You see, I know all about slobs and the grunge movement, because I was a part of it. I walked the walk of the typical ’90s kid. I dressed just like everyone else did. Granted, everyone had their own idea of what ““fashionable’’ was, but for the most part, it was the same all over. That struck me as kind of phony, but I went along with it.
By dressing the way I did, at least I learned some tricks of the trade that you might never have found out had you not read this essay. For example, did you know that you can fit an average of three major-league ballplayers in today’s sweat shirt? Or that if you can walk for longer than a minute without pulling your jeans up, you have to get a new pair?
Now, nobody else seemed to be having a problem with that type of clothing, so I grinned and bared it. My junior high school had a real relaxed atmosphere. My dressing reflected it. We couldn’t go around with obscene T shirts, but being busted for dress-code violations was rare, and when it happened, it caused a lot of commotion. I never went off the deep end, really. I dressed loose enough to get by, and respectable enough to present myself to my teachers every morning. At the same time I was doing OK in school. I wasn’t getting straight A’s or anything, but I was holding my own. When I left junior high at 13, my priorities were straight (high school, college, grad school, job), but I lacked focus. I wasn’t a self-starter. Getting me to work to my potential took a lot of effort, mostly on my parents’ part.
So I passed the test that got me into Fordham Prep, a Roman Catholic high school in the Bronx. There were a few little annoyances that bugged me about the Prep. It was a long drive, it was only for boys and I’d have to go to mass a couple of times a year. But there was one major difference from any public school that I’d ever known: every student was required to wear a jacket, tie, pants and shoes.
One of the first letters I got from Fordham Prep was a stern warning – not against drinking, not against drugs, but about the evils of . . . earrings! The headmaster took no pains to conceal the fact that his school was old-fashioned. But he added that he was modern enough to realize that students were wearing Band-Aids on their ears to cover up the holes made by their studs, so that earrings could be worn on weekends. Therefore: no studs, no pierced ears, no Band-Aids. We were being prepared for the real world. I’ve read my Holden Caulfield like everyone else, and when I got to the part in the letter that talked about our being ambassadors for our school, I wondered: phonies?
I tolerated it for the first week. Hey, I’d been to weddings. But then I started to get real ticked off. The starch was annoying. My slacks were too tight. My collar was choking me. My shoes made me look like a geek. What’s the big idea here, anyway? I wanted to feel that relaxation that only a pair of denim 501s could bring. Why couldn’t I know what it felt like to walk in wearing whatever I felt like that morning? Coats and ties for boys – in the ’90s?
What, exactly, is worn by 1,000 students expected to dress like adults? Even in an institution where you’re supposed to strive for academic excellence, most kids will find ways to cut corners – to see how far they can go without landing in the JUG (Judgment Under God), Fordham Prep’s word for detention. Boots instead of shoes, light work shirts in place of dress shirts, belts not ties.
In time, my major complaint changed from my laundry load to my work load. This place wasn’t joking around: chem honors; advanced English; religion; classical Greek; global history; French; math, and to top it all, Fordham seniors have to complete a 70-hour community-service project. I had to crack down, and for the first time in my life I really did. I consistently did my work. I stopped blowing things off. The place had instituted a certain degree of seriousness that I just hadn’t found before. I was pulling good grades all the time. Was there some relationship between pulling on that damn coat and tie and pulling myself together? So what if I didn’t look like my friends in public school? I was getting a jump-start for the future.
After a certain point, I didn’t even consider it dressing up. It was as natural as jeans and a sweat shirt. There was no salvation except for twice a year when the administration felt sorry for all us young’uns: Dress Down Day!
Yeah, well, this was so predictable. Every member of Fordham Prep wears the same thing on Dress Down Days. It’s not just a few students who dress alike. I figure 99 percent of the Prep wear what they assume all their friends will wear. So, once again, there’s a school full of identically dressed teens. The uniform of the Dress Down Day is a baggy ““Bob Vila special’’ plaid shirt with jeans that start at anywhere from your waist to your knees. Last year, on a Dress Down Day a Jesuit teacher walked into his class, looked around at the sea of plaid and said, ““It just escapes me why you’ve all dressed like lumberjacks.''
Next day we go back to the usual uniform and there are no student uprisings. With all of us dressed the same – forced to or not – who are the phonies now? But it’s all right. At least we’re a bunch of students who won’t find it hard to put on slacks and shoes when it’s time to enter the real world.
Then Newsweek comes along and reports that America is a ““Nation of Slobs.’’ From offices to churches to IBM, grunge is in. Instead of dressing up, the world’s dressing down.
Wait a minute, I need some practice – we get to do it only twice a year! What am I supposed to believe? Someone’s lying to me, and I’m not old enough to pick out the best poker face.
Here I am, at one of the last outposts of dressing up in the country, and the rug has been yanked out from underneath me.
God, I feel alienated.
