Uniformity

Oh, the angst. Why have I been cursed to be on the payroll in not one, but two, museums at the very moment they've chosen to implement staff uniforms for the first time? Of all the convulsions I've seen museums go through, the uniform debate has been the second most painful (after the all-time #1 vote-getter, reduction of compensation, loss of benefits, and layoffs all as one package).

Maybe it's that I've worked mostly in history- based museums. These places tend to attract people who already fall outside the cultural mainstream. They've grown up with a set of geeky interests in things past, reading nerdy books and learning obsolete skills and archaic words. For better or worse, that brands a person as an "individual" -- in both the positive and pejorative senses. And those are certainly the people we want and need as history museum employees. Let's face it -- it's hard to put an ad in the local paper and expect a deluge of applicants who have the skills, knowledge, and desire to build a hearth fire with rain-dampened punky wood; steam-bend cask hoops; ride high-wheel bikes; ret flax for spinning; sing Child ballads; use a two-man crosscut saw; or maintain a steam-heated Victorian greenhouse. It's a unique employee pool, and one that resists any hint of conformity.

That being said, I've always heartily approved of uniforms. Maybe it's because I spent much time working in nature centers and environmental education centers. I'm not sure why, but people engaged in teaching science seem to welcome the opportunity to wear the logo polo shirt. In those environments, it was a point of pride to be seen as the One With the Knowledge -- the person who was allowed to handle the scary chemicals, tend the open flames, and pick up the snakes and stuff. A uniform was a sign of belonging and a passport to do all the cool things visitors couldn't do on their own. Go to an aquarium sometime and watch the staff feeding the penguins; you'll see what I mean.

So I was surprised when I worked in my first history museum and the idea of uniforms was introduced. We congregated as a staff for a long, anguished, even tearful discussion of what uniforms meant, and how much it was going to take away from our individuality and unique, personal character. As a new staffer there, I maintained a politic neutrality during the discussion. But secretly, I was thrilled with my new uniform. This was a place I had dreamed of working, and to be able to don this (rather nice) button-down logo shirt was a sign that I had made it - that I was finally doing something I wholeheartedly believed in.

5 years later, some staffers at that place still rankle at the uniform. On a recent visit, one person told me she was disappointed that I was going to help institute uniforms at my current job. "I think they're just a means of control, so the administration can stamp out individuality," she said. I laughingly asked her "Do you really think I get up in the morning, rub my hands with evil glee, and say 'How can I stamp out my staff's individuality today?'" I mean, come on. You can't stamp out a history geek's individuality - not with steel-toe, lug-soled shitkickers, you can't. I'm all for individuality.

But I'm also all for the visitor experience -- and that's what uniforms are really all about. Sometimes our priorities get really turned around, and we forget that we choose to work in museums so we can bring experiences and information to visitors. After all, without visitors, it wouldn't be a museum, it'd be a collection. Yes, sure -- we also work in museums because we like the environment, we get to do really cool things, we get special access (to our own museum and to others), we're always learning, we like our quirky co-workers. But we have to remember to look on those things as the perks. They aren't the central reasons why we're there -- if they were, it wouldn't be a place of employment -- it would be a club. Hard as it is to accept, museums aren't primarily meant to provide an adult recreation program for the staff.

Visitors find heterogenous appearances confusing. Uniforms help solve this. A uniform helps visitors tell us from other visitors and from volunteers. Uniforms help us spot each other at a distance, and point each other out across a large area. They also make us accountable to visitors - and yes, some people are uncomfortable with that. It means more work. Perhaps that's what really underlies the reluctance to wear one. You can't hide when you've got a uniform on. You represent your institution, like it or not, and you're going to get asked where the bathroom is, even as you walk across the grounds to go on your lunch break. If you're rude or indifferent while in uniform, someone might complain to another staffer about it. You are in sharp focus, unable to ignore your role as a public ambassador for the museum.

In addition, uniforms are simply a broad cultural expectation these days. Think about it -- what visitor or tourist-oriented destination do you go to anymore that doesn't have uniforms? Hotels, theme parks, waterparks, restaurants, science centers, theatres -- these are places where a visitor is likely to be new to the environment and will welcome the support of the staff. A uniform shows that an organization takes this responsibility seriously enough to make sure the staff is identifiable to you. It shows the staff is all on the same team, working toward common goals and part of a community that exists to bring people a great and memorable experience.

Anyway - it's not like uniforms ever truly succeed at stamping out individuality. Once a staff has got the shirt or blazer on, the job of identification is done, and creativity takes over. The look is a far cry from rows of West Point cadets all turned out for inspection. You'll see the fancy ladies with colorful scarves and gold neclaces, gents with service pins on their lapels. Handmade jewelery and knitted cardigans. Funky socks and belts. A variety of hairstyles and ear piercings (maybe even nose, if the place is a bit more progressive). And shining irrepressibly through it all, strong, unique personalities that will never, ever blend into the crowd.