Michelle. NJ, USA.

      On the very day of my birth, life presented me with a single laminated piece of paper. It told me my name, gender, race, address, faith, and the amount of money sitting in my parents’ bank account. In the bottom margin, it warned, “Do not lose this manual since it will define you later in life.”

       And it most definitely would. I did end up memorizing all of the facts that were laid out so neatly on the page, but the motive for doing so is still a mystery to me; there wasn’t much to remember. However, I do know that—without a question—I let each fact mold me into the perfect person I thought I was.

       Preschool soon came around the corner, and another ten glossy pages were handed to me; it was a lot more complicated than my four year old mind could have ever imagined. I learned that avoiding boy colors—anything along the lines of blue, black, or green—was a smart idea and that wearing girl colors—anything related to pink or purple—was an even smarter idea. My mom hadn’t known this so I had to teach her; I guess she had forgotten that particular page of her own guide. Although, at the time, I would’ve chosen blue over pink any day, I slowly began to like the girly colors. Blue, I learned, was one of few prices I had to pay to receive the ticket of normal, something every child would soon yearn for.

       Elementary school swung by, and I was given another twenty-five pages to add to my collection. My manual now determined the many basics of school life—from my personality to who I could and couldn’t associate with. I was told to avoid boys, since they have things known as “cooties”; if a girl was to somehow contract the disease, she’d be ostracized from the crowd. In addition, everything I said had to revolve around everyone else, the cruel art form of gossip, which I would later regret. Though I met these requirements like I was told, a voice within me began to question my actions and intentions; contradicting thoughts began to swirl around in my mind.  Did I have to follow these rules, even if I didn’t believe in some of them? Is hurting someone else really what I want to do? However, I soon silenced the source of such ideas and eagerly waited for the next set of rules I would soon receive.

       Middle school came with the largest stack of papers. There were sixty-five pages, each filled with complex formulas for popularity, a stringent dress code, and all of the material things I began to own. Possibly the hardest lesson I had ever faced was the rules for my appearance. The clothes I wore could only sport certain brand names; I had to wear makeup on my face, even if I didn’t need or want it. I also learned that girls had to travel in even-numbered groups to the bathroom, and that there was at least a good five minutes set aside talking about the one person who decided to remain aloof. “Do not stand out. Stay with your friends.” Again, I followed the guidelines that my manual provided me, but problems started to occur. What point was there to strategic herding to the bathroom? I couldn’t stand all of the petty fights that had resulted from these rules. And I hated makeup!

       Suddenly, the manual that once provided such sound advice and offered such comfort had taken a turn for the worst; rules like these ultimately dominated my life. The respect I once had for this booklet began to crumble. I was supposed to value them like a jewel, but such guidelines only managed to make me feel miserable.

       One last page was given to me. The arrival of this page had given off a mysterious aura—one that I hadn’t come in contact with before. It was not like the other pages; it wasn’t white or laminated. The corners were slightly bent, and the text was smudged. “Why do you care about all of these rules? There is no guide to life. Can’t you see that this is your own handwriting?”

       My gaze flickered from the single page to the immaculate manual. Despite the condition of the two, the handwriting did, in fact, match. My guide was self-imposed.

       It was not easy to accept that the trivial things I had cherished as a child could be changed—nor would it ever be. In fact, sometimes, I wonder what my life like would be like if I just held onto that manual for another day. Would I be any different? Where would I stand? Who would I be?

       But I know better. That guide served no purpose whatsoever—not after I realized that I was the author of such a demeaning book. So I did what seemed to be the right choice; I threw it away, one hundred and one pages and all. In that moment, it felt as though I took my first breath of the cool, crisp air that surrounded me. The grass under my feet looked a little greener; the sky above me looked a little bluer. I had finally taken those rose-colored glasses off.

       Now, looking back at what happened, I smile at the decision I decided to make. Recreating myself without any of those rules was difficult to do—perhaps even more difficult than changing my life to follow those rules. Over time, I learned that I am the one who will make all of my decisions. I will decide who I will and will not be; I will decide what my beliefs are and are not. I don’t need some guide to do that for me.

       Besides, I rather like the color blue.