“No more than two inches above the knees,” I was told in high school. I went to FlynnO'Hara with my mom and picked out a set of skirts, staring contemptuously at the way that they fell flat against my legs. Among the students, it was an unspoken rule that we would alter our skirts if we wanted to look fashionable. We’d shorten them and buy spandex to cover our thighs when we walked up the stairs, engaging in a subversive tradition as we entered high school. Most of the time, we scraped by without consequences for our clothing alterations. Well, except for the days when that one teacher sent us to the office (whose side was she on, anyway?). And then there was that afternoon where the administration gathered us all into a room and warned us about modesty.
A faculty member stood above the crowd of young women and said, “Boys watch pornography, and they can’t unsee what they see. So it’s part of your responsibility to help them by dressing appropriately.” His words were met with nervous laughter.
If there was anything that I thought characterized these dress codes as a teenager, it was that they were often confusing and contradictory. We all grew up with the infamous “no shoulders” rule, only to arrive at the end of high school to take pictures in graduation drapes that left both our shoulders and upper chests exposed in the yearbook. These were outfits that I could never be caught dead wearing at school or church, but were somehow acceptable to immortalize in print. Furthermore, there were always two conflicting dialogues at play. On one hand, we were told that uniforms were meant to give students a sharp and cohesive look; to make sure that they proudly represented our school. On the other, we were told that this “two inches above the knee” rule was to protect boys from our bodies, and to cover up parts of ourselves that were not acceptable to reveal to the world. The idea of our exposed skin was treated as indelibly dangerous, but it was often difficult to decipher who we were protecting, and from what.
To be fair, there are certain benefits to enforcing uniforms. They shield children from the pressures of meeting contemporary fashion trends, and they dissolve markers of socioeconomic status at school. When everyone has to wear the same outfit, it prevents people from flaunting their wealth through flashy brands. In a similar vein, it protects those who can’t afford the same luxuries from publicizing this fact on a daily basis. As a whole, these would have been much more appropriate points of justification–certainly more appropriate than the idea that we should dress a certain way to protect young, impressionable men. What did it teach us about our own bodies to demand that we hide them every morning; that we conceal our legs from those who couldn’t control themselves?
To me, it often felt as though I was competing with conflicting definitions of femininity with my clothing. In popular media, I was presented with females who dressed in fitted, elegant outfits–not the boxy, shapeless khaki skirts that I yanked from my drawer every morning. It was hard to feel conventionally feminine and attractive in something that fit me like a big paper bag. On the other hand, my superiors wanted me to uphold a different aspect of womanhood–the idea that we should be gentle, and helpful, and not attract unwanted attention. Throughout high school, I found it strange that we were expected to erase large parts of our bodies in order to fulfill our duty as women, and it felt impossible to do something that felt completely “right.”
As Halloween nears this year, I find the idea of the “schoolgirl” costume a fascinating illustration of the young woman’s dilemma. What makes it so popular to dress as a young girl in all of the correct pieces of clothing–the skirt and button-down shirt–but in explicitly incorrect proportions? Why is there not similar popularity with regard to a “schoolboy” costume? Is it because we like asking women to conform to standards of what is “proper” and “ladylike,” while also suggesting that it is attractive when they break these conventions in particular settings? As we continue to navigate the confusing space of what is good, bad, and selectively permissible for women, I wish that we were more honest about why we enforce the expectations that we do–and that we were bold enough to direct responsibility where it really belongs.
Note: This piece is a critique of dress-code regulations for women on a broad scale–not a specific critique of my high school.
The Student Movement is the official student newspaper of Andrews University. Opinions expressed in the Student Movement are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the editors, Andrews University or the Seventh-day Adventist church.