Sorrow Is A Blade

I was always taught to be a typical good Chinese student - respectful and obedient. In my mind, these “good student characteristics” gilded me and afforded me many honors. At least, that is how I felt then.

My idealistic persona collapsed in my fourth grade. I arrived early at school, casually socializing with my desk-mate beside an open window. The wind blew fiercely which rendered voices dim, and another boy stepped-by to close the window. In an instant, my ears were filled with the most acrimonious voice. It was Ms. Huang, the patrolling music teacher. 

“I said, ‘close the window!’” Her piercing eagle-like eyes stared at me as if she was my adjudicator on Judgement Day. 

“How can such an irresponsible person qualify as the class monitor?” She interrupted my apology concerning the unintentional negligence of her demand, reprimanding my reluctance to serve the class.

Being too timid, I was paralyzed and speechless from her accusation. Yet, even with a tightly closed window, I still heard the wind roaring - accusing my fault, mocking my incompetence, and despising my cowardliness. 

Rumors destroys people with an ease. One day after, my vice was known by not only the homeroom teacher, but my classmates, and even the school principal. In this collectivism society, people spit their contempt on a “black horse” who causes damage to the interest of the group. The respectable student role model I had been had degenerated in an instant. I was a heinous sinner.

“You are a disgrace to our class!”

People’s disgruntled gazes shoved me into an unsympathetic arena. Isolated. Naked. Morally degraded. The notes of praises in my locker were gone. My seemingly amiable friends - who assisted me in finding the torn-apart debris of the notes in seven rubbish bins - were later discovered to be the actual traitors. They had been the ones who had stolen them and ripped them up.

Sorrow was a blade made from the finest steel, piercing me and leaving my heart with bleeding holes. I was intoxicated by a cocktail of emotional and verbal abuse, suffocating in a pressured whirlpool.

Fever developed. The illness was a 4-day liberation from school. I clung to this feeling of freedom and even intentionally drank scalding waters before my temperature was taken, pretending to be sick even after recovering. The “sickness” was my “residence permit” in safety’s harbor. 

Nevertheless, no one can dwell in a harbor permanently. My mother saw through my excuses by the fifth day, but she empathized with my predicament. It was at this time that she taught me one of the most essential life lessons - communication. With her continuous encouragement and emotional support, I agreed to return school and invited Ms. Huang for clarification to apologize for my mistake. During our meeting, I hung my head in shame and fear and could not control my quavering voice. My tears trickled down uncontrollably. But Ms. Huang did not accept my apology with any grace.

“Why are you crying? Do you feel wronged? Are you blaming me?” 

Her attack made me speechless, but it also aroused a subtle sense of anger in me. I felt that any person - who had an ounce of empathy - would not assault someone so vulnerable, let alone the fact that Ms. Huang was an educator – a role that carries inherent sacredness to benefit the society. This burning anger made me realize something important. She was the one who needed to apologize for her impatience and disrespect. Not me. From somewhere unknown my courage sprang. An unprecedented mix of grief, indignation, and rebellion triggered me to stare back at her defiantly. I would not be respectful and obedient. Not to her. I was resolute. Powerful.

Many years later in high school, Ms. Huang still sometimes appears in my dream and haunts me. I mentioned this story by chance in a conversation with friends. Surprisingly, I was not the only one who had been emotionally abused by teachers. My classmates were astonished, not anticipating that a trauma-exposed young child could become the optimistic and sociable person I am today. But I attribute this to the love from caring teachers in my middle school. Gradually by having better teachers, I realized the significance of teachers’ influence in children’s development. I empathized with my victimized classmates and decided to speak up for them.

However, without intellectual rigor, my empathy is feeble. To achieve my dream in ensuring learners everywhere receive empathy, I have made up my mind to delve deeper into the most tender subject in the world - Education, which I believe is the study of love and being loved. One cannot eradicate all inevitable evil in the world, but I will stand up faithfully as a righteous and caring teacher to offer a protective umbrella for future children like me. 

Sorrow is a blade. It once tortured me, but I have used it to stand up to my teacher and stop punishing myself for other people’s meanness. I now wield it as a powerful weapon to fight against injustice. 

Story from Audrey