There are many contingencies to worry about in the weeks leading up to a graduation ceremony: who to invite, what to wear, and when to arrive are all important details. When I arrived at the Quadrangle earlier this month to receive my Bachelor’s degree, I was certain I had accounted for everything. But then, it was time to get fitted for my cap and gown.
Before I had finished sliding my arms through the mandatory Arts fur-lined robe, I could feel it was undeniably too big and too heavy. “These gowns are typically made for people with broader shoulders”, my dresser said. “But we only have one size.” She pinned the lapels in place, pulling both shoulders until they aligned tightly across my chest. My cap fell off as soon as it was placed on my head. Wearing a puddle of fabric and a lopsided tassel, I was sent off to the Great Hall for my ceremony. It quickly became obvious that academic dress was not made for people like myself; that is, people who are not men.
I had not anticipated I would confront this issue during my graduation — or that it would even be an issue to begin with. It appears that, until now, this gendered legacy of the University of Sydney’s academic rituals was swamped underneath sheets of dark blue taffeta.
The advent of academic dress at the University of Sydney
The academic dress familiar to students at the University of Sydney is modelled on their mediaeval predecessors at the University of Cambridge. Evolving from a sleeveless cappa clausa cloak to an open gown by the sixteenth century, these outfits were designed to be as heavy and warm as possible for scholars graduating in draughty sandstone halls. When hoods were no longer fashionable as head coverings, their trims became regulated according to specific degrees, and hats were introduced in a square ‘mortarboard’ shape.
Known commercially as The Churchill Gown, our University’s undergraduate robes feature waist-length, open-slit sleeves and unique hoods for every degree. While there are no rules around what graduates must wear beneath the gown, clothing like a suit or blazer is often considered ‘appropriate’ or ‘formal.’ Perhaps coincidentally, these items usually ‘bulk up’ the wearer to carry their heavy cloaks, and cater explicitly to male fashion trends.
When women graduate
Gowns, hoods, and caps were designed at a time when men were exclusively granted passage to universities At first, this applied to male monks and clerics hailing from the Roman Catholic Church. By the time the University of Sydney was founded in 1850, this extended to the sons of the British Empire’s richest colonial families. It is important to recognise that this classist and imperialist history exists alongside the misogynistic legacies of academic dress.
When the first women graduated from the University in 1885, they donned the same robes as their male counterparts. Today, 15,000 women who comprise 58% of the University’s undergraduate cohort wear the same outfits designed almost 150 years prior. Although standardised gowns can be considered a marker of gender parity, the refusal to offer sizing options and alterations reinforces the exclusion of women and gender diverse people from academic institutions.
Cutting a new pattern?
However, academic dress as it manifests in Sydney and Cambridge is increasingly outdated. Since the Student Movement of the 1960s, most German universities have rejected graduation gowns as symbols of right-wing conservatism. Black caps and trimmed hoods are also often an expression of elitist, colonial power around the world, with many universities across Asia, Africa, and South America replacing Western trends with traditional dress. Renowned designers have also been known to modernise graduation outfits, such as Vivienne Westwood’s redesign of robes at the King’s College of London in 2008. While few of these examples reflect an appetite to make academic dress more gender inclusive, they do demonstrate a capacity for change.
Conclusion
The remainder of my graduation day was painful. My shoulders ached from the weight of the graduation gown, and my neck became stiff for fear of moving my head and tipping my cap off. I had to be refitted twice, not counting the repinning I was lucky enough to receive immediately before I walked across the stage. This experience is not isolated, nor is it an argument in favour of modifying academic dress to comply with gendered aesthetics or styles. Rather, it is a testament to the importance of sewing together comfort, accessibility, and inclusion in tertiary institutions — and unpicking their obsolete legacies.
