Saturday Digression: Should Law Professors for Dress for Success?

Nope

Over on LinkedIn, my friend and occasional sparring partner Marc Moore offered up a post describing the ideal American law professor uniform:

Timeless in its serious but laidback elegance, this look is typically achieved by pairing a light blue button down shirt with a navy sports blazer, cream chinos and brown slip-ons or deck shoes.

The younger lecturer might choose to go for a cheeky “no socks” look, although older lecturers are advised to play safe with a steady sock under the shoe.

He offers up this image as an exemplar to which the American law professor should (or, perhaps, does) aspire.¹

What an English law professor knows about the American law professor look might be questioned,² but let’s pass over that in the name of the trans-Atlantic harmony that has been so severely tested of late.

In any case, Marc’s post called to mind a debate that was kicked off back in 2009 by Bennett Capers of Prawfsblawg, who observed that:

We’ve all heard the expression “clothes make the man.” But do clothes also make the professor? Especially if the professor looks young enough to be a student, or is female, or a person of color, or LGBT, or some combination of the above? And am I the only one, at the start of yet another school year, thinking about this?

One of my favorite quotes from an article I wrote about appearance and the law, Cross Dressing and the Criminal, comes from Allison Lurie. In The Language of Clothes, she wrote: “For thousands of years human beings have communicated with one another first in the language of dress. Long before I am near enough to talk to you on the street, in a meeting, or at a party, you announce your sex, age and class to me through what you are wearing—and very possibly give me important information (or misinformation) as to your occupation, origin, personality, opinions, tastes, sexual desires, and current mood. I may not be able to put what I observe into words, but I register the information unconsciously; and you simultaneously do the same for me. By the time we meet and converse we have already spoken to each other in an older and more universal tongue.”

Given the importance of this first impression, am I the only one that obsesses at the start of the school year about what to wear on the first day of class, down to what color tie to wear? And I’m curious. Given that professors who don’t naturally look professorial —think you know what I mean—often have to do extra work to command respect and authority, is it mostly those professors who worry about clothing and first impressions?³

This prompted Ashby Jones to reminisce:

We showed up at law school many years ago not really knowing what to expect. But our civil procedure professor — Richard Friedman at Michigan — showed up on the first day dressed in a suit. It made a helpful impression on us — an impression not so much about Friedman but law school generally. It made us sit up and say to ourselves, ‘oh, right. This ain’t undergrad. We’re being trained for a profession here.’ And that, in retrospect, wasn’t an entirely bad chord to strike early on, we thinks.

Speaking for myself, as a junior professor at Illinois, I always wore a suit and tie at least on the first day of the year. I did so mainly to set myself apart from the students, who back then were much closer to me in age. As Capers notes, it helps set a tone of professionalism, respect, and authority. By virtue of his/her youth, lack of teaching experience, lack of scholarly reputation, and so on, a junior lacks gravitas. A suit can help. So I think that it makes sense for juniors to worry about choosing the right outfit and to err on the side of formality.

Like it or not, I think it also makes sense for female professors to do so. I’ve read a zillion student evaluations over the years in connection with tenure and promotion decisions. Female professors tend to get many more student comments about clothing, haircuts, and so on than do male professors. It’s sexist and unfair, but it’s a fact of life. Conservative and professional but not frumpy seems the best bet.

Geography matters too. A first year professor at a top 50 East Coast school really ought to wear a suit and tie. Out here in California, that outfit would look odd and out of place. You’re a geek trying too hard.

As for me now that I’m old guy? My thinking about my wardrobe evolved in the mid-90s to a much less formal approach. For one thing, I’ve been in this gig almost 40 years. My rep—for better or worse—precedes me. So I don’t worry too much about first impressions. Having my name on the case book spine probably helps too. For another, I teach second and third years. They’re much less easy to impress with fashion and other superficialities than are first years.

My geography plays into my current thinking, as well. I ditched ties, suits, sports coats, and all that nonsense when I moved from Illinois to UCLA. After all, while I’ve never seen one of my colleagues teach in flip-flops, I have seen more than one teach in Teva sandals.

When Helen and I took a cruise for my 50^th birthday, I needed to update my formal and semi-formal wardrobe. In order to get my money’s worth out of the new suits, I started wearing them again. But I quickly concluded that it’s just not me. I’m a comfort guy. I was grunge before anybody had ever heard of Kurt Cobain. If I thought I could get away with it, I would teach in sweatpants and my vintage Sonny Jurgensen jersey. (Maybe when I teach on recall after I retire from full-time teaching?)

So I donated my new suits to my parish’s St. Vincent de Paul clothing drive, retaining a single coat and tie for funerals, weddings, and the like.

I’ve even debated giving up that last holdout. The probability that wearing a tie might be a social norm in the setting in question doesn’t persuade me. Fight the power! Question authority! And all that stuff. In other words, no one who would take offense at my lack of neckwear has the power to make my life less fun and/or profitable. So why should I be uncomfortable for the sake of silly conformity to an outdated mode of dress?

1. It’s not entirely clear whether the post is intended to be prescriptive or descriptive, although some of his replies to comments suggest the former.

2. In fairness, Marc has taught at Notre Dame and Seattle University. Neither is exactly a center of American sartorial style, however.

3. An earlier round in this once perennial debate started back in 2007, as Martha Neil explained in the ABA Journal:

In an upcoming law review article, Erik Jensen of Case Western Reserve University calls for a dress code for his academic colleagues, in order to restore the majesty of the law. “Not for students,” he adds. “I give up on them.”

There is a dress code even for crash dummies, Jensen points out, and, like the fictional academic in Philip Roth’s The Professor of Desire, law professors should want to tell their students “however you may choose to attire yourselves–in the getup of garage mechanic, panhandler … or cattle rustler–I still prefer to appear before you to teach wearing a jacket and a tie.”

A Uniform Uniform Code, he suggests, should require professors, when on law school grounds or law school business, “to dress in a way that would not embarrass their mothers, unless their mothers are under age 50 and are therefore likely to be immune to the possibility of embarrassment from scruffy dressing.” Jensen’s draft dress code is a bit bare on specific details, especially for women. However, in addition to the “mother” test he suggests those in doubt should simply look back to what others in their position routinely wore 20 or 30 years ago.

Any bright-line test to be developed by those enhancing his draft UUC will have to consider all the facts and circumstances, of course. “Are pants acceptable? Of course, in the right climate at the right time,” Jensen advises his female colleagues. “Color of suit? Maybe it depends on what you’re doing. Ask your mother.”

Jensen’s article is available here.