Growing up, my mom was a single parent to myself and my younger sister in New Orleans. Throughout my childhood, my mom worked between three and four jobs at a time to provide for our family. She worked for an insurance company, a jeweler, and a hotel.
We didn’t qualify for health insurance, so she had to make sure she was earning enough to pay for health visits to the doctor.
Despite her long hours at work, we were always poor. I remember mom telling us to only use our asthma pumps if our lips were going blue because she couldn’t afford to keep buying new ones.
My mom had to work long hours to send us to school
In the late 70s, New Orleans teachers went on strike. No one knew how long they would last but there were rumors it could go on for a year. My mom was petrified how our education would be impacted by the strike, so she asked the local Catholic school if my sister and I could attend at a reduced rate.
They worked out a deal that my mom would only have to pay for one child’s tuition and the other could attend for free. The nuns provided us with our uniform for free, and we had free breakfast and lunch at school.
But paying for school meant my mom had to work even longer hours. We often didn’t see her. She’d work late into the night and leave early in the morning.
Even still, we often didn’t have money for groceries. Our electricity and water were cut off at points. I effectively was my sister’s carer, making sure we both got home safely after school, did our homework, ate, and got ready for school the next day.
We couldn’t afford field trips or special events
Anytime there was a school field trip or special event, I didn’t even bother to ask my mom. I knew we couldn’t afford it.
Whenever I had to miss something or couldn’t afford to pay for a money request in school, I learned the best thing to do is just to look down at your shoes or hands so you can’t see when people are staring at you. I was just resigned that this was how it would go. I would never be able to do what the other children could do.
I remember once, my 4th grade teacher gave everyone in my class a photocopied menu from McDonald’s. We were told to take it home, choose what we wanted, and bring our order back in with money.
The next day, I brought in my packed lunch, knowing it was McDonald’s day. If anyone asked, I would just say I forgot it was McDonald’s day. Everyone except for me brought their order and money in. Like always, I just looked down, avoiding stares. If I was quiet about it, hopefully no one would notice.
My teacher ‘randomly’ selected me to earn money
In my homeroom class, my teacher asked the class who would like to earn some extra money for McDonald’s. Everyone raised their hands, including me. He closed his eyes, spun around, and “randomly” pointed at me.
I did the chores, and he took some money out of his wallet and put it into the class’s McDonald’s collection.
When the McDonald’s order came, my teacher had drawn a happy face on my bag that read “you’re a good kid.”
I didn’t have the vocabulary then to express the compassion and dignity my teacher gave me on that day. I now often think about how Mr. Heifetz made me feel like just a regular kid.
When I posted about Mr. Heifetz on Threads, many teachers were in touch to say they wish they had the freedom to make a difference in the lives of the students, not just in the classes of the students. They’re being told not to get involved and not to get personal.
Countless others commented publicly and got in touch with me privately too, telling me their own stories of childhood teachers who made a difference in their lives.
I think people are desperate for kindness right now, when the world is filled with so much of the opposite. We crave the kindness of Mr. Heifetz.
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