McQueen's POV.
There are some people in this world who don't understand how precious a position is… until they lose it.
But me?
I learned the value of things I never even had.
---
My name is McQueen Peterson.
I was born into a family where "having enough" was a luxury we could not afford.
Some days, we ate.
Some days, we drank water and told our stomachs to be patient.
Because hunger doesn't knock politely. It doesn't ask for permission. It just sits quietly inside you, twisting and reminding you that you are alive… and lacking.
My parents tried. God knows they tried.
But when a plate of rice could cost five to six hundred Liberian dollars, and school fees stood proudly at twelve to twenty thousand, it almost felt like life itself was mocking us.
Food or education.
Survival or future.
Sometimes, we didn't have the privilege to choose either.
---
People say, "We relied on charity."
But for me, it felt deeper than that.
I was born into it.
Before I even took my first breath, someone else had already paid for it.
My mother used to tell us how strangers—people who didn't even know our names—paid her hospital bills. They made sure we came into this world safely.
I used to wonder…
If no one paid, would we still be here?
Or would we just be stories that were never told?
---
I am the second of four children.
An older sister, me, a younger sister, and a little brother who still didn't understand why food sometimes came late.
We didn't live in a big house. Not even close.
Our home was built from zinc—thin sheets that sang loudly whenever rain fell. And in Liberia, rain doesn't whisper. It roars.
Sometimes at night, the sound was so loud, I used to think the roof would fly away and leave us sitting under the sky like forgotten children.
But still… it was clean.
Always clean.
My mother would wake up early, sweeping, arranging, wiping—like we were living in a mansion no one else could see.
"As cleanness is next to Godliness," she would always say.
And somehow, in that small zinc house, with empty pots and hopeful hearts, I believed her.
---
Poverty comes with pain.
But it also comes with something else people don't talk about enough—imagination.
Because when you don't have, you learn to dream.
And I dreamed big.
---
I grew up in Liberia, a country rich in history but not always kind to its people.
On Randall Street in Monrovia, there stood a school that felt like a different world entirely.
St. Teresa Convent.
STC.
An all-girls school built in honor of St. Teresa—the little flower.
Even the name sounded expensive.
---
I had never stepped inside.
But I knew it was beautiful.
I knew it was powerful.
And I knew one thing for sure—
Girls like me didn't go there.
Or at least… that's what people said.
---
So I kept my dream quiet.
Locked it somewhere deep inside me, where no one could laugh at it.
Because dreaming out loud, when you are poor, can feel like a crime.
---
I attended a regular school—one of those schools where boys and girls sat in the same classroom but lived in completely different worlds.
The boys were loud.
Confident.
Respected.
Chosen.
---
And we?
We were there.
Just… there.
---
The boys answered questions—even when they were wrong.
The teachers listened.
They laughed.
They encouraged them.
But when we raised our hands, it was like we were invisible.
Like our voices needed permission to exist.
---
I remember one day, I raised my hand.
I knew the answer. I was sure of it.
My heart was beating fast, but I was ready.
The teacher looked straight in my direction…
…and called a boy behind me.
He got it wrong.
The class laughed.
The teacher corrected him gently.
And me?
My hand slowly went down.
Not because I didn't know the answer anymore—
But because, in that moment, I understood something.
Being right was not enough.
Not if you were a girl.
---
That day, something changed in me.
Something small.
Something quiet.
But something dangerous.
---
I stopped wanting permission.
And I started wanting more.
---
And maybe… just maybe—
That was the beginning of everything.
Copyright © 2026 by Bella Angel Douglas
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental.
Disclaimer
This story may contain themes of poverty, gender inequality, and societal challenges that may be sensitive to some readers. The author does not intend to offend or harm any individual, group, or institution. The purpose of this work is to tell a story, raise awareness, and inspire reflection.
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