21st February 2025
It’s 4:00 a.m. and a memory so painful has surfaced that I feel compelled to spill it onto paper to lighten my soul.
I was eight years old. My school was organizing a short trip to a nearby village with an equestrian center. We would stay there two nights to learn how to ride
Days passed. My teacher asked me with growing impatience when I would bring the money. My classmates believed me less and less when I told them I was going. With empty pockets and a heavy heart, I clung to my hope of going on the trip with all the strength in the world. The day before the payment deadline, I asked my father to tell me honestly if he would get me the money. He answered that by the next day he would bring every single cent to me. And the next day came. And there was no money.
My heart was shattered. I remember crying so badly it felt as if I were physically dying. I was so used to being disappointed by my father and still every time he hurt me, I would break into pieces, cry as loud and as long as I could, waiting for him to show the smallest sign of empathy for me–and still he never deigned to apologize for breaking yet another promise. I went to school feeling disgusted, sad, ashamed. I told my classmates that I wouldn’t be going on the school trip, making up the most absurd excuses to avoid saying the truth—one that everyone already knew: I was poor, incredibly poor. I didn’t have 30€, not even 10€, not even 5€. I had nothing at all, nothing. I was so poor that, once again, I would stay behind at school, alone, while everyone else had fun outside. I tried to act as if it didn’t really matter to me, hiding my wounded heart as best as I could. My teacher immediately saw through my clumsy nonchalance and told me to come see her at the end of the class. I expected her to scold me because I had said I was going on the trip but had brought no money to pay for it. She looked at me and asked if I had the 30€. I remember this nauseous feeling of wanting to disappear. I answered that I didn’t have the money. She said that it didn’t matter: she had already paid for my trip. I couldn’t believe it. I will always, always remember how kind she was.
February 2025. I am planning a trip to the Netherlands with my own money. I will see cows and horses and plants and people and life and the sun. I will be traveling with my boyfriend, someone who doesn’t know what greed means, someone who could go bankrupt if it made me happy.
I was eight years old. My school was organizing a short trip to a nearby village with an equestrian center. We would stay there two nights to learn how to ride
(exploit)
a horse and spend some time outside of school. Two conflicting emotions when discovering this news: great excitement mixed with anxiety—the fear of not being able to participate. I eagerly awaited the conditions, hoping with all my heart that they would not be financial. In vain. Each kid had to pay a small fee to finance the cost of the trip. As soon as I heard we had to pay, my body tensed, my heart sank, and I silenced all excitement, all anticipation, as I was already excluded from this project. But it was only 30€. I thought of asking my father for his permission without expecting anything at all. And so, when I got home, I told my father about the trip hoping that, in the case he accepted, he’d have enough time to gather the money. One week to find thirty euros for his daughter to spend a lovely trip with her friends – it didn’t sound that hard and yet it seemed impossible to me. I sold him the idea so well that he ended up promising to bring the money by the end of the week. God knows how blessed I felt.
Days passed. My teacher asked me with growing impatience when I would bring the money. My classmates believed me less and less when I told them I was going. With empty pockets and a heavy heart, I clung to my hope of going on the trip with all the strength in the world. The day before the payment deadline, I asked my father to tell me honestly if he would get me the money. He answered that by the next day he would bring every single cent to me. And the next day came. And there was no money.
My heart was shattered. I remember crying so badly it felt as if I were physically dying. I was so used to being disappointed by my father and still every time he hurt me, I would break into pieces, cry as loud and as long as I could, waiting for him to show the smallest sign of empathy for me–and still he never deigned to apologize for breaking yet another promise. I went to school feeling disgusted, sad, ashamed. I told my classmates that I wouldn’t be going on the school trip, making up the most absurd excuses to avoid saying the truth—one that everyone already knew: I was poor, incredibly poor. I didn’t have 30€, not even 10€, not even 5€. I had nothing at all, nothing. I was so poor that, once again, I would stay behind at school, alone, while everyone else had fun outside. I tried to act as if it didn’t really matter to me, hiding my wounded heart as best as I could. My teacher immediately saw through my clumsy nonchalance and told me to come see her at the end of the class. I expected her to scold me because I had said I was going on the trip but had brought no money to pay for it. She looked at me and asked if I had the 30€. I remember this nauseous feeling of wanting to disappear. I answered that I didn’t have the money. She said that it didn’t matter: she had already paid for my trip. I couldn’t believe it. I will always, always remember how kind she was.
February 2025. I am planning a trip to the Netherlands with my own money. I will see cows and horses and plants and people and life and the sun. I will be traveling with my boyfriend, someone who doesn’t know what greed means, someone who could go bankrupt if it made me happy.