From the time that I was 12 until the age of 18, I attended an all-girls, private Catholic school named Villa Duchesne in the suburbs of St. Louis. The grounds were comprised of over 60 acres of forested land, and the main school building looked like a castle, complete with balconies, stone towers, and a lion-headed fountain. I loved that school, genuinely. My classmates were some of the most driven people I have ever met, and the teachers supported our ambitions and pushed us to succeed in an academically rigorous environment. But every time the administration mentioned graduation, I had to wonder why I attended.

In a lot of respects, our graduation ceremony was typical. The principal and valedictorian gave heartfelt speeches about how we were young and brilliant and had the whole world open before us now. The only thing that was unusual was that we did the whole thing in wedding dresses.

The tradition was longstanding. My mother, who attended the school in the ‘80s, also wore a wedding dress for graduation. The dresses they wanted us to wear were very specific, as well: pure white, at least 1-inch thick straps, and hemmed to our ankles. This last detail was so we could easily wrap multi-colored ribbons around a pole.

Participating in this ceremony that they called “Maypole,” which has roots in pagan fertility rituals, was just another graduation tradition. It wasn’t a requirement to graduate, but we were heavily encouraged to participate by the administration—and so my entire class did. Twice a week on Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings for four months, we met in the gym and practiced curtseying and waltzing around a giant phallic symbol.

Everybody at school had their opinions. My AP English teacher, Ms. Yee, vehemently protested it, calling it “the damn penis dance.” She only attended it once to show support to that year’s senior class when she couldn’t make it to their graduation, but she wore all black to symbolize the death of feminism.

I found it hard to disagree with her. Once graduation rolled around, the message the school endorsed seemed to be: Okay girls, we’ve taught you how to be strong, independent young women who aren’t afraid to speak up, who are passionate and decisive and blisteringly smart. Now go out and get married and have babies!

Not to mention the fact that wedding dresses are astronomically expensive. I bought mine off the clearance rack, and it was still about $500. The school had a closet of old dresses donated by former students in the attic that we could use, but there were only about a dozen of them, none above a size 10. I tried on many before going to the bridal boutique. None of them fit me properly.

Now, my graduation dress sits in the back of my closet, behind ratty cast T-shirts and the navy prom dress I re-wore. It has grass stains on the hemline from Maypole and 2-inch thick straps cobbled together from the extra fabric of a scrapped train. I plan on saving the money and using my wedding dress for its intended purpose one day. Maybe I’ll send an invite to the principal and thank her for getting me to invest in my future early.

From Graduation To The Altar