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Lee's Summit, MO —
This week I was following the case of the Kansas City, Kan., girl who was strip searched for alleged evidence of drugs, the allegation later being proved to have been brought about by a disgruntled little “friend.” Now I am certainly not here to condone drug use in any way shape or form, but maybe, just maybe, a strip search was heading just a tiny bit over the top?
I have no doubt this guilty-till-proven-innocent girl was probably not head of the debate team, soloist in all four parts of the school choir, top volunteer for the eighth year in a row at the local hospice, the holder of a 5.9 GPA, nor the Mother Teresa of lost puppies, but I’ll bet you she is just like I was – high profile.
I was never a particularly evil child – no more evil than any other teenager – but I had the propensity for being a tad outspoken and I guess I just stood out in a crowd and thus became high-profile.
Growing up as I did in a very strict Methodist School for Gels from kindergarten all the way through – uniforms had to be no more than 1 inch, as measured by a wooden ruler, above your knee when in the kneeling position, which was assumed in front of the Deputy Headmistress/Senior PE Instructor at I think intervals more regular than should be qualified as healthy.
Our underwear had to be navy blue bloomers (bloomers! Hello! I’m not that old, really I’m not), just at the time that very gaily colored lacy “witches britches” were all the rage. So, having endured our highly subservient and suspect kneeling position on asphalt for what seemed like a year and a half, we then had to stand and, yes, gentle reader – cover your eyes now if you are in the least squeamish – flash our knickers at this old broad.
Our hair had to be cut 1 inch above our collars – what was it with this school and the 1-inch rule, I ask – and if it was any longer had to be braided – not pig-tailed, not pony-tailed, but braided.
This too, was in the era of long straight hair. Didn’t matter if you didn’t have those prerequisites immediately – after all, any kinks could be ironed out. Literally. My hair was long enough to braid, very brown, very thick, and very wavy, so weekends would be spent apparently listening to the ironing board as I valiantly tried not to iron my ear or my forehead as I straightened out those pesky curls.
This week I was following the case of the Kansas City, Kan., girl who was strip searched for alleged evidence of drugs, the allegation later being proved to have been brought about by a disgruntled little “friend.” Now I am certainly not here to condone drug use in any way shape or form, but maybe, just maybe, a strip search was heading just a tiny bit over the top?
I have no doubt this guilty-till-proven-innocent girl was probably not head of the debate team, soloist in all four parts of the school choir, top volunteer for the eighth year in a row at the local hospice, the holder of a 5.9 GPA, nor the Mother Teresa of lost puppies, but I’ll bet you she is just like I was – high profile.
I was never a particularly evil child – no more evil than any other teenager – but I had the propensity for being a tad outspoken and I guess I just stood out in a crowd and thus became high-profile.
Growing up as I did in a very strict Methodist School for Gels from kindergarten all the way through – uniforms had to be no more than 1 inch, as measured by a wooden ruler, above your knee when in the kneeling position, which was assumed in front of the Deputy Headmistress/Senior PE Instructor at I think intervals more regular than should be qualified as healthy.
Our underwear had to be navy blue bloomers (bloomers! Hello! I’m not that old, really I’m not), just at the time that very gaily colored lacy “witches britches” were all the rage. So, having endured our highly subservient and suspect kneeling position on asphalt for what seemed like a year and a half, we then had to stand and, yes, gentle reader – cover your eyes now if you are in the least squeamish – flash our knickers at this old broad.
Our hair had to be cut 1 inch above our collars – what was it with this school and the 1-inch rule, I ask – and if it was any longer had to be braided – not pig-tailed, not pony-tailed, but braided.
This too, was in the era of long straight hair. Didn’t matter if you didn’t have those prerequisites immediately – after all, any kinks could be ironed out. Literally. My hair was long enough to braid, very brown, very thick, and very wavy, so weekends would be spent apparently listening to the ironing board as I valiantly tried not to iron my ear or my forehead as I straightened out those pesky curls.
Makeup of any description was banned, as was nail polish. Lounging about on the school lawn with one’s socks rolled down as far as possible, and our skirts hitched up the same distance the other way in order to achieve the perfect leg tan was equally frowned upon.
No matter that it was 107 in the shade during summer, blazers, hats and gloves had to be worn outside the school gates. In winter our ties had to be perfectly tied, sweaters without blazers were not allowed, and our stockings had to be at least 60 denier. No sheer nonsense for us, no, our nylons had to appear just shy of a cardigan knitted straight off the sheep’s back.
In inclement weather, navy raincoats and natty plastic hat covers had to be worn. Umbrellas for some reason posed something of a threat to us apparently, but plastic hat covers would naturally save us all from lascivious boys at the train station.
And speaking of boys, despite the fact that I had three brothers and lived in a short street populated by a lot of like-aged kids with whom I had grown up, walking home with a boy from the train or bus station was not only not allowed, it earned you a ride in the Deputy Headmistress/Senior P.E. teacher’s car back to school if you happened to be caught while she cruised to spy on the likely haunts, to be hauled across the carpet in front of the stern Headmistress (with whom she shared a house, by the way).
Shoes had to be polished, but not highly enough to allow the above mentioned lascivious boys from eying our shoes so as to catch a reflected glimpse of our aforementioned bloomers. I cannot think any school-age boy ever tried this, but to cop an eyeful of bloomer was not likely to cause a raise in lewd thoughts, I would have thought.
Holidays were to be taken at vacation time and other than a note from Mum or a doctor’s certificate assuring the school that the child really did have the bubonic plague, no excuse was countenanced. I still remember a classmate who was a highly promising dressage horsewoman, but apparently her acceptance into the State squad just fell on deaf ears when it came to begging to take a few days off. She took them anyway, and was promptly expelled. Just as I was, but I’m not sure if it was for being caught smoking, or being caught by a Methodist missionary as I was “knicking off” scripture – cutting class, if you will.
Well, now that I come to think of it, in the cruel and unusual punishment department, maybe after all these years I might have a case against the Old Bag myself.
