In seventh grade, I undertook an experiment with the sartorial self, and it had unexpected consequences.
It was the first day of school, and I was depressed by my clothing options. The first day of school is the day when you are supposed to wear your best clothes, your best of the new school shopping outfits you picked up. Every year previously, I had gotten one new dress for the first day of school. But I hadn’t had a school shopping experience that year. My father had recently gotten custody, my mother had gotten our home condemned, then she kidnapped Grace and me… let’s just say the annual trip to Goodwill Bag Day didn’t happen.
So, I decided to be Cool this year. It was the easiest option, and why not re-invent myself? I wore one of my dad’s T-shirts – a black shirt with the logo for the Rolling Stones on it – and my favorite pair of jeans.
Most of the classes, you had assigned seats, but when it came to English class, we were allowed to pick, and instead of taking a spot at the front as was my habit (being a Goody Good Nerd Teacher’s Pet), I took one of the back-row seats near the door. I was a cool kid now, after all. I recall the frisson of adventure, my fear of the boys in the back row, who received a goody-goody in their sovereign domain with tension.
“What are you doing here?” the closest boy whispered, sounding genuinely confused, and a little afraid.
I smirked at him and lied, “I want to be able to leave quickly for lunch.”
“YOU!” The teacher pointed at me angrily, “You sit in the front. Right here. Switch seats with her.”
She indicated the desk directly in front of her. I was delighted. The teacher had been fooled into thinking I was a “bad” kid, that I was “talking” with that boy who usually picked on me, and was punishing me by assigning the very sort of seat I normally took. What comedy! I probably had an insufferable grin as I sauntered up to the indicated seat.
This was not the beginning of a good relationship with Mrs. Ross, English teacher.
Though I gave up on wearing Dad’s clothes by the second day of class and reverted to my uniform of skirts and blouses or sweatshirts, Mrs. Ross continued to treat me like I’d just been caught smoking in the girls’ room, and did not, as all previous teachers had, gush over my writing. I didn’t think this was a big deal. So she didn’t like me? School was a meritocracy and I was a Gifted Child and Mrs. Ross would choke on all the A’s she had to give me.
Then we got our first six-weeks’ grades. I had an F in English. An F.
Did I mention I was Gifted? All the teachers said so! I was that kid who never studies but gets As on everything! My dad was convinced that I was Going To Do Something With My Life and Make His Worthwhile. Even when I missed two weeks of school due to the kidnapping, I had never gotten an F in my life.
I wrote before about that time I got beaten by my mom for a D in spelling. I carried this report card home with stunned numbness.
My dad, to my surprise, did not beat the living daylights out of me. He shook his head, not the least blaming me. “You don’t get F’s,” he said, and he went to the school to talk to the principal.
It turned out, Mrs. Ross hadn’t actually graded anything for the first six weeks yet, she had just graded “as usual” assuming that the bad kids would get F’s and the good kids would get A’s and I was a Bad Kid.
This really opened my eyes to prejudice. She’d pre-judged me, and how many other students had she pre-judged before? How many undeserved Fs had stood without a parent as involved and willing to fight as my dad?
How much of my own “Merit” was really quiet obedience in class and dressing like a Good Kid?
Years later, in college, I read about a study where teachers were shown student photos and asked to sort them into “good kids” and “bad kids.” Other teachers were then asked, without being told the previous group’s assessments, to assign punishments to these kids for various infractions. Invariably, “good kids” were let off with a warning and “bad kids” were given severe punishments.
The kicker? The “bad kids” had not committed any offenses, had no crimes on their records; they were just poor. Socio-economic status was the number one factor in assigning a photo the stigma of “bad kid.” When all the teachers had to judge on was looks, factors like visible illness, poor-fitting clothes, unkempt hair, which should have moved them to pity, moved them to despise.
When I wore my dad’s black t-shirt instead of a dress on the first day of school, I performed a lower economic status, and I almost suffered academically for it.
Think about it, the next time you are moved to judge someone for how they dress.
