Every morning starts with some kind of light. Sometimes it’s a small one, other times a big one—it doesn’t really matter. Usually, it’s the light from your phone, where you’ve set an alarm. Or in summer, when the sun rises early, or on days when you wake up late, it could be the golden sunlight that greets your eyes first thing in the morning.
For me, things were a bit different. Not because I live in a basement or don’t have a phone. And not because I lack parents who care enough to wake me up. No, today I woke up earlier than I had to. The reason? A light too—but not the kind you see. It was the spark of thoughts floating up like balloons, stealing two minutes of sleep before my alarm could go off. Normally, I’m so quick at shutting off my alarm that I silence it in less than a second, fall right back asleep, and then wake up late with some embarrassing excuse for school. So maybe I should’ve been grateful that these thoughts woke me up. Still, I frowned and muttered quietly to myself. I’d love to talk about those thoughts, but hardly anyone is interested, so I’d better just keep them to myself.
Like every other day, I had to go to school. I took the train, which, as usual, was either too early or too late—it’s always the same. Some say trains that arrive too early are those from yesterday, and honestly, that doesn’t sound so wrong. Packed in with the crowd—I’ve never been comfortable around too many people—I got on the train. It was full of students and adults heading to work. There were even a few teachers. As I walked down the aisle, looking for a less crowded spot, someone called out to me. “Hey, why are you walking around so much? Looking for seats? Just act normal for once!” jeered a boy from my class. I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t worth the energy or time. “Don’t bother talking to her,” another boy added mockingly. “She doesn’t talk. Her tongue’s frozen unless she’s defending that weird girl.” Strangers didn’t look, classmates stifled their laughter, and teachers—those same teachers who praised me in class—either didn’t notice or pretended not to. I don’t think they ever liked me much, especially after the time one teacher talked about breaking up with his girlfriend and shared his feelings. My reaction must have been too blunt and emotionless for most people because he looked at me as if I were some heartless monster who shouldn’t exist. It didn’t bother me, though. I was only confused for a moment, and then I moved on. Now back to my situation—The trigger of this unnecessary attention of my classmates on me happened when I stopped living like a robot, programmed only for schoolwork. When I stopped wandering around like a ghost. When I had my first friend.
At the start of the school year, everyone thought of me as some strange, non-human thing—a person who only breathed, blinked, stared into space, and finished school tasks three times faster than others. I didn’t participate in discussions, talk to classmates, or eat during breaks because, to me, those things felt like a waste of time. I never felt lonely, though. My head was always full of thoughts, and I liked being ignored by others. My nicknames were “Chat GPT” or “Doll,” which didn’t bother me—in my previous class, they used to call me “Stone” or “Tree.” I even found it kind of funny.
But when a new girl joined our class, and her odd accent and shy nature made her the target of teasing, something changed. My fingers trembled, and I felt something stir deep inside me. I stood up and said things like, “Bullying someone because they’re different makes no sense” and “Behave properly at school.” These weren’t things kids usually say because teenagers want to fit in. But I wasn’t like them. I didn’t care about being liked. One bully muttered things like, “She believes in some weird religion” or “Her parents must be jobless—just look at her clothes.” I simply replied, “I think you’re strange too. But I don’t say that out loud,” and then I walked the new girl out of the classroom.
I think I was angry, but I didn’t recognize it because people had always called me emotionless, and I’d started to believe it myself. Or maybe I pretended to believe it too so it wouldn’t hurt. Being different is hard for everyone, and maybe I numbed myself to avoid that pain. When I moved to Germany, I experienced racism for the first time. I learned what it felt like to expect kindness but end up with hurt feelings instead. That made me want to avoid people altogether. I stopped talking, stopped expecting anything and focused on learning instead. I tried to stay calm and neutral to avoid making mistakes that could reveal my vulnerabilities. In time, I stopped living the way I used to. I preferred this—avoiding pain instead of dealing with it and being a naive idiot—but I didn’t want others to go through the same thing.
Things changed after that. The new girl started talking to me, sharing her lunch, and smiling at me in a way only my family ever had at me before. At first, it was strange, but I got used to it, and soon I was making her laugh. Since she’s been by my side, I’ve noticed how people react to my words more than ever before. I never thought I could learn so much from someone my age. Maybe even more. Seeing the world with her made it feel more colorful and alive—like a place to live in.
Yunseo Jung is 14 years old and has been living in Munich-located in Germany-for six years. Before then, she had been living in South Korea. She is going to a ordinary German secondary school and she has found her place there. Her opinion about her home is positive, which has reasons. The atmosphere is calm and peaceful and the people are friendly and light-hearted, therefore, some tiny discomforts are easy to overlook. Life in a German city is both exciting and relaxing, which effected that she is completely enjoying her everyday life in her home.
"5th grader school lunch in Lunchbots Quad box" by anotherlunch.com is licensed under CC BY 2.0.
