• By Gabriella Giro (she/her)
  • Art “Vanity” by Gabriella Giro (she/her)

Every class is the same. I slouch over my wooden desk to learn about monotonous manners and run on sentences, dressed in a long lumpy gown to paint me into a portrait of one of society’s most respectable women. It is rather ironic. At every day break, I tend to my father’s farm. According to my teacher, my palms are calloused like a man’s. Evidently they were not designed to plow the Earth’s crust and plant crops. I do not have a choice in the matter; I have to please both of my parents. Though, if I could choose, I would be in the field all day, everyday. Nurturing new life is far more feminine than learning how to set a table.

Every class is the same. A distant echo, like a thick fog, floats into our classroom. My ears perk in expectancy. The fog clears, revealing approaching footsteps. I frantically smooth down my dress, and my peers tuck their hands away. Her ruler strikes the floor, counting down doom’s arrival. I smooth my hair down with my nervous sweat before quickly placing them on my lap. Silence consumes the classroom—class is in session. Poised, we lay our notebooks down, touch the tip of our feather into ink, and refine our penmanship.

Every class is the same. “Laura, darling, fix your braid. Hair is falling into your eyes,” she informs my peer. “It is not lady like,” she enunciates. S M A C K ! The force of her ruler condenses the flesh of my hands into paper, now splattered in ink. Blood floods my veins, and a whimper escapes my zipped lips. I know that falling short of perfection is not an option, but I am unable to stand taller. If I repeatedly stomped on my crop, it would never grow.

I leave for the restroom utterly defeated. I run cold water over my stained, swollen hands as I pick out fertilizer crumbs from under my nails. The contaminated water spirals into the drain, like a burial casket lowering into the ground. I rinse my face and feel a cold wave travel down my spine, waking me up. I look up and see an oil painting of a young woman staring back at me. Her pompous gown complements her hardened demeanor and lifeless countenance. I raise my eyebrows, and she does the same. My eyes strike the stranger reflected in front of me, and her delineated mask begins to crack and rip and shed, revealing my truth.

This class is different.

I return to my seat, rejuvenated. I let my hand flow freely, guiding my pen to the edges of a world I remember. I fill in seemingly sharp lawns, though my hands know them as a soft rug. I shade a flat gravel path, though my feet know them as a bed of needles. I sketch imperfect marble steps, though—she pulls the steps f l a t , crumbling my world, and knocking me down. My notebook falls to the floor as I cry, “S T O P !”

Intrigue lifts her eyebrow as disgust tugs the corners of her mouth towards the ground. She crumbles my memory in her hands. My heart bleeds from my eyes, reliving a familiar pain. Gasps fill the classroom, but only her and I occupy space. She opens the page. Then again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

I shrink into a four-year-old girl and sob on my knees. “Mom, I want to go back home,” pleading to the woman who once cradled me. I blink, and see her eyes painted over, stiff and lifeless. She drops the shreds to the floor as she walks away.

This class is different.