But His Reason Shook Me To My Core
“My dad burst into the office, out of breath, asking, ‘What happened to my daughter? Is she okay?’ The principal cleared her throat and said, ‘We called you because her skirt is too short.’ My dad turned to me, his eyes scanning my outfit. He paused, then turned back to the principal and said, ‘What about your dress code policy for teachers?’”
Everything in the office froze for a second. Mrs. Calloway, the principal, blinked like she hadn’t heard right. I looked up at my dad, unsure whether to feel embarrassed or proud.
He stood there, sweaty from rushing over, but sharp in the way he locked eyes with her.
“You’re sending girls home for their clothes,” he said, “while one of your own teachers wears skirts even shorter than this to teach algebra?”
I felt a lump in my throat. I wasn’t expecting that.
It had started that morning when I wore a denim skirt—mid-thigh, nothing outrageous—and a tucked-in tee with a flannel over it. I’d seen five girls wear the same kind of outfit that week. But during second period, Ms. Takashi pulled me aside and told me I needed to go to the office.
“They said it’s ‘distracting,’” I muttered to Dad, who shook his head like he’d heard enough.
“What exactly is distracting about a knee?” he asked, then turned to Mrs. Calloway. “And if it’s boys getting distracted, why not call their parents?”
There was a long silence.
That’s when I knew—something had cracked. Not just in that office, but in me.
That day stuck with me like glue. But what happened after changed way more than I expected.
After that meeting, I was allowed to return to class—no change of clothes, no detention. Mrs. Calloway avoided my eyes. My dad gave me a wink before heading back to work. I walked down the hallway feeling taller than usual.
But word spread fast. Too fast.
By lunch, people were whispering.
“Did you hear what her dad said?”
“Apparently he called out the teachers.”
“About their skirts.”
Some kids looked at me like I was a legend. Others looked at me like I was trouble. I wasn’t used to being noticed. I wasn’t the loudest or most popular—I mostly kept to my small friend circle and art class.
But the attention made me squirm. Especially when I overheard someone say, “She’s just trying to be edgy. Probably planned it.”
The thing is, I hadn’t. I wasn’t trying to start a protest. I just got dressed for school.
And it didn’t stop there.
That Friday, I got pulled out of class again. This time, by Ms. Takashi herself.
“I heard what your father said,” she said, arms crossed. “You might want to tell him not to embarrass you like that again.”
My mouth went dry.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she leaned closer, “being disrespectful to authority doesn’t help your case. And neither does playing victim.”
I went home with a tight throat. That night, I told my dad what happened.
He was quiet for a minute.
Then he got up, walked to the garage, and came back with a dusty folder.
Inside were old documents, photos, and newspaper clippings. My dad sat across from me and laid one photo flat on the table.
It was a picture of a woman. About my age. Wearing a white t-shirt and a mid-thigh skirt, holding a protest sign. My heart dropped when I saw the sign: “My body is not a distraction.”
