I used to be a lonely girl sitting at the back of the classroom. Having failed the college entrance exams and changed schools twice, I seldom smiled. Every day I would sit at the desk, staring into textbooks and exercises, motionless and heavy-hearted. However, my classmates were in a different picture. They were playing, laughing and chatting delightedly. Besides, I hated it when they were always answering the teachers’ questions, loudly and confidently. Obviously, I had no friends in this fiercely competitive class.

Life is harder for senior students. Hardly does a day go by without exercises or tests. Every time when the scores came out mine wouldn’t be the first or second but last. I was especially tired of the endless exercises and exams, which I seemingly would never do well in. I was under a lot of pressure, feeling like a fish being fried in a pan.

Hanging over me was a dark cloud. The only dim light came from Mr. Smith. Every time I stepped into the classroom, he welcomed me with a warm smile; every time my gaze began to wander over the classroom or stare out of the window, his caring eyes would draw me back to his class. Besides, he was the only teacher who invited me to the office, talking about my studies and scores. I remembered when I came out of his office, I felt refreshed believing that I could work harder.

I was feeling everything was changing for the better. I prepared hard for the final exam of the first semester, desiring to prove that I was not the last one. So before Mr. Smith told us the test result, I was expecting something good in store for me.

But I was still the last one in the class. A burst of sadness and shame consuming me, I was heartbroken.

Right at that moment, Mr. Smith invited me to his office.

Finally, the college admission letter came.

In fifth grade, my family moved across town. I hated being the new kid at school.

I was tall for my age and already wore a size nine shoe—how awkward! My ponytails (马尾辫) and short bangs (刘海) seems quite different from others. I wanted to fit in, but in vain.

Theresa was thin but strong, with blond bangs and tightly pulled-back hair. For a reason unknown to me, she decided that I was worthy of her attention, and every day she walked up to me and kicked me in the back of the legs. Theresa was smart and quick. No teacher ever saw her, and within a week, my legs were bruised (淤青) black and blue.

One day on the playground, as Theresa was about to close in on me again, I escaped away. I glanced over one shoulder and, with relief, didn’t see her and thought she had given up. I stopped abruptly and turned around, unaware that Theresa had been running full-speed toward me. She didn’t expect my sudden stop and crashed into me and fell to the ground. A group of kids standing nearby laughed. Angry, she got up and began to kick me. I couldn’t stand any more. So I made a fist and swung my arm wildly. I caught Theresa in the nose, and she was bleeding. I didn’t know which of us was more surprised. Then we made a big fight. Consequently, we were taken to the principal’s office. He said we should be punished and then filled a form, I stared at his desk and realized that I could read the form upside down. It reads, “Labor punishment for one week.”

Theresa leaned toward me and whispered, “I guess we should get a two-week labor punishment.” I shook my head and said, “No, one week. I can read the form upside down.” Both of us were surprised that we should talk with each other.

When I was in high school, my art teacher asked me to participate in a regional painting competition. I hesitated at first. Although I loved art, I had always painted for myself, not for contests or recognition. My family, who had moved from Mexico, encouraged me to express our culture through my art, but I was unsure about exposing my work to the public. Painting was a personal journey for me, a way to connect with my roots and express my emotions.

But my teacher saw something in my paintings that I hadn’t. She said, “Your work tells a story, a vibrant narrative of your heritage and dreams. You should share it with the world.” Motivated by her confidence in me, I decided to take the leap.

I chose the theme of ‘Migration’ for my painting. It was a tribute to my family’s journey from Mexico to the United States, a blend of colors and emotions depicting both the struggles and hopes of moving to a new land. I poured my heart into that canvas, each stroke representing a piece of my story.

As I worked, I found myself lost in the memories and experiences of my family. The more I painted, the more I understood the sacrifices they had made for me. My doubts turned into determination. I wanted this painting not just to be seen but to be felt. I stayed up late for several nights, perfecting every detail, ensuring that every color and every line conveyed the emotions I felt so deeply.

When I finally finished, I was no longer concerned about winning. The painting was a part of me, a representation of my family’s journey and my growth as an artist.

The day of the competition arrived, and my heart was racing as I displayed my painting among the others.

After the competition, I walked up to my art teacher, filled with a mix of gratitude and pride.

“Mom, I’m ready to go,” called Jason.

Every Saturday, Jason looked forward to going to Chinatown to shop for food because his mom let him pick his favorite snacks: roast pork buns and bubble tea.

The streets in Chinatown were crowded with cars and pedestrians. His mother could not find the same exotic vegetables in the local supermarkets, so they always came here to shop. What fascinated Jason was tasty roast pork, even the whole pigs hanging on big hooks in the windows, their skins roasted to a glistening brown. Jason’s mouth would water just looking at them.

As they passed the newsstand carrying Chinese newspapers and magazines, Jason spotted an old man sitting on the sidewalk. His hair was long, white, and messy. The face beneath was lined, dirty, and unshaven. Frayed and torn clothing wrapped around his thin frame, and in this kind of cold weather, he even wore sandals, his feet blue with cold. He banged an empty can against the sidewalk. As Jason walked by, he could smell a musty odor and pinched his nostrils together. The old man reached out and touched Jason’s left leg. Instinctively, Jason gathered all his strength to jerk(猛拉) his leg away and kick the old man’s hand heavily. Frightened, he hurried to catch up with his mother without looking back.

“Mom, the old man touched me,” he cried, “He touched me with his dirty hands. It’s disgusting! And he smelled too.”

Jason’s mother glanced back at the man with a look of understanding and said gently, “Jason, he can’t help it. He’s homeless. He didn’t mean any harm.”

Mom’s words made Jason look back at the old man with regret, who now was looking up at other passersby, still banging his can.

On their way home, Jason asked, his voice filled with concern. “Why is that old man homeless? Where does he sleep?”

“I don’t know. It’s tough to be homeless, especially in this cold weather. He did look quite weak,” his mother replied.

Mom’s words made Jason’s regret deepened. He confessed his heavy kick to his mother, who reminded him that it was crucial to acknowledge his mistake and try to make up for it.

The next day, with his mother’s help, Jason decided to do something.

Hearing this, the old man looked at them with watery eyes.

Last Saturday, I drove back home from a long hard day. It was snowing heavily and the traffic inched slowly forward like snails. I was so hungry because I skipped my lunch that I decided to stop by KFC and had a quick bite before I continued my journey home. It took me a long time to find a place to park my car. With my face buried in my collar, I walked slowly in the snow. Soon my hands were numb(麻木) with cold, so I pulled my gloves out of my coat pocket and put them on.

I ordered some fried chicken and dug into my pocket for my wallet to pay, only to find it was not there! I remembered I did bring it with me before I set out. Embarrassed, I left the chicken on the counter and said I would return in a minute. Deeply worried, I got out of KFC and ran towards my car, wondering where my wallet, with everything in it, was.

Fresh snow was like a blank paper, recording my tracks. My attention fixed on the ground, I expected to find it on my way. Unfortunately, what I found was only the shape of it in the snow. Obviously, I lost it when I pulled my gloves out. Judging from the footprints on the ground, I was not the only one. There was someone else joining my way. But the footprints of this guy were messy. It seemed that he walked back and forth. My heart sank. At a loss of which way he went, I knew I could never claim my wallet back. Bye, fried chicken, not today. I walked towards my car helplessly.

A short, skinny man was standing by my car. He seemed like homeless because he was dressed in oversized worn-out coat and his face was dirty. He was stamping his feet to keep warm. I felt sorry for him because I had nothing to help him, no money, no food.

The man noticed me and asked if this was my car.

Refusing my money, he was about to leave.