Surviving Utopia: End of an Empire, #1

By Rya E. Byrd

The first book in a Christian historical suspense series that watches an atheist empire crumble from within. 

 

There are two tiers of people in 1984 Russia: those in the Party and the expendable cogs of the Soviet machine.

 

Tasha is a lowly cog. She is supposed to work and shut up, but she just can't seem to help herself. Her world is about to change when Maksim, an elite Party member, helps her uncover an explosive hidden truth. Although highly inconvenient to her plans, she begins to fall in love with the enemy.

 

Karina is a proper atheist who believes in Party propaganda. Then, her beloved grandmother makes a deathbed confession: she's always been a Christian. Going against her privileged upbringing, she begins to question if we are more than just physical beings.

 

Tasha and Karina must make a choice: remain silent and live out their oppressed lives, or overcome their fears and become active players in the end of an empire.

 

Buy Surviving Utopia today as your act of civil disobedience to corrupt governments everywhere.

 

**Warning: there are sensitive topics covered in the novel, including an attempted rape scene, Christian & Jewish persecution, and Russian curse words.  

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rya E. Byrd
• Release date: May 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201720070

Rya E. Byrd

Rya E. Byrd has a B.A. in Political Science from Purdue University. She has always had a love of history, politics, and dystopian fiction. When she discovered several dystopian classics were based off of life in the Soviet Union, she was curious to learn more.  As a former agnostic, Rya feels compelled to write about nonbelievers’ journeys to Christ. Rya believes the Russian word toska perfectly describes her life before her faith. Toska is a spiritual anguish, a melancholy, or emptiness. It is knowing something is missing but not even understanding what it is.  Now, as a continuous student of God’s word, Rya is more joyful & peaceful than ever before.  Rya lives in Indiana with her husband, three children, two dogs, three goats and six ducks. She loves to camp and thinks the best conversations come while sitting around the campfire under the stars. 

Book preview

Chapter 1 

FEBRUARY 1984

~TASHA~

I never thought breaking into the Pravda building to type a flyer was the way I’d become a dissident. I imagined getting gunned down while protesting or vandalizing a mural of Joseph Stalin— something that would end in a quick, public death. This act of rebellion was sneaky by comparison, but if I pulled it off, maybe I’d live until morning.

This was my first step of true resistance. My first attempt to push the government boot off my back and rise. I couldn’t help but smile that I was using a Party computer to do it.

I glanced at the keyboard, illuminated by the green glow of the computer screen, and tried to remember the brief instructions on how to work the thing. It didn’t look all that different from a typewriter, I could figure this out. With shaking hands, I smoothed out my handwritten notes and began to type on a computer for the first time.

The Declaration of Russian Independence

We, the comrades who have been toiling under this experiment for over six decades, announce that we have had enough with the failed promises of the Party. We are done being obedient serfs, tied to this land and stripped of our rights, for the fabled utopia of Communism. We deserve to be treated as human beings, who are valuable and worthy in our own right, not cogs in the Party’s machine. Our power as individuals will never increase until the power of government decreases. Therefore, we declare it is our right as Russians, to abolish the Party and the Soviet Union, as they are no longer in our best interests.

I listed the many grievances we came up with against the Party. That was the easy part. But was it going to work? The Americans had the benefit of having an ocean between them and their oppressors. For us, it’s a mere thirty-minute train ride to Moscow. Would the proximity intimidate people to keep their heads down and continue living grey lives? I reread my words, trying to imagine I’m seeing them for the first time. What impact would this make on me?

That’s really powerful stuff.

I jump out of my chair, so lost in reading that I didn’t realize Maksim was back in the room.

He arches an eyebrow in amusement as I ease back down. I feel oddly self-conscious about him reading my words. Time to get over it, thousands will be reading them soon. I clear my throat. It was a great idea that Isaiah had to mimic Jefferson’s Declaration of Independence.

Don’t deflect. You’re a great writer. He looks at his watch. Let me show you how to print. We need get out of here.

I shake off his compliment. I’m already holding too many emotions to be flattered. But will it convince people to join our fight against the Party?

He shrugs. Impossible to predict when people will decide enough is enough.

Always with the infuriating calm. It only made me worry twice as much— for the both of us. I closed my eyes, sorting out my thoughts. I had loathed the Party for as long as I could remember, and now, I finally had the chance to act against them. This is what I’d been waiting for! But there would be no going back. I knew the risks. I accepted the possibility of being caught. Why was I feeling so unsettled? Then, it hit me: I was afraid to fail.

What if no one took the Declaration seriously? What if people weren’t longing for liberty? What if people didn’t mind being oppressed, if it meant never having to take responsibility for themselves?

Maksim is silent as he watches a range of emotions cross my face. Finally, he speaks. Tasha, it’s time to jump.

Chapter 2

TWO MONTHS EARLIER.

~KARINA~

I should feel something on my sister’s wedding day, shouldn’t I? I should feel happy for her at best, or jealous at worse, but not this nothingness. What is wrong with me? I take a deep breath, forcing the thought from my mind. Then, I repeat the words I’ve been saying to myself for days. I love my sister. I love my future brother-in-law. Just be supportive. Just. Be. Supportive.

I look over at Katia, giving her a bright smile. She grimaces back, arms crossed as she looks out the window.  She hoped for a fresh coat of snow on her wedding day. Snow that hadn’t yet been mixed with dirt into a grayish, city sludge. What she got was rain, revealing a sea of concrete and mud.

Typical Russian luck, but it’s made us a resilient people. We expect difficulty, and life rarely lets us down. As a family of the Communist Party, we’re luckier than most, but membership comes with its own problems. For instance, my sister is wearing our mother’s wedding dress. It’s dated and a size too large. Katia wanted a new dress, we could afford a new dress, but that would have been seen as wasteful. Katia wanted to borrow my Aunt Mila’s pearl necklace for the day, but that would have been seen as decadent. Perhaps, a less attractive Party daughter, could have gotten away with such Capitalist wrappings. But with long, golden curls and a tiny waist, Katia can’t appear to lust after perfection like a girl from outside the Wall. She is pretty enough. 

With a heavy sigh, Katia turns her back on the window and moves to sit next to me. There are six of us waiting in our cramped bedroom for her groom to arrive. Besides Katia and I, there’s my mother, my grandmother, my Aunt Mila, and my cousin Petra. Each of us with varying degrees of impatience. Nikolai isn’t late. He isn’t supposed to be here until two o’clock, but tradition holds that the man should arrive early, to show eagerness for his bride.

My Aunt Mila is under the impression that it’s her duty to keep spirits high with her unrelenting cheerfulness. I heard rain is good luck for a wedding.

My mother snorts her derision. They might look alike, with wheat colored hair and almond shaped eyes, but they’re as different as sugar and salt.

Katia ignores them both, arms still crossed, legs beginning to shake.

Right, ‘cause who doesn’t want to squish down the aisle? I put my hand on my sister’s knee to get her attention. She gives me an annoyed look, but I know she’s not really mad at me. She’s anxious. Looking at her, I take an exaggerated calming breath. She does the same, giving me a small smile of thanks.

Then, there’s my grandmother, sitting back on the bed with her withered hands folded over her belly. She’s seen it all in her life: Lenin, Stalin, Nazi invasion. A little water pouring from the sky is not going to ruffle her feathers, and if the boy is late it’s no concern to her. She has given her blessing for the marriage to take place and will sit peaceably until the show begins.

As my cousin reapplies her fifth coat of hairspray into her auburn curls, we finally hear the knock that we’ve all been waiting for.

My Aunt Mila glances at the clock on our nightstand. He’s twenty-five minutes early. A good sign, Katia.

He should have been forty-five minutes early at least. My mother reapplies her lipstick in the mirror above our dresser, shooting a glare at her sister in the reflection.

Katia doesn’t respond to our mother’s comment. Instead, she turns to Petra, her wide eyes have a look of panic. Don’t give Nikolai too hard a time.

Of course not! Petra smiles too sweetly to be believed. She smiles at her reflection, before setting down the hairspray and strutting out the door. I give Katia a quick nod before following Petra. I will make sure my future brother-in-law passes the test.

We walk past the living room/my future bedroom where all the men of my family are waiting for their parts in this production. We get a few bleary-eyed grins, as they’ve been drinking all day. Make him sweat, Petra! Someone calls out as we approach the front door, just in time to hear a second knock.

Who is it? Petra raises her voice but doesn’t open the door.

Nikolai Lebedev. I’ve come to marry Katia Vasilek.

Petra swings the door open, and eyes him speculatively. At first glance, Nikolai looks too young to get married, with a round face on top of a wiry body. But, if you looked a bit harder, you’d see the hardened eyes of someone who has spent the last two years fighting in Afghanistan. Although our media claims the Afghanis welcome the Soviet army with open arms— there’s a persistent rumor that they don’t want us there. I haven’t asked Nikolai his opinion on the subject. One must be careful when implying that the Party narrative might not be the whole truth.

I see, Petra stares down the wet horde of people on our landing. Nikolai’s witnesses stare back defiantly— they didn’t walk here in the rain to be turned away. "Katia could have her pick of any man in the Soviet Union. What do you have to offer her?"

I have chocolates to represent how sweet our life will be together. Nikolai holds up a box of candies from Switzerland.

Petra looks at the imported, expensive chocolates with disdain. Like Nikolai presented a dead rat instead of slightly soggy box of deliciousness. She shakes her head and starts to close the door.

Wait! He slaps his hand on the door before it shuts. I don’t have a lot of money, but we aren’t capitalist swine here. We have love, comrade. He speaks his lines without inflection, and it’s an effort not to roll my eyes. Didn’t Katia help him with his acting?

Petra crosses her arms, pretending to think about his words. Nikolai looks on, resigned to the fact that this tradition is going to take as long as it takes.

Very well. Let’s see if you know the girl you claim to love. Karina? Petra turns and nods at me.

I grab the poster board that’s behind the door, waiting for this test. On it, there are four baby pictures— all girls from our family.

Which is a baby picture of Katia? I hold up the poster for him to see.

Nikolai and two of his friends come forward to examine the pictures. A handsome blond to his left, and an older guy with a beard to his right. Nikolai speaks first. The first and the third babies are out— their hair is too dark.

His friends nod in agreement. He continues. I think it’s the second baby picture, those are her eyes. What do you think?

They look like the same beautiful shade of green as hers. The blond says nodding at me. I blush at his boldness and look away. He’s lucky my father can’t hear him.

The bearded friend merely shrugs. This is impossible. Just pick one. The bridal price was a traditional that went back centuries in Russia, but the younger generation thought it was an antiquated custom.

I can’t decide. They look too similar. Nikolai looks at me, hoping I’ll keep my word. I had promised to help Nikolai pass without too much embarrassment. I subtly nod my head in the direction of the last baby picture.

Thanks, Karina, he says under his breath. Then, he raises his voice so all can hear, and points to the fourth picture. This one. I’m quite sure this is my love, Katia.

Very good! First test down! Petra could host game shows on television. She’s got that fake, chipper voice down.

Hey! The crowd behind Nikolai cheers. He gets quite a few slaps on the back.

"Not so fast. We want to make sure that you will do anything for our Katia. Petra pauses dramatically. We have a few lovely outfits for you to put on over your suits."

I’m surprised when I see Petra grabbing a black bag. She opens it slowly and pulls out . . .  a pink tutu and a veil.

Ooohhh! His witnesses start to laugh and tease him.

I have two more outfits, She calls out good-naturedly, handing them out to the wary victims.

Nikolai chuckles, and puts his costume on right away, expecting humiliation. His friends look put out but get dressed too. By this time, the men in my family have come up behind us to see the show.

"Alright now! I want to see the Can Can! Arms around the shoulders and high kicks!" Petra orders. Her voice is as stern as a KGB officer, but her eyes are laughing.

The friends give a heavy sigh and put their arms around Nikolai. Left foot first, he instructs. Then, they start singing and kicking.

La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, The witnesses behind them begin to clap the beat, and the men behind us do too. The tutu wearers smile at the encouragement and go faster. La, la, la, la, la, Hey! They finish with their arms up, laughing despite themselves.

Everyone, even the nosy neighbors who come to gawk at us, erupt into applause. The guys receive a few whistles and crude calls that make me blush for a second time. I notice the handsome friend staring, which just makes it worse. How embarrassing. I would often swing between being too sensitive to apathetic. My grandmother long suspected my numbness was a defense mechanism for my emotional nature. 

Very good, Nikolai! My dad says from behind us.

We turn to my dad, who nods his approval through the laughter. A devilish twinkle in his eye.

Ok, you have earned your bride. The chocolates? Petra extends her hand.

Nikolai hands them over suspiciously. There is something in the look between Petra and my dad that signals this isn’t quite over.

Wait here, please. We go back inside and shut the front door.

Boris, are you ready? My dad whispers down the hall.

Born ready. A figure in white dress staggers up to us. How do I look?

Petra and I collapse in giggles, holding each other for support as we gaze upon our family’s first offer. My Uncle Boris is a short, stocky man in his mid-fifties. He has a five o’clock shadow, no matter the time of day, which is currently behind a wedding veil. His dress is low-cut, to show off an obscene amount of chest hair. Oh, Katia was going to be mad about this. But this was too funny not to let play out.

Uncle Boris strides past us. He swings open the door, puts his hand on his hips, and says in a most ridiculous high voice, I’m ready for you, Big Boy!

Nikolai looks properly horrified.

Oh, no. He shakes his head to emphasize. No, no, no!

My Uncle Boris starts gyrating around our hallway, to the disgusted delight of the onlookers. The laughter is so loud, Petra must scream over the noise. You reject our family’s offer?

Nikolai nods, trying not to look at my dancing buffoon of an uncle but unable to help himself.

Well then, how are you going to win the real Katia? Petra arches an eyebrow in challenge.

I’ve composed a poem. He says, his jaw starting to clench. Nikolai is about done being the butt of the joke. Although his family and friends were amused by my uncle, they are wanting to wrap this up. My family is still laughing when he begins to speak.

"I would swim the deepest ocean

Just for a kiss.

I swear my eternal devotion

Anything for your bliss."

"Never mind, that’s not even good enough for my hand!" Uncle Boris shouts after Nikolai’s fourth line. Laughter breaks out from my family again, and Uncle Boris starts to dance to the music in his own head— which I suspect is a disco tune.

Nikolai’s ears start to turn red. His witnesses pass irritated looks amongst themselves. I’m not sure my family, in their current state of inebriation, realize the increasing risk of their teasing. It’s not unheard of to ‘steal’ a bride if her family is too difficult.

My sister appears at the door, a pleading look in her eye. Papa?

It’s custom! He waves her away. My in-laws tried to sell me a goat!

Nikolai and Katia give each other a long look over the obnoxious merriment. She takes a step in his direction.

My dad clears his throat astutely. Walking to the Lebedev side, he holds out his hand.  I would be proud to have you for a son-in-law.

After a beat, Nikolai takes my father’s hand. Thank you. They shake, and there is an immediate thaw in the air. My dad returns to Katia and offers her his arm. They walk to Nikolai, and my dad puts Katia’s hand in Nikolai’s. Beaming, she throws her arms around her groom’s neck, and they kiss. Everyone cheers.

Let’s get married! Nikolai calls out, sweeping her into his arms.

An older woman from Nikolai’s family steps forward holding a bouquet of pink flowers in her hands. These are for you, dear. She says, smiling. Welcome to our family.

The Palace of Marriages is known for their long delays, so we arrive right on time at 3:30. Only two witnesses are allowed to see the couple become legally married. I am honored to be my sister’s choice. The handsome blond is the other witness, who I learn is Nikolai’s cousin, Ivan. Ivan makes polite conversation with me, but I’m too distracted to give him my attention. Just be supportive, is on a constant loop through my mind. I want to be a good sister, but secretly I can’t wait to get into my pajamas and pull the covers over my head.

At 5:45, the lone bench clears, which means we’re up next to go inside. As I sit down next to Katia, she says, Thank you for being here.

I wouldn’t miss it. I tell her, resting my hand on hers. She’s shaking.

What is it? I whisper, searching her face to make sure she isn’t holding back. I like Nikolai, but if Katia isn’t ready to marry— we’re out of here.

Nothing. She says automatically. I just, she pauses, biting her lip. I don’t want to end up like mom and dad.

Wasn’t expecting that. What do you mean?

They don’t love each other anymore, but they probably did once. She says thoughtfully, like she’s imagining that picture of their wedding day back at home.

How do you know that? I’m supposed to sooth her concerns, but I’m more interested in her observations about our parents. Why haven’t I noticed this distance between them?

It’s obvious. They act like coworkers.

Obvious? Do you think they’ll separate?

Her face scrunches up, like it does when she can’t decide.

What are you two whispering about? Nikolai says, a relaxed smile on his face.

I glance at Katia, who shakes her head.

How Katia is going to let herself go after the wedding. Did you know, she was once chubby? And by chubby, I mean huge. I hold my arms out around myself and puff out my cheeks.

Katia laughs, and Nikolai pulls her in for more kissing. I look away, giving them privacy.

I was the heavy one. Once, for an entire month, I ate exactly what my sister ate, and I still didn’t lose any weight. Different metabolisms. I thought I would never be thin like Katia. Then, at sixteen, I discovered my love of running. It was a bit of a shock to my family because I’ve never been the athletic type. But running is like therapy to me, nature therapy. I’m still curvier than most girls in high school, but as my grandmother always says, men like a meaty dumpling.

Nikolai pulls away and holds Katia’s face in his hands. You would be beautiful at—

Lebedev and Vasilek! A young male guard barks out, interrupting whatever terribly romantic thing Nikolai was going to say.

They stand up silently and walk into the Palace of Marriages holding hands. Ivan and I follow. The room is rather anticlimactic. I was expecting it to be . . . elegant? Romantic? Palatial? Instead, it looks like the place we went to get our shots growing up, with the same mushroom color on the walls. The only decoration is the requisite picture of Yuri Andropov, the General Secretary of the Soviet Union, here to preside over all weddings in his government.

The guard leads us to a desk with two huge stacks of files on it, where a woman with white hair sits on the only chair in the room. She doesn’t look up as we approach.

Nikolai clears his throat. We’re here to get married.

The woman looks up at the couple over her glasses, her hand never stops writing. One moment. She goes back to her files. After a long wait with us standing around looking at each other, she begins without preamble.

First marriage for both of you? She asks without looking up.

Yes. They say in unison.

Good. The woman checks a box and turns the page. Apparently, the other questions on the form were if they answered no.

Where will you be living after the marriage contract?

In my family’s apartment. Katia says.

Is it a communal or single-family residence?

Single family.

There is enough space for another adult? The clerk makes actual eye contact, a testament to her surprise.

Yes, my sister is moving into the living room, with my grandmother. Redness starts to creep up Katia’s neck. That question is not on the form. Not good. Like proper Party daughters, we were raised to avoid standing out in any way.

Luckily, the clerk shrugs. So, you don’t need a moving permit?

Not until we have children. Nikolai says, with a grin and wink.

Katia glares at him.

If you’re planning on moving in the next few years, you may want to get on the waiting list now due to the housing crisis. Although, I’ve heard all will be solved by the next five-year plan. The clerk says without a hint of hope in her voice. I wonder how many decades she’s been giving this advice.

We aren’t planning on having children for many years. Katia responds politely.

The clerk purses her lips in amusement and gives a curt nod. After a dozen more questions, we get to the point.

You will both need to repeat these vows. Ladies first. She turns to Katia and begins, I take you to be my husband. To be with you in sickness and health. To share expenses with you, and help you to be a good comrade, until death separates us.

My sister repeats the vows nervously, looking back at the clerk to make sure she has the words right. Nikolai says them quickly; the end is in sight of this entire ordeal.

Perfect. The clerk responds, scribbling away in their file. You will now kiss.

They hesitate, then kiss awkwardly. There is something about being told to kiss by a government official that makes it less special. Why can’t they be married privately? It would be so—

I stop the dangerous thought from completion. Then, I imagine pulling it from my mind like a weed in an orderly flower garden. Don’t ask questions, I can hear my mother saying. Just accept what is. My grandmother says I have a heavy dose of toska. Toska is a yearning for something that you can’t yet describe, but just knowing it—whatever it is— is missing. But what is missing? I always ask. She just laughs and says, you’ll figure it out one day. So helpful.

When we get back to the apartment, the delicious aroma of food makes my mouth water. There is pickled herring, smoked sausages, pierogis, sour cabbage, potato salad, rye bread, and my grandmother’s special recipe for borsch. It’s quite a spread. I wonder how long it took my mother and Nikolai’s mother to save for this feast. On the kitchen counter, like guests of honor, are five bottles of vodka bought on the black market. Yes, my sister will have a proper Russian wedding.

As the first shots are poured, I inch away, hoping to hide in the bathroom for the toasts. But I back right into my mother.

Two shots. She narrows her eyes at me, like I’m trying to shirk my responsibilities as a loving sister and shoves a glass in my hand. I sigh, knowing the rules. Unless you’re a small child, it’s unforgivably rude not to drink at a Russian celebration.

I’d like to make the first toast of the night, My dad hits his glass with a spoon, waiting for the small crowd to quiet down. To the health of the newlyweds. Without health, we have nothing. Everyone clinks their glasses and takes their first shot. I take a deep breath and gulp down the liquid fire as quick as possible. My eyes water. I imagine this is what swallowing battery acid must feel like. Ah, tradition.

Gorko! Uncle Boris exclaims. Then, everyone joins in. Gorko, Gorko, Gorko!

The newlyweds smile good-naturedly and begin to kiss. The crowd begins to count. Tradition holds that the longer they kiss, the happier their future will be.

Sixteen, Seventeen, Eight—

They finally pull apart, and I can see white energy pulse between them like a real, tangible thing. I shiver and shake my head, willing the sight to fade. I’ve never told anyone this, but sometimes I can see the energy people give off. It’s weird, I know. We don’t believe such things in the Soviet Union. In the olden days maybe, when Russia still had a monarchy, it was acceptable to believe in things beyond the physical. But now, we believe in science. Period. The end. No one had to tell me to hide my sight. I was smart enough to know it was unacceptable. Never stand out in the Soviet Union, you’ll only get knocked down. Unfortunately, fate had other plans for me.

~IVAN~

What a waste of a day. She ignored me. The entire day she ignored me. I smiled, I complimented, I asked her questions about herself: all the things that usually work. And nothing. Who does this girl think she is? I yank off my tie, ball it up, and throw it onto my dresser. I look up at my reflection in the mirror, eyeing myself critically. Thick blond hair, a strong jaw line, broad shoulders—I’m an attractive guy. She just wasn’t interested in me.

I turn away and begin to pace besides my bed. It would be easy enough to follow her home one day. I could take what I wanted in minutes. Make her remember my face for the rest of her life. She wouldn’t report me, the others never did.

I stop abruptly in front of the picture of Vladimir Lenin hanging above my nightstand, his dark eyes piercing into mine, and my shoulders slump in shame. What would Lenin have thought if he knew my intentions towards a Party daughter? Having read every scrap of material ever published by the brilliant revolutionary, I didn’t have to guess. I could quote his moral code by heart.

According to Lenin, there were two types of humans. Those who believed in things like social justice, equality, and science; these he called good people. These good people believed in progress, that our socialist society would one day be perfected into communism. That was the Ideal.

Then there were those who clung to ideas of the past, namely religion and private property. Those who seemingly could not adapt to a new, better way of thinking. Lenin called them ex-people. Some criticized Lenin for killing those that didn’t agree with his vision. But the ex-people chose to follow their god, so let them go to their imaginary heaven. It was a kindness really, a thinning of the herd which resulted in societal unity.  We simply did not need humans stupid enough to follow an invisible deity in the sky.

If Lenin hadn’t died before his time, I had no doubt we would’ve achieved communism by now. Lenin had more magnetism in his little bald head, than all other Soviet leaders combined. Then it hit me: that’s what Karina had— magnetism.

She wasn’t showy, like her obnoxious cousin, but quiet. Thoughtful. What was she thinking all that time when she should have been flirting with me? I had to know. Karina was a mystery to be puzzled out. Plus, she was raised Party. She was people. I couldn’t use her and dispose of her like some common capitalist whore. She had potential.

I kneel on the orange linoleum in my bedroom. My knees immediately protest, but I ignore them. I clear my mind and focus on the lone portrait in my room. Lenin was the ultimate persuader. He persuaded an army, then a country, with his words. Even more impressive, he had a wife and a girlfriend for decades, that knew about each other and managed to get along. If only I could act like Lenin, anything was possible. What would Lenin say to Karina Vasilek?  

Chapter 3

~KARINA~

School. Monday morning after New Year’s break. No one wants to be here, including me. My uniform itches after not wearing it for two weeks, my body literally repelling the frock. Girls wear high collared, long-sleeved, brown dresses that are practically designed to make you look ten pounds heavier. I get the point of uniforms— equality, equality, equality! The word that has been drilled into our heads since we drank our mother’s milk— but do we have to look equally frumpy? Couldn’t we have something nice to wear? But there I go again with my wondering thoughts. Stay focused.

I’m walking to my first class of the day: Basic Military Training. It’s also my least favorite class. It takes place in our school’s huge basement, so we have the space to do various physical activities, but today is a classroom day. That’s all the students have been told, so we know not to change into our fatigues. I sit in my assigned spot, near the back of the class. I hate sitting in the back, because when you get called on everyone can turn around and