Imagine being excited to walk through Target like it was Disneyland. That’s my life.
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I’ve been going to school on the rich side of town since second grade, I learned real quick that privilege isn’t humbled—it walks the halls in fresh Jordans and designer backpacks like it owns the place. While I just want to fit in.To feel normal for once, instead of like the broke kid who can’t get her mom to buy her even the simplest of shit.
It’s mid-December, right before Christmas break—also one of my my favorite time’s of the year. Mrs. Lopez, my eighth-grade teacher, practically breathes Christmas spirit. The classroom walls explode with color, projects from all year hanging everywhere, but the Christmas crafts steal the show.
“Alright class, listen up. As you all know, the school is putting together a special donation fund…” she says, voice bright, pulling everyone’s attention. She goes on about how one student is going to get a surprise gift over break, donated by the school and community.“You are loved, seen, and cared for,”she says, smiling that teacher smile, scanning our faces like she really believes it.
Meanwhile, most of the kids sitting here have parents who don’t even flinch at six-figure paychecks. They’ll wake up to piles of presents that cost more than my our rent. So asking us all to write down one thing we really wanted is a game for them. But for me, it’s everything.
My answer is instant—white Vans.
I begged my mom weeks ago when I saw how popular they were. I promised to keep them spotless, thinking maybe that would be the issue. But when I asked, she didn’t even blink. Didn’t evenlookat me. “No. White shoes? Please. You love trying to be like everyone else. Don’t embarrass me. I’d never buy those things for you, not now, not ever.”
Her words sliced like glass—sharp, small, and impossible to pull out. Other moms spoiled their daughters with little gifts, all the time and most times they don’t even have to ask.
While I’m left with humiliation and rejection. All over a pair of shoes.
So, when Mrs. Lopez said to write something down, I could barely sit still. My hand shakes with how fast I scribble it out, folding the paper, passing it forward. My whole body buzzing like maybe—just maybe—this time, I’ll get to feel seen. That someone might actually pick me.
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It’s a Saturday afternoon and the house is quiet except forThis Christmasfloating through the TV speakers. Mom’s at work, which means it’s just me and Sonny. The silence usually feels like it’s choking us, but when she’s not here, it’s different. Cleaner even.
My brother and I will never admit it, because saying it out loud would mean admitting something worse—that we don’t love our mom.
There is a knock at the door and my stomach turns as I glance at Sonny. We’re not supposed to answer the door when she’s not home—her rules—but my curiosity is pulling harder than herrulesright now. I creep towards the window, and I see Mrs. Lopez standing with two women in bright colored Christmas sweaters, smiling like they’ve just won the lottery.
A shiny gift bag is in my teachers hand, red tissue paper spilling out. My hands tremble as I twist the knob, like I’m breaking some unspoken law. But deep down, I know—Ihaveto open this door.
Mrs. Lopez smiles like I’m not invisible for once. Then she says they picked me for the Christmas donation. I can barely even hear the words, not over the sound of my heart pounding in my ears.
I freeze. I want to rip that bag out of her hands and lock myself in my room, so I can drown in the relief of being chosen.
But that’s what they’d expect of me. I know better. Good girls don’t grab, they have manners. Good girls say thank you and pretend they’re not starving for scraps. So, I thank them, voice trembling as I grab the bag like it’s made of glass.
Closing the door Sonny looks at me, calm as ever while I’m about to burst.
“I’m happy for you, baby sister,” he admits, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Then after a pause, steady as stone he warns, “but you know mom won’t be.”
Just like that, my sparks fade. I feel bad he stopped expecting good things from her a long time ago. Four years older, and he already knows what I haven’t quite figured out yet—stop asking for something she doesn’t know how to give.
Still, I can't hide the excitement flowing throughout my body. So, I wait for her to come home so I can show her.
How can she not be happy for me?
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By the time she comes home, the excitement is eating me alive. I rush over, shoes in hand blurting out the whole story like maybe she’ll meet me with happiness instead of the usual disappointment.
Her expression freezes over, her voice turning razor-sharp. “They only chose you because you’re the only black kid in the classroom. They think we’re broke. You’re not special. I already told you to stop trying to be like everyone else. But look at you, asking these people for shoes! Howmany times do I have to tell you they don’t care about you. It’s just fucking charity for them.” She scoffs, walking around me like I’m not worth another second of her time.
It doesn’t matter that I broke her stupid rule about the door.
Doesn’t matter how badly I want her to justsee me happy.
The only thing she cares about is making sure my joy doesn’t survive the fucking night.
