PETER BUFFA -- Comments & Curiosities

It’s a simple question. Does the conformity of uniformity warrant a

discussion of enormity? For the Newport-Mesa Unified School District,

that is the dilemma of the day.

The debate over school uniforms waxes and wanes over the years. As

always, I have few answers. But I do have 12 years of experience with

school uniforms, to say nothing of a trunkful of memories.

My quest for knowledge, which obviously failed, began some 45 years ago

at St. Francis of Rome in the Bronx, and continued at Fordham Prep, the

preparatory school at Fordham University.

White shirt, navy blue trousers and tie. That was the uniform at St.

Francis. At Fordham, it was coat and tie, plain trousers -- chinos yes,

jeans no. By the way, they weren’t called “jeans” in those days. They

were “Levi’s” or “dungarees.” Do you know where the term “dungarees”

comes from? Neither do I.

In grammar school (grade school, elementary school, which is it? I’m

never sure), I think uniforms were, for the most part, a good thing. You

never worried about what to wear. You could dress in about 18 seconds. If

you didn’t sweat much (I didn’t), they were very low maintenance.

The ties could be a problem, though. When you’re in full-tilt boogie

across a schoolyard and someone grabs you by the tie, it really focuses

the senses. Ties are a particular problem for wimpy kids. Wimpy kids get

picked on enough by tough kids. But with a tie on, they’re pull toys. Due

to my smart mouth, I never had much trouble with either the wimpy kids or

the tough kids.

But my terribly witty outbursts had a much different effect on the Irish

nuns who guided my early development. Sister Mary Benigna had this

wonderful way of playing with your tie as she explained how deeply

disappointed she was with your behavior. Pretending to straighten it,

she’d pull the knot tighter and tighter until your voice got real squeaky

and your face began to glow.

For the girls, it was navy blue pleated skirts, white blouses and a big,

floppy bow tie. I’m sure they’re called something other than big, floppy

bow ties, but you get the point.

I have very little to declare about whether uniforms are a good or bad

idea for girls. There were girls at St. Francis, but we rarely saw them.

Even recess and lunch were separated by gender. By the time I got to

Fordham, the uniform thing was neither here nor there. It just was.

The only real problem were the kids from Roosevelt. Theodore Roosevelt

High School was, and is, directly across the street from Fordham. The

school was tough and the kids were tougher.

Remember “Blackboard Jungle” with Glenn Ford and Vic Morrow? Worse. Vic

Morrow would have been a guidance counselor at Roosevelt. Wearing a coat

and tie around Roosevelt kids was like wearing a sandwich board that said

“Whack Me. I Like It.”

So what are the uniform arguments being bandied about today? The first is

that uniforms, by extracting the fashion distraction, promote a quieter,

more subdued learning environment.

Hmm, maybe. All I know is that I caused more trouble in school than a

computer virus at the Pentagon, and I didn’t particularly care what I was

wearing.

Another argument is that uniforms, by eliminating the trappings of social

class, are a great equalizer. I have my doubts, but I can’t say for sure.

There were no rich kids at St. Francis, and no one would dare act like

one. You could get away with a lot of things in my neighborhood, but

pretense wasn’t one of them.

Another argument is that school kids who wear uniforms are smarter. On

this one I can give you a definite answer based on years of experience --

“no.”

All in all, based more on nostalgia than anything else, I like the idea

of uniforms, except for sweaty kids.

Speaking of uniformity, what’s small and pink and only 10 days old? The Six Little Pigs, of course.

PPL Therapeutics, the Scottish company that brought us Dolly the cloned

sheep three years ago, unveiled their latest little creations earlier

this week. The bouncing bundles of genes, born March 5, were named

Millie, Christa, Alexis, Carrel and Dotcom. Don’t ask. The newborns

squealed with joy, took one look at the nearest test tube and said,

“Mom?”

PPL Therapeutics is adamant that they have no interest in, and no plans

to pursue, the cloning of a human being, which is illegal in both the

U.S. and the U.K. But as I’ve said before, I don’t buy it.

PPL’s story, and they’re sticking to it, is that designer pigs are an

ideal source of organ transplants because piggy parts are a close match

in size and structure to human parts. No argument there. Heart components

from pigs have been transplanted into humans for years.

But if piggy parts are a good fit, wait until you see synthetic human

parts. As sure as God made little pigs, or used to, you know there is

some deep thinker in a lab somewhere who is daydreaming about bursting

through the doors, screaming “It’s alive I tell you ... alive!!”

After spending 20 years or so cracking the code, who wouldn’t want to

take a shot at the real thing -- a living, breathing, designer person.

No thanks. Much too weird. I’d rather go back to a time when people were

people, pigs were pigs, and uniforms were OK -- even if they didn’t make

you smarter.

Happy St. Paddy’s Day! I gotta go.

* PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs Fridays. He

can be reached via e-mail at o7 PtrB4@aol.comf7 .