Word Count: 1028

He could really do without the yelling.

It wasn’t all that necessary, in his opinion. He could understand if he happened to be standing at a distance, but he wasn’t. He was right there, listening to every word.

Alright, so maybe he wasn’t really listening, but it was such a difficult thing to do when he was being yelled at for something he didn’t care to change in the first place.

Paris had lost count of how many times lectures like this had occurred. It was always the same thing -- his schoolwork was lacking, he wasn’t putting in the effort they knew he could give, he had an attitude, he didn’t follow certain guidelines -- over and over again until he felt as if he could recite the entire thing back at them word perfect. It all went in one ear and out the other at this point, though certain words occasionally made their way through the mind-numbing waffle -- “disrespectful,” “flagrant violation,” “misbehaving,” “cause a disruption,” “what are you going to do with your life?”

What was he going to do with his life? Certainly not spend it listening to such inane, short-sighted prattling about rules and regulations and the ridiculous expectations placed on him in such an overly-confining atmosphere.

He stood there in his neatly pressed pants and his shirt with the buttons done up all the way, and his tie knotted correctly and his vest free of lint, with his face cleared of the makeup that usually adorned it and his feet encased in a pair of uncomfortable penny loafers he hadn’t worn often enough to break in. He stood and he ignored as much of the negative, oppressive comments as he could, because in the end none of it would matter -- nothing would change. He would go back to his room, loosen his tie, put on his Mary Janes, and repeat the process all over again, waiting to see how long it took for someone else to call him out and say “No, Paris, you can’t be that way here.”

He was uncomfortable, not because of the yelling -- he’d heard plenty worse before, and in truth none of it was really all that horrible compared to what they could be saying -- but because he didn’t feel satisfied in what he was wearing. He didn’t feel like himself.

Paris didn’t like pants. The dislike had nothing to do with the fact that he was comfortable in his body and had no problems showing it off, but more to do with the fact that pants were too confining; he felt they restricted the movement of his legs, which he was used to nimbly bending and lifting in a variety of moves and poses. Leggings were fine because they were tight and fitted, and shorts didn’t get in the way so long as they were short enough, but jeans and slacks were too stiff, too containing. They made him feel as if he didn’t have any room to breathe.

He hated it, the same as he hated the tie for feeling as if it was choking him to death, and the shirt for being so plain and ordinary, and the vest for being so formal. He knew what he must look like -- a good little boy with his hair brushed neatly, pretty and fresh-faced in his sweet little uniform, blending in with everyone else who, through a variety of circumstances, managed to get themselves thrown into this godforsaken place, only to be yelled at and forced back into line when they slipped so much as one toe over it.

It was unpleasant, it was disgusting, this attempt of theirs to squash out anything and everything that made them people, and he wondered how much more of it he could take before he attempted a desperate bid for freedom.

He was allowed to leave only when his lecturer felt as if he’d gotten the point across, ushering Paris unceremoniously out the door and shutting it a bit too harshly behind him. Paris turned to glare at it, teeming with animosity, and he lifted a hand in a rude gesture that would have surely earned him another lecture if it’d been seen. There was nothing else for him to do, no defense he could pose and no debate that he could win, so he turned to storm away, leaning over to rip off his uncomfortable shoes so that he could stalk down the hall in his boring, unobjectionable pair of white socks instead.

He threw his shoes against the wall once he returned to his room with the slam of another door, loosening his tie to fling that aside as well. Next to go were the pants, balled up and sent beneath his bed, to be followed by the vest and shirt, which formed a small pile in the middle of the floor. They were replaced by a blouse and skirt -- “girly,” but only because everyone else said they were -- before he sought out his makeup and a mirror with which to apply it.

What was so wrong with it, he wondered, if wearing it made him feel good?

Of course, it was probably because it did make him feel good that it wasn’t allowed. These people seemed intent on making he and everyone else feel as miserable and as unlike themselves as they possibly could. What did his teachers care if he wasn’t happy? What did anyone care, really? They laughed and they snickered and they looked at him as if he were an oddity, and maybe he was, but at least he wasn’t ashamed of it.

At least he knew who he was, what he was, and he wasn’t afraid to show it. He didn’t give a damn what anyone said, he didn’t care how many times he got in trouble, or what sorts of punishments he was threatened with. This was who he was. This was who he liked being. This was who he’d been born as, not what anyone else had made him.

Paris looked at himself with his lashes darkened and his lipstick on, his expression unyielding and determined.

That was pride, and it was beautiful, and if it happened to be a sin, if it happened to earn him shouted remarks and endless lectures about unrealistic expectations he could never and would never meet, so be it. His pride in himself and his ability to show it was what made him who he was, and he would never -- no matter what the circumstance -- let anyone take that away from him.

“Life’s not worth a damn ‘til you say, ‘Hey, world, I am what I am.’”