just one more hit.

“…Then Little Red Riding Hood and her grandmother had a nice lunch and a long chat. The End,” narrated Mrs. Cahill with her prominent teacher voice meticulously vocalizing each distinct syllable.
Before the motherly figure could shut the wonderfully illustrated pages of the book or pull the glasses from her gentle, brown eyes, a rampage of little men and women charged toward the crayon table with over-zealous looks and feverish grins. A colorful assortment of tiny fingers muddled through great school boxes of Crayolas, Rose Arts, and unworthy, dollar-store, colored sticks of wax. As the fight for the popular reds, blues, and greens ravished the kindergarten classroom, I found a lonely Magenta Crayola creeping out from the box. More than content with the sharpened crayon, I clenched it in my fist, escaped the battleground, and proceeded to shade away at Little Red Riding Hood’s coat.
Peace was slowly restored as Mrs. Cahill took her rounds of the classroom, padding Jackie on the back, helping Andrew, praising Eddy. She was over my shoulder now. I felt her presence. I took notice of the dark shadow outlining her wild hair.
“That’s not red!” her once tender voice erupted.
Startled by her foreign, bitter tone, my shoulders trembled. I brought myself to look up at her and her nodding, pointed index finger. Her now lowered and cold glare scared me away and my shameful eyes found refuge in the toes of my white Keds.
“The rest of the class is using a RED crayon to color Little RED Riding Hood because she wears a RED hood,” she vulgarly pronounced to my peers hammering hard away at the bloody color.
It became quite apparent that had I used a red crayon, I would not have been scorned by Mrs. Cahill’s vast discontent. But why? In my simple five-year old mind it made complete sense to put to use the rejected Magenta. Little Red Riding Hood was a girl and all girls love any shade of pink; therefore she would probably have preferred a magenta coat anyway. Furthermore, the red crayons were all occupied. I was sure that by the time one reached me, the point would be dull and worn-out, a characteristic I came to find particularly irritable. Most importantly, when our work was up for display on the bulletin board, there would be no trouble at all pointing mine out from the rest.
Forgive me God for I have sinned! I have dared to be different, and now I am left to suffer the grave consequences of my actions. Society instills the concept of conformity on our young fragile minds as early as Kindergarten. A’s, stickers, and pats on the back for those who follow the paved path; on the other hand, those who seek individuality are disciplined by timeouts and harsh words.
Conformity is the process of abiding to an orthodox perspective, savoring entrenched concepts, and adhering to the mainstream standards. It is when a high-spirited freshman embraces the sisterhood of a sorority, or when sixteen-year-old girls flaunt their newly developed curves as they flock to the lines of Starbucks to order a Mocha Frap.
I put Mrs. Cahill’s lesson to use as I strutted down the halls of Palmetto Middle School with a trendy pair of hip-suffocating Brazilian jeans. The suave upperclassmen became my role models, as I mimicked their appearance, music interests, and personality. Conformity’s Casanova-like charm won me over by offering the acceptance of my peer’s in exchange for the slaughtering of my shabby, ultra-wide legged JNCO jeans.
I reaped all the social benefits of conformity as I realized joining the cheerleading team was a secure road to obtaining popularity. I remained only barely standing as the blur of rushing brawny football players passed through our parallel lines of clapping and prancing Killian cheerleaders. With eager smiles and passionate jumps, we waved high our dazzling green and gold pom-poms and shimmered our pompous spirit fingers. We stood together in our matching outfits, matching enthusiasm, and matching motives to pump up our school heroes.
I put to use my exhausted red crayon once more as I strived for the acceptance of a few unfamiliar faces. Christina, the driver of a brand new Volkswagen rabbit, was much like the real life version of the movie character Juno with a pragmatic attitude toward life and a sarcastic sense of humor. She wore thick black-framed glasses and swept her auburn bangs off to the left side of her face. A confident version of my younger brother I had never met proclaimed “shotgun” as if he had conquered front seat territory. I found myself crammed in the back seat between two bronzed versions of Beavis and Butthead sitting in what they referred to as the “bitch seat”. We raced off to a local Kwik Mart where we convinced the Arabian cashier to sell us a few Olde English’s and a pack of Camel Cigarettes unfiltered. After hours drifting up and down the streets of Kendall with barely two tires on the road, and Ram Jam’s “Black Betty” roaring from the speakers, we stumbled upon a high-school party with a few familiar faces.
Well-lubricated, I forcefully gulped down my last sip of beer. A pipe and a mini red lighter caught my attention as it made its way around the circle. With the opaque green bowl resting in her palms as if it was the sacred body of the Lord Jesus Christ, she directed me to “take a hit.” I felt a blank expression take over my face, as my paralyzed lips remained speechless. Christina, gripping the pipe with her thumb and forefinger, brought it up to her lips as she lit the grass with a fire that doubled in size to the tiny lighter. While slowly exhaling a puff of white smoke, Christina’s scalpel-like fingers punctured my trembling shoulders. “Your turn Geeg.” I glanced around the circle, and the pressure of a million eyes stared me down. I hesitated but saw my pale, trembling hands unconsciously reaching out. My emotions were incredibly complex and convoluted. All at the same time I wanted to say no, I wanted to say yes, I wanted to make believe I had done this before, and I wanted to run away. Before my mind, saturated with the weight of drunken thoughts, could grasp for a viable decision, the unbearable tension took hold, piercing away at my skin. I saw my hands mimic Christina’s as I almost instinctively wrapped my fingers around the foreign apparatus and watched the green shrivel away, realizing Conformity had conquered me. I had experienced smoking marijuana for the first time, not for any personal desire but simply to satisfy an environment in hopes of fitting in, much like my stint in cheerleading and Brazilian jeans.
While I pathetically coughed up my lungs, it dawned upon me that I was nothing but a prisoner to Conformity. It governed over me with an Iron Fist until all remnants of the magenta crayon melted away. I was another Conrad in the animal farm. No more than a teenage face at another high school party. Another statistic to tally up the victims of peer pressure. Just one more hit in the circle.