I love stories of kindness, and one of my personal favorites from my travels happened in Morocco. My husband John and I got to experience their kindness and generosity first-hand during a 10-day trip across the High Atlas Mountains and the Sahara Desert. On our second-to-last day in Morocco, we took a trip to Essaouira, a quiet seaside town on the Atlantic. During the journey there, we stopped at a restaurant, where we got to taste local special oil and honey.

After a long time, we reached our small hotel in Essaouira at around dinner time, and on our way to a local restaurant, my husband started to feel unwell. He went back to the hotel. while I had dinner alone. When I got back to our hotel, I found my husband sitting on the bathroom floor. His face almost had no color. He had been sick about six times in an hour. And he spent a lot of time in the bathroom. We guessed that local special oil and honey probably didn’t agree with him, which caused him to feel so uncomfortable. At about 1 am, my husband finally managed to leave the bathroom and climb into bed. He was very weak and dehydrated (脱水的), so I went down to the hotel’s reception (接待处) to buy a bottle of water.

I found a young man behind the desk—he didn’t look older than 18. Knowing little of the native language, I explained to him in English that my husband was sick and that I needed to buy some bottled water for him. Our hotel was very small and basic, and didn’t have a restaurant or cafe inside. Gladly, the receptionist was good at English. He understood me. He introduced himself as Pierre and said they didn’t sell any water, so I asked him where the nearest shop was. I looked out the window and my heart started to race. I didn’t have the courage to go into the unfamiliar streets in the dark, all by myself. Pierre noticed my fear. In-stead of giving me directions to the nearest shop, he asked me to wait for him for a while.

Before I nodded, he had rushed out.

Then, Pierre called a taxi and we went to the hospital together with him.

The summer I turned 16, my father gave me his 69 Chevy Malibu convertible (敞篷车). Beautifully repainted cherry red with V-8 engine—it was a gift wasted on me at that age. What did I know about classic cars? The important thing was that Hannah and I could drive around Tucson with the top down.

Hannah was my best friend, a year younger but much taller, almost five foot ten.“Hannah’s a beautiful girl,” my mother always said. And sure enough, that summer she signed with a modeling agency. She was already doing runway work .

A month after my birthday, Hannah and I went to the movies. On the way home, we stopped at the McDonald’s drive-through, putting the fries on the seat between us to share. “Let’s ride around a-while,” I said. It was a clear night, oven-warm, full moon casting low over the desert. Making a turn too fast, l hit a patch of dirt and the back of the car slid to the other side. I then drove through a neighbor’s landscape wall and knocked into a full-grown palm. The front wheels came to rest half way up the tree trunk.

There were French fries on the floor, the dash (仪表盘), and my lap. An impossible amount of blood was on Hannah’s face, flaps of skin hanging into her eyes. They took us in separate ambulances. In the ER, my parents spoke quietly: “Best plastic surgeon in the city…but it is more likely to be the end of her modeling career.…”

We’d been wearing lap belts, but the car didn’t have shoulder bands. I’d broken my cheek bone on the steering wheel; Hannah’s forehead had split wide open on the dash. What would I say to her?

When her mother, Sharon, came into my hospital room, I started to cry, preparing myself for her anger. She sat beside me and took my hand. “I rear-ended (追尾) my best friend when I was your age,” she said. “I destroyed her car and mine.” “I’m so sorry.” I said, knowing Sharon was trying her best to comfort me and helping me out of my terrible sense of guilt and self-blame.

“The most important is that you’re both alive. I forgive you and Hannah will too.” She said.

Sharon’s forgiveness allowed Hannah and me to return to our normal life.

My mother was a supporter of physical punishment, but for all her talking, she has never spanked (打屁股) my siblings and me only once. Instead, she found ways of punishment that left a more lasting memory than giving us a spanking. One of the most memorable of these occasions occurred when I was four.

In the early 70’s, my mother attended college during the day and I was in daycare. One day at daycare I watched an extremely tired mother attempt to pick up her daughter. The little girl asked, “Momma, are we going to McDonald’s for dinner?” The mother replied, “Honey, not tonight. Momma has to run a few matters and then we have to go home and cook dinner for Daddy.” “But I wanna go.” “Susie, I said not tonight. Maybe, if you are a good girl, we can go tomorrow.” Susie immediately dropped to the floor, kicking and screaming, “I want to go to McDonald’s.”

No amount of pleading (恳求) or scolding, her mother tried to stop Susies tantrum (发脾气). Finally her mother gave in, “Okay, Susie, let’s go to McDonalds.” Susie stopped yelling and smiling. She grabbed her mother’s hand and they left. To say I was amazed would be inaccurate; I was delighted that anything I wanted could be had by throwing a tantrum.

That day my mother picked me up early from daycare because we were going to a store to purchase some Christmas items. I was excited by the lights and decorations. and as we walked through the toy section on the way to the counter, I saw a toy I had to have. It was a white and red telephone whose bells rang as it was pulled along on a string. Looking lovingly up at my mother I asked, “Mama, can I have that telephone?”

She replied, “Baby, not now, but if you are a good girl, maybe Santa will bring it to you.” “But Mama, I want that telephone right now.” Her eyes narrowed and her hand tightened on mine. “Becky, you can’t have that telephone today, but if you misbehave, you can have a spanking.”

By now we were standing in the long Holiday line to pay the bill, and I figured it was a good chance.

Surprisingly, mom didn’t give any reaction the second time. With more people gossiping, I felt ashamed.

Fifteen years ago, I was born in a big family. I had been taught that money couldn't buy everything ever since I was a little kid. My parents are the most hard-working people I have ever seen. As much as my parents tried to teach me these values, some could only be learned through personal experiences.

As a child, I would sit in the church trying to concentrate on the words of the priest (牧师), but my attention was soon attracted by the shining gold and the diamonds worn by the Saturday churchgoers. As my eyes began to wander, I noticed men dressed in their tailored suits and shirts accompanied by women in their designer dresses with matching handbags and shoes.

My family, on the other hand, was the opposite of rich. Our hand-me-down clothes had been washed so many times that the colors had become dull and lifeless. Although this revealed the money struggles of our large family, our faces were always washed and hair neatly combed. When sitting on the old big red and white truck after the service, I pictured the lives led by those driving their brand-new cars, wishing I would be one of them.

I never stopped those fantasies, even when I was in middle school. Since it was a private school, most of the children came from wealthy families. As a result, I constantly felt ashamed. Although I could hide my lack of wealth at school by wearing our school uniforms, my poverty was embarrassingly apparent on weekends with my classmates wearing designer jeans and I had no choice but to wear my sisters’ old jeans. I never fitted in with my classmates. To my relief, there was only one girl named Julie who opened her heart to me. I was attached to her like a shadow. Soon, her birthday was approaching. Julie invited me to attend her birthday party.

However, I grew upset as I couldn't afford a gift.

When she opened the gift box, my heart was too nervous to beat.