This site requires Javascript to be turned on. Please enable Javascript and reload the page.

“But you look so well!”: (Un)professionalizing chronic pain through academic dress

Opening the Closet Door

Epistemology of the Closet?

What's revealed in close-up, not just the weave of a textile, but how it renders the body

This page has paths:

Contents of this path:

Contents of this path:

Beloved with a tie, preppy with or without it, mildly toughened by the zipper detail, this shirt rubs the skin but breathes. I've sailed through classes, conference presentations, and interviews in it. It's a standard of professional that also aspires to be me. This remains the only white button-down shirt I've ever consistently worn and loved. The more stubbornly stained it becomes, the more I know the day is coming when I'll have to discard it and cry.
What possessed me to buy a blouse like this--overly feminine, glossy for attention, a bow poised at the throat like gift wrapping--except that it screams normatively professional? The academic workplace is soaked with gendered expectations, and I've always interviewed successfully in this shirt, but when I wore it to a GI appointment I was complimented on how pretty I looked, and my medical concerns went unaddressed.
These read like soft denim, from a distance. High-waisted, with pockets scalloped in at the waist. I never wear belts, it's too much pressure near the stomach, but these make a belt look good. Worn with black, they dress up. Worn with T-shirts, they dress down. I've worn them to the doctor's office after teaching with unzipped ankles to enhance the appearance of incapability. Their versatility is useful. So often I find the zippers everyone calls "decorative" to possess incredible performative force.
Pink silk, black lace, vaguely punk, with my black J Brands, boots, and drape-front blazer, I feel untouchable, and the shirt itself barely touches me. I teach first or last classes in it, attend advising meetings in it, present at conferences in it, anything where I need to feel more confident than pain makes me feel, but not in environments where supervisors might see brown skin and bra strap through the lace trim, and think I'm too sexual for academia.
So lightweight the polyester barely touches the skin. I've worn this many times, but notably, the day I turned 31, also the day I was supposed to be fully recovered from a complicated appendectomy I still suffer from, four years later. I tattooed my ribs that day, with a snail crawling across a straight razor because it too has to endure without dying, and I attended a conference presentation directly after, and this blouse masked it all: saran-wrapped ink and blood, pain around the navel where the gluey clot of stitches was freshly removed. I almost looked human again, and by human I mean stylish, stoic, able to produce.
I tucked the drawstring into the waistband and paired it with a loose, long blouse to preserve a semblance of professional dignity. I was back in the classroom, one week after an appendectomy found fusion and sepsis in my abdomen. I was weak. My diaphragm resisted speech. I could neither laugh nor cough, and sneezes I couldn't prevent picked at the stitches, made the room spin. My body was a garment sewn with glue, masked by a professional airy blouse, sweatpants folded below the navel in case of pain, in case of bleeding, in case of emergency.