Realizing the universality of human suffering at thirteen

Thirty-five heads turned to look at me when I entered the classroom, all except one; the teacher's. Quickly scanning for available seats, I spotted one in the far corner of the classroom, near the window. The teacher was obviously distracted, immersed in his lesson plan or whatever he happened to be reading. I didn't mind; my head was somewhere else too. Earlier that morning my mother took my father into the hospital. He had had a stroke. I begged her to go to the hospital but she insisted I go to school as it was the first day of a new semester. I was only thirteen, the only male child in my family. I believe my mother looked at me for the first time as if I was a man that day. Her eyes told me that she counted on me for the emotional strength the whole family would need to get us through this difficult time. As my mother speaks very little English, she did enlist my older sister's support in rushing my dad to the hospital, so that they would have no communications problems and everything could go as smoothly as possible.

As I waited in my seat for the teacher to take role, my mind wandered. I especially wondered how my dad would fare. Looking around me at the other students, few of which I recognized from last year, I realized that each one of these kids deals with some kind of hardship in their lives. Likewise, I wondered what the teacher was going through, for he seemed as distracted as I was.