Youth Love Story: You’re Not the Only One Growing Up in Poverty
It was a spring afternoon, in a high school biology class. As part of an anatomy course assessment, every student was required to dissect a frog. We were called up to the podium in alphabetical order, and it was my turn that day. I had prepared thoroughly in advance.
For that day’s experiment, I had practiced many times beforehand, and at that moment, I confidently walked up to the podium, smiling at my classmates, and grabbed the scalpel, ready to start.
At this moment, a voice came from the back of the classroom, “What a nice shirt!”
I tried to ignore it, but then another voice chimed in from the back, “That shirt is my dad’s. His mom is our maid. She took that shirt from the donation bag.”
My heart sank, unable to speak. It might have been only a minute, but for me, it felt like tens of minutes. I stood there awkwardly, my mind blank, and all eyes focused on my shirt. I had once been elected vice president of the student council with my excellent speaking skills, but at that moment, for the first time in my life, I was speechless in front of everyone. I turned my head aside and then heard some people laughing maliciously.
My biology teacher told me to start the dissection. I stood there in silence. He prompted me again, but I remained motionless. After a while, he said, “Franklin, you can go back to your seat. Your grade is D.”
I didn’t know what was more humiliating, getting a low grade or having my background exposed. After going home, I stuffed the shirt at the bottom of my closet. My mom found it and hung it in a prominent place at the front; later, I put it in the middle, but my mom moved it to the front again.
More than a week passed, and my mom asked me why I wasn’t wearing that shirt anymore. I replied, “I don’t like it anymore.” But she kept asking, and I had to tell her the truth. I told her what had happened in class that day.
Mom sat down silently, tears sliding down her face. Then she called her employer: “I can’t work for your family anymore,” she said, and demanded an apology for what had happened at school. For the rest of that day, Mom remained silent.
That night, I overheard my mom choking up as she told my dad about the humiliation she had suffered, how she had quit her job, and how she felt sorry for me. She said she couldn’t do cleaning work anymore because there were more important things to do.
“What do you want to do then?” Dad asked.
“I want to be a teacher,” she said with determination.
“But you haven’t been to college.”
With confidence, she said, “Yes, and that’s what I’m going to do, and I will succeed.”
The next morning, she went to see the education department’s personnel manager. He appreciated her idea but told her that without the proper degree, she couldn’t teach. That night, Mom, a mother of seven, and a woman who had been away from school since high school, enthusiastically shared her plan to go to college with us.
From then on, Mom spent nine hours a day studying, opening her books at the dinner table and doing homework with us.
At the end of the first semester, she went to see the personnel manager again, asking for a teaching position. But she was told, “You need the proper education degree, or it won’t work.”
In the second semester, Mom went back to see the personnel manager. He said, “You are serious, aren’t you? I think I can give you an assistant teacher position. But you’ll be teaching children who are extremely rebellious, slow learners, and lack learning opportunities for various reasons. You might face many difficulties; many teachers find it quite challenging.”
Mom cheered for getting the position.
Every morning, she got us ready for school, then hurried to work, came home to cook dinner, and studied in her spare time. It wasn’t an easy task for her, but it was what she wanted and loved to do. For nearly five years, Mom worked as a teacher’s assistant in the special education center, and it all stemmed from the thoughtless comment I heard in class that day.
Mom’s actions taught me how to face my own adversities and challenge myself, never giving up.
As for me, when I packed up my books and left the classroom that day, my biology teacher said to me, “I know it was a tough day for you, but I will give you a second chance to complete the task.”
Later, I successfully dissected the frog in class, and he changed my grade from a D to a B. I wanted an A, but he said, “You should have done it right the first time, to be fair to the others.”
When I was leaving, he said, “Do you think you’re the only one who has to wear second-hand clothes? Do you think you’re the only one who grew up in poverty?”
I firmly replied, “Yes!”
My teacher put his arm around me and told me about his own desperate upbringing. On graduation day, he was mocked by others because he couldn’t afford a decent cap and gown. He told me he wore the same clothes to school every day.
He said, “I understand how you feel. I felt the same way. But you know what, kid? I believe in you. I think you’re outstanding; I feel it in my heart.”
I was speechless again. We both tried to hold back our tears, but I could feel his love—a white teacher’s love for a young black student.
I was elected president of the student council, and my biology teacher became my advisor. Whenever I held meetings, I could always find him there, giving me a thumbs up—a secret shared only between him and me.
I gradually realized that we are all the same—though we have different skin colors and backgrounds, many of our experiences are the same. We all want happiness and strive for better things in life.
Thank you for reading! ” Sitestorys “
