The morning of September 1st, 2004, the moment finally came, where my life would change forever. The morning sun gleamed into my room as if I was standing on the sun itself. The skies shined as bright as my big blue eyes. The fall leaves drifted in the air, like a ship being carried away by an ocean current.

As I arose from my colossal pink polka dotted bed, I stared through my enormous glass framed windows, wondering if my life would change for the greater good? Once I had the courage to stand on my aquatic, wondrous, blue carpet, scared if sharks would appear directly below me and eat me for dinner as if I were a seal, I gazed around my room looking for the perfect outfit to wear in order to make a great first impression on my first day of school.

All of a sudden my mom stormed into my room. Her luscious brown curly hair was all that of a super model walking the runway. Her sparkling blue eyes were as bright as the sky itself. She told me for the first day of school every student was required to wear a piece of clothing that represented their heritage. At the age of four, I didn't know my heritage. Heck I didn't even know what that word meant. However, my mother knew exactly that. She had picked out a Dirndl, a traditional German dress that is short, flowy and looks like something little red riding hood would wear, and clogging shoes, black Irish dancing shoes that glistened in the light when struck, for me to wear on my first day of school.  As I was done getting dressed, I looked in the mirror. I looked ridiculous, I thought to myself.

“Nothing matches, the clothes don't go together,” I complained.
           

“That's ok honey, It doesn't have to match, you’re supposed to wear pieces of clothing that symbolize where you are from,” she assured me.                                                                                                                                                                        
“I thought you were only supposed to wear one piece of clothing,” I said anxiously.
           

“Well, you are from Germany and Ireland. Only makes sense to wear both of them,” she proclaimed.
I guess she had a point. It only felt right to wear both. I was from Germany and Ireland (simple sentence). My mother was born in Germany and my father was born in Ireland. My mother grew up in Southern Germany and my father was raised in Northern Ireland, later colonized by the British. I was blessed with being half Irish and half German. I was just as much German as I was Irish, no more no less. I had always been taught to embrace both my Irish heritage and my German heritage, not to fully accept one culture and ignore the other. But nothing prepared me for what was about to happen in that public school classroom. I have never felt so excited, yet terrified in my life.
            

As my mom and my dad were driving me to school, I gazed outside the car window, seeing kids and their parents walking them to school. I couldn't help but notice all of those kids were wearing one piece of traditional clothing, not zero, not two, one. Those kids looked stylish in their getup, making their clothes match as if they were made to be worn together. As I looked at those kids, I began to feel scared. My clothes didn't match. They didn't go together as one cohesive piece, or so they looked. My outfit was all mismatched to the point where it was certain a one year old had picked it out. I started to think, would kids really make fun of the way I was dressed? The answer, I hoped, was no. It shouldn't matter what's on the outside of a person, the inside of an individual is what's truly important (compound-complex sentence).

I began to calm myself down as we pulled into the school's parking lot. As the car pulled to a stop, I quickly got out of the car and kissed my parents goodbye. I headed toward the school with great confidence that no one was going to make fun of the way I was dressed.
             

As I walked in, Mrs. Nordstrom, my kindergarten teacher, looked at me with confusion and utter disgust. I didn't understand why she looked at me that way. Was it the way I dressed? Was it the way I walked? Was it the way I looked? Did I have something on my face? I didn't have a clue. But even while feeling clueless, I soon understood why.

My teacher introduced every student, said their name to the class and had the student explain their cultural item they chose to wear. I was the last student to be introduced to the class, of course. Every student was sitting down in their seats as the teacher introduced me. While the teacher was announcing my name, the kids bursted into laughter. I heard comments coming from left and right, from front to back of the room. She looks ridiculous. Did she dress herself or does her parents just have bad taste? Wow, I can't believe she came to school looking like that, mumbled the kids. I didn't fully grasp to why my clothes were so funny to them.

I began to feel embarrassed as they continued to laugh in their childish ways. I tried to take off my shoes to get rid of the utter embarrassment, but they were stuck to my feet, like peanut butter and jelly, they were made to fit. My face turned red, like a ripe tomato, ready to eat. I began to feel sweaty and hot, as if I had been in a sauna for two hours.

The teacher turned to me and told me with a whisper, you were only supposed to wear one item that represented your heritage not two.

I couldn't believe that's why everyone was laughing at me. I mean, I know my outfit didn't match, but these clothes embraced where I was from. I didn't get why everyone would laugh at a foolish thing like that.
            

On my way to lunch, everyone in my class herded around me and asked, “Are you Irish or are you German. You can't be both.”
             

I thought to myself, what do they mean I can't be both. How dare they ask me that question. I am just as much Irish as I am German. How could I choose which one I am? I had noticed that every kid surrounding me just wore one item that represented their heritage. I was the only one who wore two. Was I the only one that had two cultures equally in me, I began to think to myself. As I was doing just that, the kids pressed me against the wall. Their questions pelting me.
             

It was impossible for me to define myself as either Irish or German. So I just kept silent and hoped this whole thing would fly by. But as lunch was over, the same group of kids slammed me against a locker.
             

“So are you German or Irish. Choose one or we will decide for you,” they said with complete seriousness.
            

I had never been so stumped yet afraid in my life. I wasn't going to let them choose for me, but I couldn't choose myself. My home reminded me of my Irish heritage. Dressing all in green and hanging four leaf clovers all over the house, my family would go all out on St. Patrick's Day. Not only would we just celebrate our Irish heritage on St. Patrick's Day, we would cook Banger’s and Mash, that smelled like the the inside of a pancake house, on the weekends and Irish brown bread, that's similar in taste to cinnamon rolls. Fresh and hot, soft and sweet, right out of the oven and made from scratch, it was the perfect dish to be served on the weekdays. I was living and embracing my Irish heritage everyday. But my German heritage reminded me of myself. I was feisty and very direct with people. I spoke what was on my mind no matter what the situation was. To me, I was more German than Irish. But would I choose the culture that reminded me of myself or of my family? I didn't know what to do.
              

After going through all that I could with my heritage, I had made a logical choice that I could live with and be fully satisfied with. I stood straight up with my head held high. I told them with great pride: “I am German.”