My name is Selena, and I’m 17. My dad, Billy, has worked as a gardener my whole life. His hands are rough, marked with years of hard work. To me, they’re a symbol of love and sacrifice. To others, they sometimes look like something to laugh at. At school, a classmate named Taylor often teased me about my clothes and about Dad coming home with dirt on his hands. The worst moment came when he brought me lunch one day. She sneered, loud enough for everyone to hear: “Those hands are disgusting.” Laughter spread through the cafeteria, and I wanted to disappear.
