Rough Draft

It was just another normal day in elementary school; another day like every other in fifth

grade. However, this would end up being one of the few days in my elementary school career

that I would remember long past graduation. As I sat in my fifth grade teacher’s office outside of

our classroom, waiting for him to come sit in the black swivel chair behind his desk, I couldn’t

help but feel I had done something wrong. “I need to speak with you in my office,” my teacher

had said, tapping my elbow as I worked on our first worksheet of the day in language arts. I

looked up at him, utterly confused, but proceeded to get up out of my chair and walk through the

aisle of off-white desks lining each side, trying to ignore the questioning glances of my peers.

I continued walking down the hallway outside of our classroom until I came to my

teacher’s office at the end, and turned and sat in the chair opposite his long, grey desk. I stared at

the black rug that covered the floor, trying to count each of the impossibly tiny dots of colored

material that seemed to be weaved into the darkness of the rug. The room smelled of light

antiseptic; I recognized it as the scent of the Expo brand dry erase board wipes that my teacher

always used to clean the boards after every lesson. I stared at the plastic plaque on my teacher’s

desk that read “Mr. S” in small, white, neatly printed letters. After what felt like hours, my I

could hear his polished black shoes clicking down the short hallway to cover the distance

between our classroom and his office, where I sat not-so-patiently waiting. I flicked my eyes up

to make eye contact with him as soon as I saw him in the doorway, and then immediately

returned my gaze to my fingernails, which I was pretending to inspect with great interest. His tan

dress pants were neatly ironed and perfectly creased as usual, and his green collared shirt was

without a single wrinkle. I heard him pivot and walk behind his desk and then rustle around in
the drawer for a few seconds before finally hearing the soft release of air from the seat cushion as

he sat down. I had already come up with some idea of what I thought he was going to say, but as

he began speaking I couldn’t force myself to make eye contact with him. Instead, I fixed my

gaze on the black rug beneath my feet once again, and tried to hide how hard I was trying to not

let any of the tears that were stinging my eyes force their way out.

“They’re just too short,” I heard him saying over the humiliation overwhelming my

thoughts. “I think you look really cute, but the school policy doesn’t allow shorts that come

above the knees.” I looked down in shame at the small, orange, sparkly butterflies embroidered

into the front pockets of my new blue jean shorts that came just above my kneecaps I had just

bought with my mom at Target the day before, and I remembered how excited I was to wear

them on one of the first warm days of Spring. Now, all I could think about was how much I

wished that I had never even seen them so I could avoid this humiliation. It never occurred to me

that something I felt comfortable wearing could break the rules of my school. However, sitting in

that office on that Spring day with my fifth grade teacher, I didn’t fully consider how his

comments and the school’s policy made me feel, and why. The only thing I knew for sure was

that I needed to call my mom as soon as possible and ask her to pretty pretty please bring me a

pair of long jeans so that I did not have to wear these shorts for one minute longer.

Looking back on this event almost ten years later, I see this as one of the first times that I

can remember being subjected to the male gaze. I’m sure there were times before that, but this is

the first one that I can explicitly remember where I was told that I couldn’t wear a piece of

clothing because it was “inappropriate”. For a long time after this, I mindlessly obeyed school

dress codes and restrictions without giving a second thought to why these rules were established
and why all of the rules seemed to be geared towards female students. These rules made me feel

ashamed of my body and forced the idea on me that my body was a distraction, was

inappropriate in school, and needed to be covered. If my body was not appropriate for school,

how was I, as a female, supposed to act and dress “school appropriately”? The logic of these

rules is completely backwards, and serves as a tool to make females uncomfortable and feel

restricted in the places where they are supposed to be given an education.

“Hi, honey, what is it?” I could hear the confusion in my mother’s voice from across the

phone as I sat in one of the hard, plastic red chairs that were positioned to face the front desk of

my school in the main office. The paint on one of the white, plastic buttons on the landline I was

using to call my mom to ask for a new pair of jeans was chipping, which I forced myself to focus

on instead of the three pairs of eyes watching me from behind the front desk. My principal, Mrs.

C, vice principal, Mrs. K, and Mr. S had all gathered in the office with me. “You can use this

phone,” Mrs. K instructed me. I already knew exactly what they wanted me to do, so I didn’t

even bother asking; I didn’t want to prolong the pit of shame growing in my stomach for one

second longer than I needed to.

I often think about the words of my fifth grade teacher, “I think you look really cute,

but…” Why did he feel the need to try to validate and sexualize my physical appearance as a 10

year old female? How was that supposed to make me feel about my body and appearance? As a

young girl, I was being taught through dress codes and restrictions that my body did not belong

in school and that the fact that I was female restricted my access to education unless I agreed to

follow rules that forced me to internalize the male gaze and sexualization of my own body. I was

taught to be ashamed and constantly conscious of my own body and its appearance, especially in
school. Young women are often taught through these types of rules and restrictions to seek

validation and approval from the patriarchy and male figures in their lives, which serves to force

us to actively participate in our own sexualization. How women are taught to perceive

themselves is more than just a “women’s issue”. How women are treated by men and other

people is more than just a “women’s issue”. Women’s rights are more than just a “women’s

issue”.

When I finally saw my mother walk push open one of the big, glass doors to the school,

carrying a small black bag with my new pair of jeans in it, the first thing I noticed was the

absolutely furious expression on her face. Her carefully plucked and filled eyebrows were

furrowed and pushed towards the middle of her forehead, and her lips were so tightly pursed that

I could see the white outline of the skin around them. Her emerald green eyes lit up in anger. For

a moment I couldn’t help being confused. I had assumed she would be annoyed to have to take

time out of what I’m sure was a busy work day to come bring me a new pair of jeans because I

had accidentally dressed inappropriately for school, but I could not figure out why in the world

she would be that angry with the situation. She marched right through the grey door of the front

office, and only took one look at my tear stained face before firmly planting herself in front of

the two principles and my teacher, all of which she knew very well, and proceeded to give them

a piece of her mind. I had never seen my mother be so enraged before, and I wished over and

over again in my head that she would just stop. I felt even more humiliated, and it was making

me frustrated and angry that this situation was being prolonged. All I wanted to do was quickly

change into my new pants and have the last hour erased from my life forever.
 Strong women have played a huge part in my development as a person and as a woman.

My mother has always been fiercely loyal to me and I know she is always right beside me when I

need her. How women treat each other teaches men how they can treat us, and how we treat

ourselves teaches everyone else how we will tolerate being treated. I will be forever grateful to

my mom, who stood up for me on that day when I didn’t even realize that I needed anyone to

take my side. She took my side when I didn’t even realize that I was on a side, and that I didn’t

deserve to be objectified, sexualized, and treated as an object in the place where I trusted my

teachers to provide me with an equal education to all of my peers. She took my side and showed

me that my rights were something that she was willing to fight for, and taught me that what was

happening was not my fault, and that I needed to take my own side and fight for my own rights

and safety in school. Everyone needs strong, empowered women in their lives, and I am lucky

enough to have one of the strongest ones out there in mine.