The below is an open letter to Dr Heather Schnagl, School Principal of Ivanhoe Girls’ Grammar School, who refused to allow a same-sex couple attend their Year 11 Formal. The story is here.

—-

Dr Heather Schnagl
Principal
Ivanhoe Girls’ Grammar School

Dear Dr Schnagl

In light of the recent news article of the refusal of a same-sex couple to attend the Year 11 Formal at Ivanhoe Girls’ Grammar School, I was inspired to write to you and give you brief history of my fashion choices when I was attending private high school.

It was 1997 and I was in Year 10, the Spice Girls were at number 1 and Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery had just been released. My outfit of choice? Plaid Dangerfield burgundy flares (which I later wore in a school play set in 1970s Northern Ireland where I played a Down’s Syndrome boy by then name of Sammy Nelson), matching velvet dinner jacket and a cravat. Alas, I was a straight-edged fashion rebel and didn’t have bongs or inhalation of aerosol cans to blame for my questionable taste. I am sure it later inspired my date at the time to enter her current profession—she is now a member of the Victorian Police Force.

Year 11 approached and I entered the International Baccalaureate with mature gusto. Alas, my fashion palette didn’t follow suit and I found myself at the Drama Dinner sporting a suit made entirely out of fluorescent orange ‘Handle with care’ sticky tape that no doubt inspired Lady Gaga to do the same more than a decade later. When there was a wardrobe malfunction on the dance floor—my trousers split down the centre—a friend’s mother came to rescue with a spare roll fetched from the storage cupboard and assisted me to tape my crotch.

It didn’t stop there. Clad in custom-made black vinyl trousers, platform boots, a knee-length blue diamond mink coat and a funnel-neck black Lycra shirt, I was ready for my Year 11 Formal or most conventional S&M parties. Unwilling to be outdone by anyone else who should arrive in the identical outfit, I also sported more make-up than most of the girls present, Chanel nail varnish and a radical hairstyle: my hair sectioned into a brickwork formation and into individual twists; each second twist with wire stolen from the Art Department wound around it.

For my Valedictory Dinner at the conclusion of my education, the horror continued. I craned my neck over my Pfaff and tailored a fuchsia shot-silk suit, of which the trousers still fit me today. The outfit is reminiscent of that which Boz Scaggs wears on the cover of his ‘Hits!’ album, which I found in bargain bin much too late to un-make and un-wear the suit.

And finally, at the assembly to conclude our salad days at one of Melbourne’s most prestigious private schools, I performed a highly suggestive choreographed dance along with the school’s football team. The song? RuPaul and Martha Wash’s cover of the Weather Girls’ hit, ‘It’s Raining Men’. Upon finishing a mock game of ‘soggy Sayo’ using our flaccid umbrellas, I was encircled by the rest of my troupe who tore open my yellow raincoat to reveal me in my little sister’s school blazer, with sequinned lapels and nothing underneath. Not an eyelid batted.

Today I have chosen to out my hideous fashion taste in the late-90s in a bid to draw attention to your despicable actions. Though I went to a school where the adage was “If you can’t get a School X girl, get a School X boy”, I received a largely tolerant and accepting education, where creativity and individuality were encouraged. It astounds me how a decade later, after so much progress, your misinformed and ignorant decision can do so much damage.

So, dear Dr Schnagl, rest assured that when the time comes and I’m shacked up with my 2.5 children, dog and Limoges tea set, you won’t have to call upon my services to assist with balloon table centrepieces or Pride of Erin lessons. That is, of course, if you would like to take me to next year’s Formal, where I would be pleased to accompany you (and bolster the numbers of males present) in the most horrifying homosexual garb I can find. Please be so kind to give me adequate notice to find the crotchless chaps that fit me—I’m very slight of build, you know.

Yours sincerely,

Agony Uncle

*Although Boz Scaggs’ fashion sense is entirely questionable, this use of his image in this article does not intend to reflect his opinion

I do believe there’s more for you to read: