The burden of carrying a dirty surname
Let me take you back a little further.
When I was 8 years old, a boy at school asked me what my mom did for a living.
I told him the truth. “It’s a garbage dump.” He laughed so much that others came over to ask what was happening. And from that day on, my life was different.
“The Garbage Boy” became my official nickname. During recess, in class, even some teachers used it as a joke. I laughed so it wouldn’t hurt so much. But when I got home, I locked myself in the bathroom and cried until I couldn’t breathe. My mom never knew.
She worked 12 hours a day. She left at 4 in the morning and returned at 6 in the evening, her uniform soaked in sweat and smelling of something no soap could completely remove. She arrived exhausted, but always with a smile.
“How was school, son?” “Okay, Mom.” Lie. I was doing horribly.
Not because I was a bad student. In fact, I was always top of my class. But socially, I was a ghost. Nobody wanted to sit with me. Nobody invited me to parties. In group projects, I always ended up alone or with the other rejected members.
And the worst part is that I understood it. I hated myself too.
I hated that my mom was a garbage collector. I hated that we didn’t have money. I hated that while my classmates’ parents arrived in new SUVs, my mom arrived in a borrowed garbage truck that stank from miles away.
There was a time, in high school, when I asked him not to pick me up after school.
“But son, it’s too far for you to walk.” “It doesn’t matter, Mom. I want to exercise.”
Lie. She didn’t want anyone to see her. She looked at me strangely, but agreed.
That day I walked two hours in the sun to get home. When I went inside, she was crying in the kitchen. She didn’t say anything. But I knew she knew. Since then, he never picked me up again. And I carried that guilt for years.
The decision no one expected
When it came time to choose a career, everyone expected me to study something “practical.” Something that would give me quick money to help out at home.
But I chose Medicine. “Medicine? Are you crazy? That costs a fortune and lasts like 7 years.”I know. That’s why I chose it.
I wanted to prove to everyone that the son of a garbage collector could be a doctor. I wanted my mom to stop carrying bags and start resting. I wanted to erase that damn nickname once and for all. But it was hell.
University was worse than elementary and high school combined. Everyone there had money. Everyone arrived in brand-new cars. Everyone wore designer clothes and talked about trips to Europe like it was nothing.
And I would arrive wearing the same two pairs of pants that I washed every night. With the broken shoes that he glued with silicone every week. On an empty stomach because he preferred to save his lunch money to buy books.
The first few months were brutal.
One day, a classmate threw a party at his house. It was a mansion. He invited me out of obligation, I think. I went because I wanted to try and make some friends. Mistake.
Halfway through the party, someone asked what our parents did for a living. Everyone said things like “engineer,” “businessman,” “lawyer.” When it was my turn, I remained silent.
“Come on, tell me. What does your dad do?” “I don’t have a dad.” “Okay, and your mom?” Silence. “She… works in cleaning.” It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.
Someone investigated. I don’t know how, but a week later, everyone at the university knew my mom was a garbage collector. And it all started again. The comments. The glances.
The laughter. Only now they were more sophisticated. More hurtful. “Does your mom recycle your notes or throw them away?”
“You should study to be a garbage collector, it’s a family tradition, isn’t it?” “No wonder you smell strange.” Endurance. I studied harder than ever.
While they were out partying, I was in the library until closing time. While they slept, I studied with a flashlight because the power was cut off at my house. And it worked. I was always first in my class. Always. And that enraged them even more.
Graduation Day
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