The first day of third-grade swim class, I was asked to sit out for the most sexually objectifying reason. Having flown in just a few weeks prior and having yet to dilute my maladjusted wardrobe with culturally appropriate clothes, I self-consciously stepped out among veiled stomachs in my two-piece swimsuit. My discomfort was only exacerbated when the swim instructor joked that my pre-pubescent, boy-passing body would “distract my male peers and make them drown.” I had to buy a less revealing swimsuit for the next class.

If it were left to my discretion, I would have bought a one-piece swimsuit anyways. Being the only person in a two-piece would have been reason enough for the then-timid me to make a trip to the mall. My 40-something year old teacher sexualizing my body, however, made the trip all the more urgent.

For years after the comment, I didn’t feel comfortable in a swimsuit; I constantly felt like a sexual spectacle, judged by how I looked. In the conservative Taiwanese bubble, a swimsuit in a typical two-piece cut is considered too showy even for an elementary school kid who has nothing to show. Little did I know that Hell wouldn’t truly dawn until I received the gift of boobs. My mom began making concerted efforts to warn me every day that if my cleavage was showing, men would only be interested in me for my body and would dismiss my intelligence.

As a consequence, I never learned how to swim.

When I first learned that I’d be moving to the U.S., I was ready to experience the equality and freedom the country’s people constantly brag about, only to be confronted by sexist dress codes in school. As a “rebellious teenager,” I was cited for erratic conducts because I was wearing heat-alleviating tank tops in 90-degree weather. After multiple dress code violations in high school, I was faced with the possibility of suspension until my transcripts convinced the school to write off my misconducts.

Unfortunately, school dress codes have become prevalent, and most of them specifically address how “sexual” women can appear. By intending to limit women’s sexual threat to male learning, schools ironically label girls as nothing more than sexual objects. When my swim instructor told me I would distract the boys and dismissed me from class, it illustrated that their education was more important than mine. In addition, by setting a standard to measure how sexual a woman’s body appears, girls are taught to sexually objectify themselves.

And, since sexual dress codes primarily apply to women, they increase the gender gap by not only shaming women for what they wear but also creating more opportunities to inhibit them from the classroom. When a girl is pulled out of class because her bare shoulders pose a “sexual threat,” it is held at her expense to not distract the males from learning. Women should not be held accountable for their male peers’ inability to pay attention in class. Sheltering men in this way assumes they are children with no self-control.

The dress codes that apply to men, such as low-riding pants, intend to prevent students from following “a trend started by prisoners” and do not have implications of sexual oppression (though they are also unreasonable). School officials tell women from a young age to hide our bodies because they are sexual distractions, which is degrading in a way males cannot relate to. It is also extremely inappropriate and problematic to have adult male security guards speculate if female teenagers’ outfits could potentially be too sexually arousing.

Implementing dress codes that sexualize young girls’ bodies by no means encourages women to feel comfortable in their skin. It produces expectations for what girls are responsible for wearing and shames those who don’t fall in line. Women should not be judged by what they wear, they should not be held accountable for male peers’ lack of interest in the course material and they should be allowed to wear clothes appropriate for the weather.

Having been in Berkeley for two years with the privilege to walk down the streets with my nipples poking through my tank in a very tasteful, 90s way, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have my outfits policed. My wardrobe has completely changed for the sluttier, yet, to my knowledge, no guy has ascribed failing a class to my bare shoulders. And if they did, they’re the ones who need to change — not me, and certainly not my clothes.

Catherine Straus writes the Thursday blog on taking two sides. Contact her at [email protected]