“They’re Just Too Short”

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 on each side of me, trying to ignore the questioning glances of my

peers.

As soon as I reached my teacher’s office at the very end of the long hallway, I turned and

sat in the chair opposite his wide grey desk. I stared at the black rug that lined the floor to all the

way to each of the four walls in the room, 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, printed letters that were designed to look like

handwriting. 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 sensed

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 blue collared shirt was without a single wrinkle. I heard him pivot and

walk behind his desk and then rustle around in the top 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 still 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

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

the knees.” I felt my cheeks burning as I stared 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 week 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 first warm day of Spring day with my fifth grade

teacher, all I could think about was how utterly ashamed I was of myself and my body. 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 day 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 time 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 I realized long after that day that it 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 had 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 girl? How was that supposed to make me feel about my body and appearance if he
was telling me at the same time that showing my knees was a violation of school policy? 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 meant that my access to education would be

restricted 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 forces 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 into the building and 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. “How could you humiliate her like this?”

She said incredulously. “You’ve embarrassed her and made her cry in front of all her friends. I

can’t even believe you people would subject her to this ridiculous rule.” 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 as though she was making the situation even worse, and I became even more

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

change into my new pants and have the last two hours erased from my life forever.

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 stood up for me when I didn’t even realize that

I needed her to, and taught me 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. She taught me that the treatment I was subjected to by the administration at my

school was not my fault, and that I needed to stand up for myself and fight for my own rights and

safety in school. I will forever remember that day because it was the day that the strongest

woman in my life showed me that she would always be in my corner.

Strong women, like my mother, 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. Strong women

empower each other, and everyone needs strong, empowered women in their lives. I am lucky

enough to have one of the strongest ones in mine.