PTSD

The Pink Paisley Post

There must be something in the water. That’s the only way that I can explain it.

What can’t I explain? My sudden attraction to pink paisley. And blue flowers. And several other cute little patterns that 1) make me look like a particularly unfortunate couch, and 2) I wouldn’t have been caught dead in before I moved to DC.

Seriously, had I died and been buried in these patterns, I’d have found out whose fault it was and haunted their ass. Those of you who knew me when know how terrifying that would be, so it wasn’t really much of a possibility. But now, I willingly walk into stores full of otherwise unobjectionable clothing items, and head straight for the girliest, most nauseatingly frilly patterns on the racks. It’s like an addiction; I try to buy black, and end up with purple. Purchase blackouts. Next thing you know, I’ll be walking down 18th with my newest sweater hidden in a brown paper bag.

So what does this have to do with anything?

It turns out, in academia as in other walks of life, there are rules. Lots of them. And yet, nobody gives you a rulebook when you sign up for this gig, so most of the time we (as in, PhD students) wander around trying not to get noticed while we figure out what the hell is going on.

Among those rules seems to be a requirement that, at every conceivable opportunity, an academic is required (okay, not required, but strongly recommended, and we all know what that means) to wear black. Or gray, navy blue, brown, beige—you get the idea. If it would make a good color for the interior of an Oldsmobile, that’s enough to make the cut. And don’t get me wrong, I like some of these options (even if navy blue does make me look like I’ve done hard time). But there’s something about being expected to dress conservatively that just rubs me the wrong way; it doesn’t help that the suits I brought with me from Ohio tended to lean more towards red and turquoise.

And so the pink paisley is a protest, of sorts. A small gesture for the person I used to be, and a statement about the kind of person I refuse to become. While I’m troubled about my methods (why in the world should my clothing be the thing with which I choose to speak?) and targets of protest, for the moment the ability to wear whatever the hell I want is important, and I’m choosing not to look at that too closely.

But I’m still wondering: how important is the uniform (official or not) to my self-image as an academic? Is this some form of discourse that assists with (as Priya would say) the “othering process”? And why, for the love of all that’s holy, can’t I just stick with stripes?

Today’s totally random quote:

“Oh good, they start out with questions I can answer...like `Name:`”

posted by Elizabeth @ 12:34 AM