By Lu Yue | TFT ER Team
Have you ever realized how close we are to misunderstanding a child?
“Teacher, see you.”
The boy known for “logging off in one second” officially transferred schools that day. His mother came suddenly in the afternoon to complete the paperwork. As I helped him pack up his things, I asked gently, “Can I give you a hug?”
Holding him, I said, “It might be hard at first in your new school. Hang in there. I believe you’ll grow stronger.”
Before leaving, I gave him the cards his classmates and I had written. He told me it was the first card he had ever received. He held it shyly, twisting his body a little, unsure how to respond.
I told him, “When I heard you were transferring, I felt sad. I even cried while talking about it with other teachers.”
His eyes suddenly became serious.
“Is there anything you’d like to say to me?” I asked.
“Thank you, teacher.”
And then, with our class fist-bump, he smiled and said softly, “See you.”
I Almost Missed the Chance to Truly Know Him
If I had to describe him, he was like an old computer with insufficient CPU—often shutting down in a second.
He struggled with attention. He was frequently scolded. Both teachers and classmates knew him as “that troublesome child.”
He was mainly raised by his grandmother. During phone calls at the start of the semester, I sensed distance from his parents. I had heard stories—that his parents “checked out,” that they weren’t involved.
Then one day, his mother came to school early to pick him up. It was my first time meeting her.
As we spoke, I began to see something different.
His father had been in and out of hospitals. His health was deteriorating. His mother was carrying the financial burden alone. When I asked how the family was doing, she replied calmly, “We’ve adjusted. We’ve accepted it. We’ll just do our best.”
That wasn’t the mother I had imagined.
I saw resilience. I saw exhaustion. I saw someone stretched thin between survival and caregiving.
Perhaps she hadn’t “logged out” of her son’s education.
Perhaps she simply had no more capacity left.
Every Child Has a Light Waiting to Be Seen
In our conversation, I told his mother what I saw in him.
On the second day of school, he had volunteered to run for vice class leader. He stood on stage and clearly explained his responsibilities and why he wanted the role. But because of his past behavior, classmates chose someone else.
Still, I saw him shining.
His mother once shared that he cried when seeing his father hospitalized, saying, “Our family is pitiful. Dad is sick, we’re poor, and my brother and I are always getting scolded.”
Behind his mischief was sensitivity. Imagination. A child trying to make sense of hardship.
The more I listened, the more layers unfolded.
With time, patience, and honest conversation, I began to believe deeply: he could become someone very different from the label he carried.
When We Choose to Look Again
Sometimes I wonder:
What if his mother had never come to school that day?
What if I had been too busy to start that conversation?
Would I still see him only through the lens of behavior?
In schools, things happen fast. We respond with instinct, experience, and sometimes unconscious bias. There isn’t always time to pause.
But equity often begins in that pause.
It begins when we choose not to let labels define a child.
When we allow room for different stories to emerge.
When we dare to believe that people—children and adults alike—can grow beyond their past.
“Every sincere conversation is a quiet resistance against misunderstanding.”
That is the lesson this child and his family taught me.
Thank You for Walking With Us—Over Time
Your recurring support makes moments like this possible, again and again. It gives Teach For Taiwan the stability to stay with teachers and children longer, and to make space for the conversations that lead to real change.
Monthly giving is not just a donation—it is a commitment to continuity, understanding, and growth that lasts. Thank you for standing with us on this long journey.
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