Whenever I see a V-neck t-shirt, I’m reminded of an event that occurred during my classroom teaching years — a seemingly small incident that revealed volumes about leadership and community building.
During any classroom teacher’s career, if they spend enough time in the classroom, they’ll inevitably encounter leadership transitions within their school. I was hired to teach Kindergarten by a truly talented principal. She was confident, strong, had a clear vision, and knew how to create a tight community among faculty and staff. Make no mistake, she ran a tight ship and was direct, sometimes confrontational when she saw anyone not living up to their potential to be the best teacher they could be. Under her leadership, our small school earned the National Blue Ribbon of School Excellence.
…and then she left us for higher education.
Our new principal was strikingly different. The authenticity of our previous leader was replaced by something more vapid, more calculated. One afternoon, a veteran teacher sighed after another micromanaged staff meeting and whispered, “She treats us like paper dolls—just props she can arrange and rearrange to create the appearance of leadership.”
That image stuck with me. Paper dolls—flat, interchangeable, valued for appearance rather than substance. It captured perfectly how she’d obsess over the most trivial details—the exact wording on a bulletin board or the precise arrangement of chairs for an assembly—while letting crucial decisions about curriculum and student support drift without direction. She seemed to be playing the role of principal rather than embodying it, wandering blindly among the faculty never quite fitting in and always out of sync with the real rhythms and needs of our school community.
Rather early in her short tenure, she had decided to get all the teachers new spirit t-shirts. This is a common task every school principal faces, finding ways to build community, and spirit wear is often an easy vehicle. Teachers get to have a dress-down day with spirit wear once in a while, the community spirit is visible, and everyone feels part of the team. At least, that’s how it’s supposed to work.
Spirit wear is a small thing, really. Just fabric with a logo. Yet somehow these simple garments can become unexpected litmus tests for a leader’s understanding of community. Do they see the faculty as a collection of unique individuals who come together to form a whole? Or do they see a homogeneous group where differences are inconvenient complications?
I remember the day she bounced into the faculty lounge, practically vibrating with excitement. “I’ve found the cutest shirts for us!” she announced, spreading sample shirts across the table. The shirts were indeed cute – stylish V-necks in our school colors with an embellished logo that sparkled just a bit in the light. Several teachers immediately gathered around, admiring the design and discussing which size they might need. There was a signup sheet. It included a row for your name, and then three columns, Small, Medium or Large to put a check mark by.
I approached the table last, looking at the size tags on the samples. Small. Medium. Large. Then looked at the sign-up sheet. I glanced up and caught her eye. “These are great. Do they come in XL or above?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light and conversational.
Her eyes stared at mine. It was the slightest reflection of something very ugly I thought I caught a glimpse of. Intent. Had she intentionally set up this situation? That moment of eye contact lasted only a second, but in it, I sensed something I hadn’t expected – not embarrassment at an oversight, but perhaps a flash of joyous satisfaction. Her smile flickered just slightly before she replied. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll make sure everyone has a shirt.”
The words were reassuring, but the tone wasn’t quite right – like someone who has been caught but wants to maintain the appearance that everything was part of the plan all along. I felt a quiet unease settle over me, that sensation when you suddenly question whether you’re being overly sensitive or whether you’ve just glimpsed something revealing about someone’s character.
I nodded and stepped back, watching as other teachers continued signing up, blissfully unaware of the small moment that had just passed between us. The V-neck shirts sparkled under the fluorescent lights of the faculty lounge, and I wondered what the “solution” for those of us who didn’t fit the S-M-L mold would look like. But something in her expression told me all her paper dolls were S-M-L-sized.
It was painfully obvious she had not taken into consideration the range of sizes in the building. I privately told her how this made me feel, and she promised to “take care of it” and “fix it.” The principal was happy to report to me in the following days that she was able to get “us” v-neck t-shirts as well! Exuberant and giddy, she bounced away, leaving me with all her assurances it was fixed.
It was not.
When the shirts arrived, she handed them out in blue gift bags with blue tissue paper and announced, “For tomorrow’s dress-down day, be sure to wear your shirts!”
So, I showed up for our spirit day in my hard-won “special” t-shirt which wasn’t remotely the same as all the S-M-Ls in the building. The S-M-L teachers received the super cute, embellished shirts, while the XL shirts were a flatter, duller color with crew necks (not even V-necks!) and didn’t have the embellishments – just an iron-on transfer of the school logo.
We stood there for our group Faculty and Staff photo, and one of the other XL wearers leaned over to me and sing-song whispered in my ear, “Some of these teachers are not like the others…” in that familiar Sesame Street style where something stands out as different.
When I was young, I never thought I’d be the “one” in the grey shadow outer limits of a group. I had usually enjoyed a comfortable sphere of existence that included, if not confidence, at least a self-awareness of who I was. But in that moment, wearing that different shirt, I felt a sting I hadn’t expected. Our previous principal had built a community where each person was valued for what they brought to the table – their teaching skills, their unique perspectives, their commitment to students. This new leadership had, perhaps intentionally, created visible divisions based on something as insignificant as clothing size.
What struck me most wasn’t the different shirts themselves, but what they represented. Included and excluded. And not by accident either. This was intentional. I stood there regretting the personal outreach I made in trying to describe how it felt when the shirt sizes were being collected, thinking my personal conversation might provide a moment of realization for her, a teachable moment. That was certainly not the case, and now I regretted giving that part of myself up.
The t-shirt incident might seem trivial, but it reflected a deeper leadership philosophy that had been quietly revealing itself in various ways throughout the year. What became increasingly clear was that our new principal had a fundamental misunderstanding of how true community is formed.
To her, community seemed to be something she alone could engineer—a product she could manufacture by controlling all the variables and eliminating what didn’t fit her vision. The matching t-shirts weren’t really about unity; they were about uniformity. And there’s a profound difference between the two.
You see, she had made little effort to hide her disdain for certain “types” of people. Comments about fitness, subtle suggestions about health choices, recommended diet books left “helpfully” in the faculty lounge—all pointed to her discomfort with larger individuals. She seemed to believe they were somehow “lazy” or represented a poor reflection of the school image she was trying to cultivate. The different t-shirts weren’t an oversight; they were a physical manifestation of her belief that some of us were less worthy of being fully included.
What she failed to understand is that authentic community isn’t built by a leader deciding who belongs and who doesn’t, or by pressuring those who don’t fit a particular mold to either conform or feel excluded. Real community emerges organically when every individual’s dignity is genuinely respected. When a leader recognizes the inherent value each person brings—regardless of appearance, size, background, or any other superficial characteristic.
Great educational leaders understand that their role isn’t to create community through matching t-shirts or other symbols of forced togetherness. It’s to nurture community by ensuring thoughtful consideration of everyone’s needs, by celebrating differences rather than trying to erase them, and by sending the consistent message that everyone belongs equally. Not because they fit a predetermined ideal, but precisely because there is no ideal—only real people with real gifts to offer.
The irony was that in her attempt to create what she considered a perfect school image, she had undermined the very foundation of what makes a school community strong: the authentic sense that everyone is valued for exactly who they are.
In our classrooms, we work hard to make sure every child feels valued, included, and seen. We carefully consider how our words and actions might affect our students’ sense of belonging. We recognize that sometimes the smallest decisions can send the loudest messages about who matters and who doesn’t.
Shouldn’t we expect the same thoughtfulness from those who lead us?
I still think about those t-shirts years later, not with bitterness, but as a powerful reminder of the kind of leader I want to be — one who sees people, not paper dolls; one who understands that true community leaves no one standing in the margins, feeling different or less than; one who knows that real leadership isn’t about quick fixes or surface appearances, but about the genuine dignity we offer to each person under our care.
That moment replays itself each time I encounter school spirit wear.
Some lessons stay with you, even when the t-shirt itself has long since been donated. And sometimes the most meaningful leadership moments happen not in grand speeches or formal evaluations, but in those small, seemingly insignificant decisions that reveal who we truly believe belongs in our community—and who we’re willing to leave standing awkwardly at the edges, wearing a different shirt.