My family wasn’t exactly dirt poor, but we weren’t the richest either. I never remembered being hungry, but I could still feel hunger pangs. The starving. The want. For something else, something more. I wanted the two story house, the white picket fence I saw in the TV, in the story books. It was a dream not to be achieved. Being immigrants in a new country was difficult enough for my parents, and happy as they were that they’d finally had children, they were often forced to depend on my grandparents to take care of me and my brother while they worked.
This arrangement worked for a while until my brother went off to school and it was decided that I should be placed in an environment that would provide me with the opportunity to socialize with peers my own age, a thing that my grandparents couldn’t provide. However, I was too young for preschool. My mother, upon the suggestion of a fellow coworker,
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Now, I wasn’t a very likeable child. I was rude, extremely boisterous but also prone to anxious fits when forced to do things that I felt were an attack towards me and my character. Despite my faults, I had a good friend who for some reason, tolerated me. Her name was Sarah. On that specific day where the Event occurred, we were playing on a blue rocking horse. Our dedication to that horse that day was so strong that it took us a while to realize the crowd of kids gathering near the pen.
It tooks a few times for her to convince me to go check the situation with her. I obliged, but not after giving the horse one good rock to assert my dominance. The kids were all clamoring against the fence, sweaty little palms pressed against the metal gaps and spaces. My friend and I joined the crowd, and I forced my way to the front, making sure I could absorb every last detail and clear a path for Sarah to follow behind. My eyes widened. One of the nuns was in the pen, gripping a