From twelve until now, during my period I used tissues stuffed with scraps of cloth.
Every month, for those few days, I endured the sticky wetness of blood soaking through my pants. Endured my deskmate covering their nose and looking at me with disgust. Endured the boys' mocking laughter.
In high school, the school stopped providing meals.
The food money my family gave me wasn't even enough for bread.
But I never asked them for more. Not once.
Because I knew every dollar I spent was carried in on Dad's back, hauling cement. Saved by Mom, scraping it from between her teeth.
I already owed too much. I wasn't qualified to talk about dignity.
I survived by picking up plastic bottles on the sports field. By eating leftovers other students abandoned in the cafeteria.
In winter, to save twenty cents on hot water, I drank straight from the tap.
Day after day, I pushed through. And finally, I made it to the eve of the college entrance exam.
My practice scores—over seven hundred—were enough to get me into a top medical school on a full scholarship.
By then, I could finally make Dad straighten the back that steel and concrete had bent. Finally take Mom to a real hospital.