing. Wearing a uniform would simplify my life. It would free me from the daily ritual of choosing what to wear. It would eliminate the bother of matching tops with bottoms. It would save the hassle of shopping at the mall. That uniform was a dependable friend who served me well. I hope there is a garment heaven where my plaid jumper is enjoying a peaceful retirement.
I too, went to Catholic School and I wore a uniform, long before it was fashionable or commonplace. The uniform consisted of a green and gray plaid v-neck jumper, white blouse with a peterpan collar, a dumb little beanie, and saddle oxfords.
I was expected to hang up the jumper as soon as I got home each afternoon, so it could be worn again. I never really understood that hanging up ritual though, because it was impossible to wrinkle those plaid skirts. I knew this to be true, because I did everything I could to mess it up.
I stuffed it into my sock drawer. I carelessly tossed it onto the closet floor. I rolled it up into a ball and used it as a pillow. But no matter what I did, the minute I put it on, it took on an “Oh my, how much starch did you use?” appearance. That jumper was the most wrinkle-defying garment ever produced on a sewing machine.
Looking so crisp and tidy annoyed me. I was convinced that trekking off to school in a more rumpled state would make me feel less conspicuous beside the neighborhood girls who got new clothes every September. But, I wouldn’t have minded spending my entire elementary career in the same dress so much if I could have worn something besides a plain white blouse under the jumper.
“I think all the stinky bleach you moms are using to make our shirts so blinding white is warping our brains." I complained to my mother. "I mean really! Our classroom smells like the Hunt Park swimming pool all the time! Do you mom's really think it’s healthy for kids to be sniffing so much chlorine?”
Getting no response, I continued on, “Don't you guys think it would be safer to let us wear colored shirts that don’t need any bleach instead? What’s the big deal with white anyway?”
“The big deal,” she replied icily, “Is that little girls should do as they are told and not be so impertinent.”
At that point I knew I was licked. To pursue my argument in favor of aquamarine and lavender blouses would have landed me in my room, with my rosary, praying for deliverance from my rebellious vanity.
The beanie I had to wear was a nuisance. It was sort of diamond shaped and matched my jumper. It had a thin plastic band sewn into the front seam that was supposed to keep it on my head. But, the band was so fragile that it rarely survived one semester of hop scotch and dodge ball recesses. So every morning I had to hunt up bobby-pins to secure the annoying little thing to my pixie-cut hair.
But the absolute worst thing about that uniform was the saddle oxfords. I hated those clunky black and white shoes. “Why, can’t we wear Hushpuppies?” I whined to my dad. I loved Hushpuppies. They were cool looking and lightweight, and best of all, they never had to be polished.
“Just think of all the money we could save if we weren’t buying gallons of shoe polish every minute of our lives!” I exclaimed to my thrifty father every time I sat down to cover my latest crop of scuff marks.
“Polish doesn’t cost much and no one ever died from shining a few shoes.” was his usual response to my gripping, which pretty much closed the Hushpuppy discussion.
But I wonder. Did the trauma of wearing ugly shoes and boring dresses cause me lingering psychological damage? Did I grow up with complexes and phobias because I wasn’t allowed to make my own wardrobe choices? Did wearing the same outfit to school for years stifle my creativity and cause me to become unable to think for myself?
Oh, I know that uniform made me stand out. It set me apart and spotlighted me as being different from the public school girls I grew up around. But, was that a bad thing? Our current cultural philosophy demands that we tread carefully, so that no one’s self- esteem is stepped on. But, is healthy self-esteem dependant upon us getting every silly thing we want or on our being exactly like everyone else?
Looking back on my Catholic School experience, I can truly appreciate what a blessing it was to grow up in an environment that stressed the importance of honoring God, respecting authority, and living within defined boundaries. Those things have served me well in the forty plus years that have passed since I donned that jumper.
Wearing a uniform to school didn’t scar me for life. It didn’t cause me to feel deprived or abused. It didn’t rob me of my individuality or my creative spark. My dreams are not haunted by plaid monsters in black and white loafers.
In fact, if the truth be told, I miss the boring old thing. Wearing a uniform would simplify my life. It would free me from the daily ritual of choosing what to wear. It would eliminate the bother of matching tops with bottoms. It would save the hassle of shopping at the mall. That uniform was a dependable friend who served me well. I hope there is a garment heaven where my plaid jumper is enjoying a peaceful retirement.
posted by BK @ 9:41 PM
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