School Uniform
In the UK, almost all schools have a uniform. Occasionally we have a debate on why that is - to (supposedly) reduce class divides, to look 'smart', to deprive us of any sense of individuality? I have a mixed relationship with uniforms, which I intend to explore in this article.
My first memories of uniforms are of SENSORY HELL. I've tried to find pictures of me wearing my primary school uniform, but I haven't been able to - likely because there was no way you were going to see me wearing this uniform at any time out of school hours. Instead, you will have to contend with this picture of a child sporting the school's current uniform.
Her somewhat forced facial expression seems apt for a uniform that was in no way a source of joy. I asked my mum whether put up much of a fuss getting dressed in the mornings before school. She said that I didn't like wearing it, but she just told me I had to, and so I did. It's this kind of suppression and masking of my sensory needs that characterises my relationship with uniform thereafter.
In primary school, uniform seemed to be centred around the theme of WOOL. For someone with touch sensitivity, wool is pretty much the worst fabric imaginable. I remember the first jumper I had so scratchy, even thinking about it now makes me watch to scratch my arms. I used to just sit in it with my arms still and straight to stop it from rubbing against my skin. Luckily, after a short time, my mum managed to find some magical wool softener, which made the jumper just about manageable. The jumpers didn't last for long, however, as I was promptly informed by others in my class that jumpers were 'for boys'. My brother was a boy, and I certainly didn't want to be anything like him. This was probably one of my earliest experiences of masking, but I dutifully started wearing cardigans, wanting to fit in with the other 'girls' in my class. They were also not as scratchy around the neck, so the compromise wasn't too bad.
Other parts of the uniform were also unpleasant. I remember hating wearing the hat, which had this thin piece of elastic that cut into your neck. Wearing the hat was most certainly NOT optional (as the infographic above seems to suggest), and I remember being forced to wear it at pick up and drop off times each day. Needless to say, I lost the battle with wearing the hat, but I did manage to make the elastic a little more bearable by chewing it until it rested limply away from my chin. Much better (although I don't think the adults agreed).
The theme of 'wool' continued into my secondary school years, but by this point, I was resigned to the fact that being at school meant dissociating from any bodily sensations. Skirts also continued as a compulsory theme. As an (assumed) all-girls school there were no alternatives to wearing a skirt, and the thought also never occurred that there should be another option, although these days I'm much more comfortable in trousers.
The meaning of skirts also changed through my secondary school years. No longer were skirts just something to wear on your bottom half. Instead, they seemed to be an item whose prime purpose was to show off your legs. To this end, although there were strict rules about skirt length, it was also expected that we rolled our skirts up by twisting the waistband. This created a tight constricting band around your waist, which caused the woollen fabric to dig even further into my skin. This apparently, however, also had the desired effect of raising the hemline by a few inches. Of course, not everyone felt the need to follow these social rules, and even some people were well-liked who didn't follow them. I, however, struggled socially and it was only through following these superficial rules that I felt that I could blend in with the crowd.
Across this period, therefore, wearing a skirt became part of my mask - it was something I wore because I had to, but also for approval by others and to blend in. After school, in working life, it still performs this function. Putting on a skirt becomes akin to putting on a mask or putting on armour to face the world. It's only through the process of unmasking that I've recognised that I'm actually much more comfortable dressing androgynously and I don't really LIKE people being able to stare at my legs.
Of course, unmasking is a process and doesn't happen all at once. I, therefore, still put on skirts in situations where I know I'm going to have to mask and it's not safe to express my true self. Part of unmasking is learning to recognise when it's safe to drop the mask. In this way, though, I'm hoping that these days the skirt is working for me and not the other way around.
Image source: Shutterstock