For first grade, when we moved to Hudson, my mother continued the Latin family tradition of Catholic school for all. My brother went to the all-boys school one town away, Bishop Guertin, and I went to the all-girls Presentation of Mary Academy. I don't remember much beyond being completely overwhelmed and unmoored. No one was brown like me, or Black or Asian, or had an "ethnic" name. I had trouble telling the girls (all white) apart. The uniforms were scratchy and ugly, a maroon, gray, yellow, and white plaid that would haunt me for decades. It was the first time I came into direct contact with nuns wearing habits, as all our teachers at the time did. 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. I must have spent that whole year simply processing. Processing and figuring it all out, managing everything coming at me, all the change. I do remember being feisty, though. My mother got an earful from the teachers early on. 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.
"No, my name is Morning Dove," I insisted. "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. This ridiculous lie was my way of answering the new question "What are you?" Something hard for me to answer, because in New Hampshire I had already gotten the message that being anything but a white American was not good—not good—in these parts, a place where I was a drop of brown sap in a mountain of snow, or something else brown and not so sweet.
So, when my class had a Thanksgiving project to draw and color a mural representing the first Thanksgiving dinner, white people and brown people sitting at the same table together, I assumed there was not only equality in the depiction, but some kind of elevation of these brown people who looked like me and my family. I jumped on it. If these white kids were drawing and coloring Native Americans and the teacher was teaching us about them in honorable tones, well, I was just going to have to reinvent myself, wasn't I?
"No, my name is Morning Dove," I insisted. "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. This ridiculous lie was my way of answering the new question "What are you?" Something hard for me to answer, because in New Hampshire I had already gotten the message that being anything but a white American was not good—not good—in these parts, a place where I was a drop of brown sap in a mountain of snow, or something else brown and not so sweet.
So, when my class had a Thanksgiving project to draw and color a mural representing the first Thanksgiving dinner, white people and brown people sitting at the same table together, I assumed there was not only equality in the depiction, but some kind of elevation of these brown people who looked like me and my family. I jumped on it. If these white kids were drawing and coloring Native Americans and the teacher was teaching us about them in honorable tones, well, I was just going to have to reinvent myself, wasn't I?" title="For first grade, when we moved to Hudson, my mother continued the Latin family tradition of Catholic school for all. My brother went to the all-boys school one town away, Bishop Guertin, and I went to the all-girls Presentation of Mary Academy. I don't remember much beyond being completely overwhelmed and unmoored. No one was brown like me, or Black or Asian, or had an "ethnic" name. I had trouble telling the girls (all white) apart. The uniforms were scratchy and ugly, a maroon, gray, yellow, and white plaid that would haunt me for decades. It was the first time I came into direct contact with nuns wearing habits, as all our teachers at the time did. 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. I must have spent that whole year simply processing. Processing and figuring it all out, managing everything coming at me, all the change. I do remember being feisty, though. My mother got an earful from the teachers early on. 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.
"No, my name is Morning Dove," I insisted. "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. This ridiculous lie was my way of answering the new question "What are you?" Something hard for me to answer, because in New Hampshire I had already gotten the message that being anything but a white American was not good—not good—in these parts, a place where I was a drop of brown sap in a mountain of snow, or something else brown and not so sweet.
So, when my class had a Thanksgiving project to draw and color a mural representing the first Thanksgiving dinner, white people and brown people sitting at the same table together, I assumed there was not only equality in the depiction, but some kind of elevation of these brown people who looked like me and my family. I jumped on it. If these white kids were drawing and coloring Native Americans and the teacher was teaching us about them in honorable tones, well, I was just going to have to reinvent myself, wasn't I?" style="text-decoration: none; -ms-interpolation-mode: bicubic; height: auto; border: 0; width: 560px; max-width: 100%; display: block;" width="560"> For first grade, when we moved to Hudson, my mother continued the Latin family tradition of Catholic school for all. My brother went to the all-boys school one town away, Bishop Guertin, and I went to the all-girls Presentation of Mary Academy. I don't remember much beyond being completely overwhelmed and unmoored. No one was brown like me, or Black or Asian, or had an "ethnic" name. I had trouble telling the girls (all white) apart. The uniforms were scratchy and ugly, a maroon, gray, yellow, and white plaid that would haunt me for decades. It was the first time I came into direct contact with nuns wearing habits, as all our teachers at the time did. 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. I must have spent that whole year simply processing. Processing and figuring it all out, managing everything coming at me, all the change. I do remember being feisty, though. My mother got an earful from the teachers early on. 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.
"No, my name is Morning Dove," I insisted. "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. This ridiculous lie was my way of answering the new question "What are you?" Something hard for me to answer, because in New Hampshire I had already gotten the message that being anything but a white American was not good—not good—in these parts, a place where I was a drop of brown sap in a mountain of snow, or something else brown and not so sweet.
So, when my class had a Thanksgiving project to draw and color a mural representing the first Thanksgiving dinner, white people and brown people sitting at the same table together, I assumed there was not only equality in the depiction, but some kind of elevation of these brown people who looked like me and my family. I jumped on it. If these white kids were drawing and coloring Native Americans and the teacher was teaching us about them in honorable tones, well, I was just going to have to reinvent myself, wasn't I? She gave a teasing glimpse of the new do. The couple has two children together. Now that we can finally travel again, here are the best places to visit—and what to pack for each locale. Selena has a lot going on these days. |
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