When aliens land on campus, they’re going to be a little confused. Not only because they’ll be wondering why they chose Stanford as the place to make first contact, but also because they’ll be a little surprised at the school’s resemblance to an interstellar penal colony.

“Penal colony?” I hear you ask. Well, it’s not just because the quality of life here is somewhat reminiscent of the gulags. Nor is it because dubious regimes ship their undesirables over here for the extended torture that is grad school. No, it’s all about the uniform.

As evidenced by the preponderance of Guantanamo orange in the media, dehumanizing prisoners with absurd costumes is as in vogue today as it has been throughout the ages.

Of course, uniforms are generally forced upon convicts; for the inmates to voluntarily select brightly-colored clothing, slathered with the name and symbol of the jailer — now that’s something else.

It may be that the need to declare your affiliation is a particularly American phenomenon that my tiny (and subtle) European mind just can’t grasp. Maybe it’s a rite of passage for college students. A chance for you to break away from the conventions and strictures of your youth. After all, nothing says “free-thinker” quite like the regulation Stanford hoodie.

On the other hand, uniformity could be a desperate reflection of an adolescent need to belong. It’s easy to feel a little confused by the overwhelming pressures of college life. Sometimes, the only way to deal involves a pair of corporate hot pants.

Then again, maybe it’s pride. Perhaps you guys are so filled with satisfaction at being here that you just can’t help saying, “Look at me, I’m at Stanford” with a poly-cotton blend.

The pride thing would also explain the equally disturbing tendency for people to “go there, do that and get the T-shirt.” Even when the “there” is Mountain View, the “that” is a leisurely stroll up a gentle hill and the T-shirt is in a particularly repellent shade of lime green.

I suppose in a world where cultural, religious, social and gender barriers are being blurred, identifying yourself as one who has done something (you can insert your own choice of meaningless activity here) is as good a way as any to be defined.

The danger of definitions, though, is they often stick — even when you decide that you should be jamming yourself into another pigeonhole. I bet there is literally one or two of you who — now that you’ve stepped up the social ladder to declare EE — regret wearing those dorky CS T-shirts you had as a freshman.

This whole phenomenon is even worse for grad students. For most of the folk I know, “new clothing” is a mythical concept about which one whispers in hushed tones. Accordingly, the frequency of sweatshirts declaring one’s undying allegiance to the University of Iowa Quiz Bowl team is, well, frequent.

What’s more, it’s not just the fact it’s utterly pathetic, there’s also another downside to the insistence on branding yourself with corporate clothing. It’s really quite ugly.

While I don’t necessarily expect you to dress well (you are, after all, the youth of America), I can’t help but feel that deliberately throwing on hideous clothing each morning is somewhat unfair to the rest of the community. Some of us are quite sensitive, you know.

Furthermore, the lack of effort is troubling in itself. Choosing between wearing the Stanford T-shirt in white or red is not a fashion choice. Actually, it barely even qualifies as a decision. And that’s awfully disappointing given your status as the bright young minds of a new generation.

Despite said disappointment, the lack of taste and the utter soullessness reflected in your choice of apparel, there is a small part of me that can forgive your transgressions against style. After all, while it is in some ways wretched, the sight of all you children scurrying around in uniform is also, occasionally, rather cute.

Wearing a branded T-shirt? Take it off. Burn it. Send me the ashes. Alternatively, e-mail your fashion questions to navins@stanford.edu and he’ll tell you what not to wear.