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School Uniform
In the UK, almost all schools have a uniform. Occasionally we have a debate on why that is – to (supposedly) reduce class divides, to look ‘smart’, to deprive us of any sense of individuality? I have a mixed relationship with uniforms, which I intend to explore in this article.
My first memories of uniforms are of SENSORY HELL. I’ve tried to find pictures of me wearing my primary school uniform, but I haven’t been able to – likely because there was no way you were going to see me wearing this uniform at any time out of school hours. Instead, you will have to contend with this picture of a child sporting the school’s current uniform.
Her somewhat forced facial expression seems apt for a uniform that was in no way a source of joy. I asked my mum whether put up much of a fuss getting dressed in the mornings before school. She said that I didn’t like wearing it, but she just told me I had to, and so I did. It’s this kind of suppression and masking of my sensory needs that characterises my relationship with uniform thereafter.
In primary school, uniform seemed to be centred around the theme of WOOL. For someone with touch sensitivity, wool is pretty much the worst fabric imaginable. I remember the first jumper I had so scratchy, even thinking about it now makes me watch to scratch my arms. I used to just sit in it with my arms still and straight to stop it from rubbing against my skin. Luckily, after a short time, my mum managed to find some magical wool softener, which made the jumper just about manageable. The jumpers didn’t last for long, however, as I was promptly informed by others in my class that jumpers were ‘for boys’. My brother was a boy, and I certainly didn’t want to be anything like him. This was probably one of my earliest experiences of masking, but I dutifully started wearing cardigans, wanting to fit in with the other ‘girls’ in my class. They were also not as scratchy around the neck, so the compromise wasn’t too bad.
Other parts of the uniform were also unpleasant. I remember hating wearing the hat, which had this thin piece of elastic that cut into your neck. Wearing the hat was most certainly NOT optional (as the infographic above seems to suggest), and I remember being forced to wear it at pick up and drop off times each day. Needless to say, I lost the battle with wearing the hat, but I did manage to make the elastic a little more bearable by chewing it until it rested limply away from my chin. Much better (although I don’t think the adults agreed).
The theme of ‘wool’ continued into my secondary school years, but by this point, I was resigned to the fact that being at school meant dissociating from any bodily sensations. Skirts also continued as a compulsory theme. As an (assumed) all-girls school there were no alternatives to wearing a skirt, and the thought also never occurred that there should be another option, although these days I’m much more comfortable in trousers.
The meaning of skirts also changed through my secondary school years. No longer were skirts just something to wear on your bottom half. Instead, they seemed to be an item whose prime purpose was to show off your legs. To this end, although there were strict rules about skirt length, it was also expected that we rolled our skirts up by twisting the waistband. This created a tight constricting band around your waist, which caused the woollen fabric to dig even further into my skin. This apparently, however, also had the desired effect of raising the hemline by a few inches. Of course, not everyone felt the need to follow these social rules, and even some people were well-liked who didn’t follow them. I, however, struggled socially and it was only through following these superficial rules that I felt that I could blend in with the crowd.
Across this period, therefore, wearing a skirt became part of my mask – it was something I wore because I had to, but also for approval by others and to blend in. After school, in working life, it still performs this function. Putting on a skirt becomes akin to putting on a mask or putting on armour to face the world. It’s only through the process of unmasking that I’ve recognised that I’m actually much more comfortable dressing androgynously and I don’t really LIKE people being able to stare at my legs.
Of course, unmasking is a process and doesn’t happen all at once. I, therefore, still put on skirts in situations where I know I’m going to have to mask and it’s not safe to express my true self. Part of unmasking is learning to recognise when it’s safe to drop the mask. In this way, though, I’m hoping that these days the skirt is working for me and not the other way around.
Image source: Shutterstock
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Christmas cake
Transitioning from 2021 to 2022 with the help from a sugary delight
Christmas and New Year is a time that is usually rife with a sense of celebration and holiday cheer for many around the world. It’s a time to get together with family friends, throw your work schedule out the window and indulge in rich food, bright lights and overspending.
This is also a time of year, however, that can be particularly difficult for autistic people. Many autists, including myself, are sensitive to things like light and sound – the tendency for many to celebrate Christmas with bright flashing lights and obnoxiously loud Christmas music can, therefore, be a nightmare for our community.
Not only this but, whether or not you celebrate, this time of the year is full of changes in routines. I, personally, love routines and they make me feel calm and safe. Abandoning routines can, therefore, make me feel on edge and like I’m constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.
In addition to these things, there are also a whole new set of social scripts you need to learn over the ‘festive period’. People will ask you such questions as: “Are you ready for Christmas?”, “Did you have a nice Christmas?” and “What are your plans for the New Year?”
There are definitely ‘right’ answers to these questions – “I’ve just got to get a few more presents for x, and then I’m all set!”, “We had a lovely time, it was great to celebrate this holly jolly time together”, and then some reference to vast quantities of alcohol over the New Year.
There are also ‘wrong’ answers to these questions – “I’ve been stress-buying since August to avoid the crowds”, “Well, actually, no, I spent the whole time trying to be someone else and avoiding all the bright flashy lights”, and “I’m just going to go to bed early, so it can all be over soon”.
Don’t get me wrong, there are some things I love about Christmas – I love getting the ‘perfect’ present for somebody because I’ve carefully assessed all their interests and found something that ticks all the boxes. I also love almost everything surrounding (vegetarian) food at Christmas – I’ll be enjoying mince pies from the 1st December and creating the most amazing leftover sandwich (the combination of cranberry and bread sauce are pure heaven).
One of the best foods around Christmas for me is Christmas cake. In the UK, this is a fruit cake topped with a layer of marzipan and royal icing. We’ve made the same cake recipe since I was little (if you’re wondering, it’s the Delia Smith Creole Christmas cake – nothing can beat it). Now, you need to understand that Christmas cake is just an amazing sensory experience for me. There’s the gooey fruity sponge with all of those lovely spice flavours, my favourite part is probably the layer of sweet soft marzipan, which is so wonderfully wrapped in a crisp layer of royal icing. For me, Christmas cake is pure sensory joy.
I also like our family’s tradition around Christmas cake (really tradition is just a special kind of routine!) – we have to be very prepared and make it a month before. Everyone in the house has to have a go at stirring the Christmas cake and making a wish – with this stir you also get a lovely noseful of all the Christmasy spices. Just before Christmas day itself, we add the marzipan (there’s always leftovers and this is a very important factor in my enjoyment of this part of the tradition) and then decorate with the fluffy, meringue-like royal icing. We then have to wait until Christmas day itself before we’re allowed to cut it.
Since living separately from my parents, I’ve always made my own Christmas cake that I can enjoy at home by myself. Every day after Christmas day, I cut a slice at 10:30 in the morning. I have this with a cup of ‘Christmas tea’ (which I ‘acquire’ from my mum, who always, somewhat dispassionately, receives a box of the stuff from an old friend every year like clockwork).
This creates a wonderful routine (you’ll recall, I love a good routine). At a time where the outside world seems to have abandoned structure, I get to have this time, once a day, where I can enjoy this yummy sensory delight. At a time of year that’s supposed to be about endings and beginnings (a truly scary thought), this cake helps me to bridge the gap between the calendar years and bring something truly joyful into the next year with me.
Of course, however, at some point, the cake ends. Halfway through January, I’m now getting to that time. The thought gives me a pang of anxiety, and where I previously cut myself large slices, I’m now rationing the last few slivers of delight. The cake that has been a faithful friend in helping me to slowly transition from one year to another now seems to be working against me. I want to hold on to last year, but then maybe, I’m also more equipped to deal with this transition now Christmas and New Year have passed? The world around me is up and moving again – the lights have been taken down, services and workplaces are seeming to resume around me. The cake has helped me to get to this point, but maybe I now feel strong enough to address this new year on my own?
This morning, then, I will have my last slice, be thankful for the cake as a joyful tool in helping me get to this point. I will know that it’s ok to leave behind this last reminder of the year before, looking forward to what I’ll be able to achieve this year.
image source
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Kanbeay 