A message of self-acceptance...
In June of 1995 I walked across the stage, accepted my salutatorian award, gave my obligatory speech, and left ready to attend St. Lawrence University on the Augsbury Academic Scholarship in the fall.
I arrived at the prestigious college, parked my rusted 1977 Chevy Impala in between Saabs, Jeep Wranglers, and Land Rovers, and entered a completely unfamiliar world, desperately trying not to stick out like a sore thumb.
I found an off-campus waitressing job at a small diner less than two miles away. The uniform was a blue and white polka-dotted, calf-length skirt with suspenders, white ankle socks, t-shirt, and sneakers. I vowed never to be caught dead in that uniform on campus. I always arrived at the diner a few minutes early to be sure I had enough time to change in the bathroom before my shift, and I would return to the bathroom, change, and bury the uniform in my bag before returning to campus.
A month after I began working at the diner, Parents’ Weekend arrived, and the hostess informed me that I had a table of fifteen people waiting for me. I stood at the head of the table with my hair in a pony tail, dressed in that ridiculous uniform, and attempted to meet the fifteen pairs of eyes that were staring back at me. My stomach sank when I recognized the students from my dorm and their families. I took their orders, swallowed my pride, and served them, making sure to ask if I could get them ketchup for their fries.
It would take me twenty years to understand that none of those people ever saw me as a second-class citizen. That was only the image of a young woman dressed in a polka dotted uniform and ankle socks that I saw reflected in a tiny, spotted mirror in a restaurant bathroom.
Wishing you the best holiday season filled with good health, self-acceptance, and health.
Carrie
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