Uniforms are necessary. If not for the Red Shirt uniforms, how will the evil aliens in Star Trek know whom to kill? Without the Red Shirt uniforms, the individual members of any landing party won’t know if they’ll survive the next encounter.
For the most part, my sympathies lie against the OP. As has been noted several times, the company is offering a wide range of styles and colors from which to choose. What’s more, they’re paying for the shirts. I’d cheerfully wear most anything if the company paid for it. Spending less of my money on clothes for work = spending more of my money on stuff I want/like.
However, one nagging memory prevents me from setting my phaser to “kill” in regards to the OP. When I was a teenager, I worked for a privately owned, local tourist attraction. We had a uniform we had to wear while on duty (khaki slacks or shorts, blue Oxford button-down shirt, nametag … all of which we had to buy ourselves, incidentally). Each year, this tourist attraction would host an Indian Dance Festival, in which various Indian tribes would perform some of their ritual dances. A few thousand people would usually attend this Festival.
One year, the owner of the tourist attraction decided that all employees would add one item to their official uniform for the duration of the Indian Dance Festival – a faux-leather headband across our brows, with a dyed feather in the back. That’s right – the stereotypical (and historically inaccurate) Hollywood headgear for an “Indian brave.”
He announced this during the staff meeting the morning of the Festival. For some reason I don’t remember, I wasn’t at the staff meeting; I was elsewhere on the grounds doing something. I learned about the headgear deal when I saw one of the other employees sporting the look. She filled me in.
I refused to wear one.
Several things led to my refusal. First, we had just studied the tribes of Native Americans that lived in Alabama in school, and I knew none of them wore said headgear. Second, I tend to sweat a bit if I’m walking around in the hot sun (as I would have to do all weekend long), and I knew the “leather” would exacerbate that problem. Finally, my job was in no way related to the dance performances of the local tribes, and I felt silly (and a bit self-conscious) wearing something that could potentially insult one or more members of said tribes.
I didn’t see the owner on Saturday, but Sunday he and I crossed paths just before noon. We sized each other up. Our shadows pooled around our feet in the blazing sun. A hush fell over the crowd, and people scurried for cover. In the silence, a crow took flight, cawing raucously. A wizened old man near the saloon said “They’s gon’ be a shootout!”
The owner broke the silence. “You’re not wearing the feather.”
I said, “That’s right.”
He said, “Be careful, or you’ll get scalped!” and laughed. (This should give you some idea of the cultural sensitivity of the man.) I laughed along with him. And went on my merry way. No repercussions were ever heaped upon my head for my brazen defiance of The Man.
I’m sure that when I started typing this post, I had some point to prove by relaying that story. By now, though, I’ve long since forgotten it.
I’m still thinking the whole “refusing to wear the shirt” thing is pointless. I understand living your life by a set of personal principals, but this one is hardly up there with “First do no harm.”
And I’m seriously considering wearing a feathered headband to work tomorrow. Just for the hell of it.