When I was in the sixth grade I came home from a typical day at school and was certainly expecting the same for my evening at home. As I walked through the door I immediately noticed that something was different. My mother was ecstatic and stood in the living room clutching a piece of mail. She told me that I had received a scholarship to attend Catholic school the following fall. This was not exactly good news for me; I always thought Catholic school children were like robots without personalities. I had no interest in changing schools, making new friends or commuting. The public school that I had attended since kindergarten was directly across the street from where we lived and I had grown comfortable with this arrangement over the years. Just as I thought it couldn’t get any worse my mother informed me that she would be picking me up after school so we could go shopping for the school uniform. Wearing a uniform was alien to me; I enjoyed my evening task of picking out my own school clothes. I had no idea what I was being forced into; a school that told their students what to wear must not grasp the concept of individuality. There was no chance of putting a damper on my mother’s great mood. The next day was a mortifying experience. The school uniform consisted of a yellow shirt, a green vest, a green sweater and an absolutely hideous green plaid skirt. My mother tried to tell me that I looked like a beautiful young lady, but the mirror in front of me told a different story. I looked like a tan leprechaun and I could not grasp why the school would force its students to dress this way. Was it possible to have a uniform that was a bit fashionable? Before I knew it I was standing in front of my new school, Holy Spirit Catholic School, and I was being ushered into the school gymnasium to start off the first day of the school year. Although everyone else was in the same ridiculous uniform I couldn’t help but feel completely out of place. It got...
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