The Conformist

They were communists, the dirty, smelly bastards in the Seminar in Ideas class. All of them wore dark clothes, and were covered head to toe in gruesome piercings. They praised nonconformity, never realizing that, together, they perpetuated its counterpart.
The one sane person in the class tried patience. He tried to be patient as those bastards all said in unison that being in unison was wrong. His patience ran very thin, but it held fast. He hoped the day would never come when they tried to befriend him.
One day, the teacher lead a workshop in which he explained all about nonconformity, and how it was America’s soul. The communists were very excited, seeing as they knew all about the subject of nonconformity; it’s all they ever spoke about. Every day, they complained to one another about how terrible it was to conform. They figured anybody who wasn’t at all times conscious of their conformist ways wasn’t worth a damn. For some reason, they wanted America to be commy red. This puzzled the normal kid. Doesn’t communism stress reliance on your neighbors, thus imposing conformity? Having a capitalistic government allowed freedom, and therefore supported nonconformity. Again, the communists don’t think things through well.
The teacher hung two signs up on either sign of the room. One read “Conformity,” and the other read “Nonconformity.”
“Conformity is an enigma,” he said, “it’s a vast beast that can’t be stopped. As we breath together as humans, we’re conforming. Every time we have a bite to eat, we’re conforming. You know who chose not to eat? Bartleby the Scrivener. And you know what? He died!”
The communists were too excited, too right-wing to notice this point being expressed. They were speaking amongst each other, trying to communicate their every bit of knowledge in the span of a few minutes. The normal kid simply buried his tired head in his arms.
“So,” the teacher continued, “I want anyone who is willing to lay down their lives for nonconformity to assemble under this sign. Everyone else assemble under the other sign.”
The communists rushed under the sign for “nonconformity.” They all conformed into one communistic blob of pseudo-nonconformity. Together they stood as one, a conforming mob against conformity. The normal kid remained seated.
“David, won’t you join your friends?” the teacher asked.
The normal kid stood, proclaimed heroically, “I will be the conformist,” and he stood under his sign alone.
And the one kid that the normal kid always suspected, deep down, to be a normal kid himself said, “He’s right.” He began removing his piercings and straightening his hair, brushing dust away and rubbing his hands clean. “All you guys are so fake. But this kid, he’s real. He’s standing alone, and that’s what nonconformity is all about.”
“Actually, it isn’t,” the normal kid said, “nonconformity is about being different, not being alone.”
But nobody listened as they all shuffled excitedly to the other side of the room. How proud they would be to be conformists. They all began praising the dear old American flag and removing their piercings. They promised to get real jobs and try hard and get off of drugs.
“What the hell,” David muttered. “I guess I’ll be the nonconformist.”

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