In the annals of my childhood, there exists a memory of a girl named Mia, who was part of my sixth-grade class taught by the stylish Ms. Carter. Yesterday, I was reminded of Mia while reading a story about a father who, inspired by his 10-year-old daughter, reached out to apologize to a boy he had bullied during his junior high years. This revelation struck a chord within me, as I too owe an apology to Mia, though I doubt she would want to engage with me or my former friends today. Since I can’t recall her last name, I’ll continue to call her Mia—a pseudonym to safeguard her identity, one that I now recognize represented true innocence.
Ms. Carter and Mia orbited the same bright sun—our homeroom—but they were polar opposites. Ms. Carter radiated warmth, while Mia seemed enveloped in a shadow. Our teacher donned vibrant dresses and colorful heels, while Mia wore the same navy shirt and faded jeans repeatedly, a stark contrast to the lively atmosphere of our classroom. Ms. Carter’s perfectly styled hair framed her face, while Mia’s brown curls appeared greasy and unkempt.
Mia reminded me of a past version of myself—before my mother remarried and we gained financial stability, allowing me to shed the burden of hand-me-downs. I was finally able to blend in with my peers, while Mia assumed the role of the outcast. I recall feeling relief that the spotlight of misfit status had shifted to her, and I was determined not to share in her struggles.
As an adult, I often reflect on Mia. Her image is a haunting memory etched in my mind: the oily skin, the scattered blemishes, and the unwashed hair framing her anxious face. Her eyes darted around nervously, never meeting anyone’s gaze. She had a slight build, her arms swimming in oversized shirts and her legs lost in baggy pants. I can’t help but wonder now if she was simply shy, impoverished, and introverted—much like the version of myself I feared others would see. Or was there something deeper, more troubling, beneath her quiet exterior?
For whatever reason, Mia struggled to connect with her classmates. Unlike me, who learned to navigate social circles, she remained isolated, and we, as children, scorned her for it. I joined in on the teasing to protect my own status, labeling her “Greasy” and dismissing her presence altogether. We turned our backs on her during recess, effectively rendering her invisible, denying her the basic right to be seen or acknowledged.
Recently, my sibling shared a school photo from that year on social media. In it were nearly 70 students, all captured in their plaid and corduroy attire. Everyone was tagged—everyone except Mia. My heart sank as I searched the faces, hoping to find her. I wanted to say, “I’m sorry for how we treated you,” even if it was directed at a ghostly memory.
When I spotted a child in the third row whose face was obscured by another’s arm, I dared to imagine it might be Mia. I traced the outline on my screen, whispering, “I see you now,” even if that acknowledgment was likely aimed at someone else.
Mia, if you ever come across this: I’m deeply sorry for not recognizing your worth back then.
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In summary, reflecting on past actions can be a powerful tool for personal growth. Recognizing the impact of our behavior on others, especially those we may have bullied, is essential in fostering empathy and understanding.