What It Means to Serve

I didn’t continue college after graduation. I moved out of my family. With little work experience, I served as a waitress. But during the five years’ labor, I found myself burning calories running about only for a tip.

I had had enough so I moved to a smaller town hoping to pursue a college degree. I promised I would never serve people again - at least not in such way. It was time to serve myself. Luckily, I received a position as an afterschool program tutor at a local middle school, with the added benefit of completing English education degree. I had the opportunity to go big! The kid would need me - a role model and a trustworthy friend, I believed.

But my first day was welcomed by the students’ indifference (冷漠). The desks were messy and the whole room smelled of dirty gym socks. My excitement began to die down. I doubted whether the new job was a mistake. The playground activity was deafening while homework time was not much better. After my repeated persistence, they finally turned off the playground mode. But just a few minutes passed when I noticed two kids quarreling in the corner.

I supposed it was another little incident but one kid named Jeremy bothered me. He shouted at me for coming at him. And when I asked them to return to their seats, he slammed (用力摔) his backpack and grew mad as I tried to urge him to take the right attitude. “I don’t like you, homework and this afterschool program! All you guys do is yell at me. I’m never coming back.” he walked out of the classroom, slamming the door.

Naturally, I was so frustrated (挫败的). I wondered why I am here. Most kids disrespected me! I paused to take a deep breath. Then suddenly I thought to myself, “You said you would never serve people again, but you don’t understand what these kids really need.” At that moment, I remembered my middle-school life. I always had a poor attitude, never did my schoolwork, repeatedly got into fights, and disrespected my elders.

My family immigrated to Canada when I was about one year old. In those early years, we did not have much money. Our home was a simple rented apartment, which was rather poorly furnished. There certainly was not enough money for expensive outings. As a result, our weekends were filled with simple pleasures that we could do for free, like picnics, bike rides, and my favorite—trips to the library.

Thanks to the library’s children’s section, I fell in love with stories—silly ones, moving ones, and even educational ones. I would have my parents read the books that we borrowed over and over again until we needed to return them, or I would page through them myself, imagining the stories in my head, even though I was too young to read the words.

When I was about five years old and finally started to read on my own, I had a curious thought: I knew we could get books from the library or buy them in store s if we had the money, but where did books come from?

I asked my mother this question, to which she replied that the stories I loved were created in the imaginations of people called “writers” These people then wrote them down so they could be s hared with others.

Four decades later, I still remember that moment. It was as though I had been struck by lightning. Then and there, I knew my purpose in this world. I would be one of those writers. I would create stories and share them with the world.