Choose Wisely

The Selection

My hand trembles as it lifts the ball point pen off of the podium. All sixteen years of my young life have led up to this moment, and I've been careful in rehearsing my plan of action in preparation.

For me, there has never been consideration given to any of the other three options — I've been trained from a very young age to believe the same as my parents. Our society preaches being an individual and making choices based upon personal beliefs, yet the divide is so prominent.

At school and through the media we're taught that there is no wrong choice. That as soon as we turn eighteen we're given that freedom to be who we want to be, however, it couldn't be more blatantly obvious that the choice that my parents both made and the choice that they now expect me to make is theoretically the 'correct choice'.

My parents have always had it easy. They chose the same as their parents, found true love soon thereafter, and made a nice home downtown in the Hetero sector — all topped off by the addition of a healthy baby girl to their picture perfect family. They've never known anything but true comfort and high class. They live traditional lives and hold traditional opinions — refusing to settle for anything less.

Every parent fears the possible reality that is the worst case scenario come selection day — their children choosing sectors that they didn't originate in. All parents expect their young ones to want to grow up and be just like them; at least that's how my parents have always felt.

The walls of the cubicle that surround me as a form of unforgiving privacy feel as though they're caving in with every second that I stand in contemplation. The pen in my hand feels red hot in response to my hesitation. I can sense the mixed emotions, the irritation and dread that wafts through the room from the crowd of impatient teenagers waiting to reach this milestone we've all been preparing so long for. My weary eyes scan over the three options that are displayed before me on the crisp white sheet of paper, and then once more: HETERO. SAPPHIC. ACHILLEAN.

I find irony in the boxes beside each word that are there to support a checkmark next to the choice that I will make — it humors me to think that the little inked boxes resemble the confines that will be placed upon me by my society once I make my choice and step out of the booth. I can't help but wonder how many rebellious teenagers had stood in the same spot as I and decided they were clever in leaving the sheet of paper unmarked before submitting it, and what has come of those individuals. Even more intriguing would be those who find themselves compelled to fill in all of the boxes.

Someone just beyond the safety of my stalling has had enough and clears their throat, signaling to me that I've been in the selection booth for longer than intended, and I am withdrawn from my own thoughts. Before my conscience has time to react, before my heart can convince my brain otherwise, the tip of the pen taints the perfect sheet of paper with an impure trail of jet black ink just beside the bolded word 'HETERO'.

"There is no turning back", I remind myself beneath my breath as my eyes catch a glimpse of the existential reminder that is the permanent ink on my Choosing Ceremony slip. All I can think about, as I drop my future into the designated bin and make my way back out of the selection booth, is how happy my parents will be to hear that I made the 'right choice'.