I forced my fingers between the collar of my polo shirt and my neck in an attempt to stretch the synthetic fibers as far away from my flesh as possible. The itchy fabric was suffocating and hot but it was either this or a white collared shirt. I remember the way it would poke out at the bottom where I was forced to tuck it into my awful pleaded plaid skirt. I was always worried about looking too chubby until I remembered I was wearing the same outfit as every other girl. I had become all too familiar with conformity, an idea I was forced to abide by for nine years. They tried in vain to numb my brain until it would succumb to their ideas of the perfect Catholic daughter.
      

I attended a private Catholic school from kindergarten through eighth grade. There were only seventy-five people my age by the time I left for high school. We were a family, tied together by our similar love for a divine figure that lives somewhere my feet won’t touch until the day my eyes close, but even the matching uniforms didn’t stop me from feeling like an outcast. I remember attending mass in school. We sat in that large carpeted room once a month just in case we weren’t able to share in the celebration on Sundays with our own family. Every once in a while, I would spot a girl or boy still stuck to their uncomfortable church pew while their rest of their class had left for Communion. Nobody said a word but their faces expressed a thinly veiled accusation: you’re not Catholic, why are you here? Even though I was baptized, I soon began to feel exactly like the boys and girls who weren’t allowed to receive the tiny white wafer. 
      

It was eighth grade when I began to realize just how strict my school actually was. There would be no toleration for nail polish, the devil’s distraction; absolutely no makeup because that takes away from your inner god-given beauty; no more than one ear piercing unless you were the spawn of Lucifer; no more than one ring because style is for the rebels; and all necklaces must always be religious. No exceptions. The rules had been imprinted into my mind from the young moments of my childhood, some in the form of a song so they would be easy to remember: “P.A.L.S. - peacemakers acting in loving service”. The monotonous words emanated through the vacant hallways every morning just in case we forgot to be a courteous person that day. I guess I failed to remember that the morning I walked through the heavy glass doors to school with mascara crowning my tired eyes, sharpie staining my delicate skin, and one lonely nail painted in shiny black polish.
      

She towered over me, her gray eyes shooting me an unforgiving glare. Her short hair allowed for every wrinkle on her aging forehead to scream her disgust at the sight of the ink on my wrists. Her blazing words hit my face with all the heat of the fiery passion she had caged inside of her for the rules. Mrs. Wilson, my eighth grade English teacher, was a grammar nazi, a fervent fan of Edmodo, and a stickler for enforcing the dress code. Her voice was stern as she asked what I had written on my wrist. They were song lyrics. My voice was shaking as I tried to explain this to her but the words just wouldn’t formulate the way I wanted them to. I couldn’t tell Mrs. Wilson that I wrote in a small attempt to relieve some of my depression. The entire class was staring. She told me to wash it off. I glanced down, trying to focus on the grains of wood making up a pattern on my desk. I didn’t reply.
      

Her darkening eyes then shifted to my one finger nail draped in a deep black hue. I wanted so badly to tell her that she couldn’t control me any longer. I wanted to tell her that I was my own person and that the uniform couldn’t suppress my personality any longer. I wanted to scream that maybe I wasn’t believing in god anymore because if god wanted me to be the same as everyone else, then I no longer knew him. I never knew him. I valued the education I was blessed with and the friendships I had made but I never asked to be caged behind such thick bars. Mrs. Wilson looked at me with a blinding stare and told me I should not be painting my nails. Again, I said nothing, though for the rest of the year I wore a color to represent my individuality they so clandestinely tried to shroud. Sometimes I paraded around a bright blue while other times it was a dull purple, an inaudible response to her denouncing comment. I smiled at the thought of having won a small battle in my struggle to express myself through means other than my misleading shy personality.
      

A few of my other peers also began breaking free of the stereotypical Catholic school girl norm. I had a close friend, Laney, who I had known since my earliest memories of kindergarten. She was never very feminine, only being seen in a dress when it was required. One night we had both decided to go to the school dance together. I was in heels and a lace dress to impress the guy who, in retrospect, never seemed to pay much attention to me. Laney had chosen a collared shirt and gray skinny jeans just baggy enough to hide her figure. She seemed upset that night. Ignoring the loud music and dancing that surrounded us, she pulled me off to the side and we sat in rounded chairs that felt cold on my bare thighs. I hardly even noticed she spoke until she looked at me, searching my eyes for a response. I nodded my head and smiled, desperately hoping that my simple gesture would be taken as a sufficient response. Laney’s reaction was more than grateful. She went on to tell me that she was elated that I was so open-minded. Laney proceeded to tell me that she and her girlfriend were having issues and that is when I realized she had just told me she is gay. I was overjoyed that she trusted me enough but I knew this would prove to be a bigger battle than my nail polish rebellion.
      

Over the next couple of weeks, Laney cut her hair and began to dress more like a guy. People were whispering that they missed the “old Laney” and how “she is just going through a phase”. I thought it was ironic how the people who talked the most had only known Laney a couple of years. They smiled when she wore a dress to graduation but I knew she had been beaten this time. The status quo of Catholic school had her trapped.
      

As a last attempt to show them that I could be different, to show Laney in a small way that we didn’t have to conform, I insisted on purchasing a pink dress for graduation. I knew each and every girl would be displaying their all-white gowns, camouflaging themselves among-st each other, but I would stand out. I walked across the stage to receive my diploma with a smile on my face because I knew that I may not have made a huge difference, but I had refused to attune to the beat of their mandatory drum.