Of Beetles and Angels by Mawi Asgedom Page B

follow in his and my parents’ footsteps.
    I never could have imagined where those footsteps would lead me.
    As I got older, I knew that I had to take increasing responsibility for my family. I also knew that academic success would help me to help them.
    Even when I was older, though, I had always approached my schoolwork with the highest dedication. Starting in elementary school, I read books in my room until my father screamed at me to come out: Y OU ! H OW LONG ARE YOU GOING TO SIT IN THERE BY YOURSELF ? I F YOU DO NOT LEARN TO MINGLE WITH PEOPLE, YOU WILL BECOME LIKE THOSE WILD ONES WHO NEVER SPEAK WITH ANYONE .
    But I kept reading. I read thousands of pages a week and cleared out whole sections of the Wheaton Public Library. The Hardy Boys. Encyclopedia Brown. And my favorite, Alfred Hitchcock’s Three Investigators.
    Then I started on the biographies in the children’s section: Knute Rockne, Martin Luther King, and many others.
    As I read, my English improved dramatically. I graduated from Longfellow’s ESL program at the end of second grade, and by sixth grade, I was making the high honor roll.
    By then, though, some of my classmates had discovered the best way to hurt me — not with their fists, but with their words:
Your father doesn’t even work, does he? How come you wore that shirt again? Nerd! Why you so poor?
    I started to see through that dangerous lie that all kids are taught: “Sticks and stones can break your bones, but words can never hurt you.”
    Sticks and stones can indeed break bones, but words can often do worse. They can stifle, destroy, and mutilate all of the beautiful, hopeful things inside of us.
    My middle-school classmates massacred my self-esteem. My grades dropped. I got my first D in eighth grade and started to wonder if I could make it academically. High school was fast approaching, and I feared that it might chew me up and spit me out.
    But the good thing about words is that they can also breathe life into our spirits. My brother and family encouraged me:
Don’t give up. You’re smart enough. All you have to do is work hard and believe.
    My faith in God gave me confidence. And as I entered high school, I set my sights on the scholarship my parents had hoped for.
    I chose the hardest freshman schedule possible: advanced geometry, advanced English, advanced biology.
    But there was one advanced class that I couldn’t take: advanced world history. I wanted to take it, but there were only twenty spots available for our class of four hundred.
    Our performance on a middle-school test determined who could take the class. The test was loaded with absurd, abstract questions, such as: “If you were on Mars and you came across a stream of liquid that you had never seen before, whom would you ask to help you cross it: a) a Psychologist; b) a Mechanic; c) a Nurse; d) None of the above.”
    I had never visited Mars; I didn’t make the cut.
    So I enrolled in intermediate world history with two hundred other freshmen. I knew what I had to do to earn a spot in the advanced sophomore history class.
    I scored the highest grade out of all two hundred students, setting the class’s curve both semesters.
    After the year ended, I asked my world history teacher and my counselor to move me up to the advanced class. They agreed.
    Still, I wasn’t sure how I would fare. Advanced U.S. history was one of the toughest classes in the school. A part of me wondered, too, if that placement test in middle school had been right. Maybe these white kids really were smarter than me. Maybe I couldn’t keep up with them.
    Advanced U.S. history would reveal the truth.
    Using the bench in my room as my desk, I stayed up night after night, rereading the chapters and reviewing my notes.
    I would get home from sports at 6 P.M ., eat, help out around the house, and study until midnight. Then I would get up at 6 A.M . and do it all over again.
    The hard work paid off. I often got the highest grade in the class, and I