When I was in a catholic school, I always felt as if I didn’t belong. I didn’t believe in religion. I still don’t, and I guess I never tried to understand it. It just always found a way to make me mad. Ironic, isn’t it? I was baptised as a baby, but now as a teenager I will often stop at nothing to prove religion wrong. In school, I didn't comply with my peers and teachers. They always referred to me as a black sheep or a wild animal. As a kid, I took the gravest offense to this.  When my middle school graduation came, my counselor had given me a fiery red rosary beads; she said it was for my passion. I never understood what she was saying. Passion?  Recently, I stumbled upon the rosary beads again in my closet, catching dust. I moved it, cleaned it, and set it in orderly fashion. I have no idea why I did this, my brother doesn’t either. It’s always been the one thing that made its home in the back of my mind but never to be put to actual use.

– YM

Relationship:  Grandchild of im/migrant Grandchild of im/migrant