“My mother made me change it when we got here!” I was seven years old and newly enrolled in second grade at the local public school. “No, my name is Morning Dove,” I insisted. And then, when we moved again, it was time for a public school that was a bit more like home in only two ways: no uniforms and boys. My mother got an earful from the teachers early on. Processing and figuring it all out, managing everything coming at me, all the change. I must have spent that whole year simply processing. The castle-like behemoth brick building was filled with them, navy or black skirt suits with veils allowing only a front pouf of hair or bangs to be seen. It was the first time I came into direct contact with nuns wearing habits, as all our teachers at the time did. The uniforms were scratchy and ugly, a maroon, gray, yellow, and white plaid that would haunt me for decades. I had trouble telling the girls (all white) apart. No one was brown like me, or Black or Asian, or had an “ethnic” name. I don’t remember much beyond being completely overwhelmed and unmoored. My brother went to the all-boys school one town away, Bishop Guertin, and I went to the all-girls Presentation of Mary Academy. For first grade, when we moved to Hudson, my mother continued the Latin family tradition of Catholic school for all.
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