I remembered it clearly—the first time I was carried to see these wheelchairs. The shop was eerie. It was full of paralyzed old folks. That moment traumatized me. To see people unable to move a single inch, to see people sitting in their wheelchairs all day, was something I was scared would happen to me. 

Although I was just a child back then, I knew I was paralyzed. I saw kids in movies my age being able to walk. I, on the other hand, hadn't. 

Although I couldn't walk, I was an early speaker. At age two, I was already able to talk a little. I called my Aunt "Mama" because she was my mother figure. I would ask my Mama things. "Me walk" or "I want walk," and every time she would look at me and shed teardrops from her eyes. 

Yes, I knew I couldn't walk, but I did have dreams of walking. My Aunt would cry and look me in the eyes with her teary gaze and always say: 

"I'll always be there for you, Rhou. No matter what, I'll be there standing next to you, guiding you in this cruel world." 

I would just smile and hug her every time. 

My life as a baby was simple—every day would be just laying down with my little thoughts. My Aunt would be busy every day with work. She would come home at two in the morning and commute to work again at five. 

I wasn't mistreated. My Aunt's boyfriend would routinely come and feed me. But I couldn't get close to them because she changed boyfriends like she changed her outfit. 

As I aged, I became more fluent. My Aunt decided she wanted to teach me how to improve my speaking more—although honestly, I was doing fine without her interventions. But she didn't have the time to do so. 

Like all good parents, she bought me an iPad. I was fascinated by it. I watched so many episodes of kids' shows. I was hooked. There, I watched the true power of unity in diversity. How many people with different races could come together and be friends. 

On the rare weekends when my Aunt didn't have work, she would take me around Houston. We visited all kinds of places. It was also when I saw, other than on my iPad, the wonder of uniting in diversity. Mixed culture. 

In one street, you could see Black Americans playing jazz. Then, a few steps forward, you could see Spanish Americans playing Latino music. Another step, and you could hear African Americans playing drums. A little farther, you'd hear Indians playing Carnatic instruments. It was heaven. 

I wished it could stay that way. 

Seconds turned into minutes. Minutes turned into hours. Hours turned into days. Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. And months turned into years. 

Seconds to years full of mixed feelings. A mix of happy, lonely, and sad emotions all in one blob. But it made me aware of how to fix each one of these feelings. 

That time went by in the blink of an eye. I turned five years old. 

Now it was time for me to enter kindergarten. Finally, my Aunt bought me my first mini wheelchair. 

The first day of school was chaotic. My Aunt planned to go to my school with her motorcycle. Little did she forget that we needed to bring my wheelchair. 

The long-awaited day arrived. My Aunt took a leave from work that day. She woke up early and woke me up too. She then got everything ready. She even cooked—not like the usual takeout leftovers we usually ate for breakfast. 

My Aunt and I then took a shower. She put on my favorite white glitter T-shirt and jean pants. She even packed my backpack. While I, on the other hand, just lay there and did nothing. 

She picked me up, carrying me, my backpack, and her belongings, and went outside. She placed our things in front of the motorcycle along with me. She then started the engine, wore her helmet, and we were ready to go. 

"Are you ready, Rhou? Your first day of school!" 

"I am. But how about my wheelchair?" 

After I said that, she froze for a few seconds. 

"Auntie?" I asked. 

"Ah. S*hit," she muttered. 

She rushed to turn the motorcycle engine off, ran back inside to grab my wheelchair, carried me into it, placed our things on it, and ran. 

She pushed me so fast, rushing us to the main street. There, she panicked and found us a cab. She placed me inside, folded my wheelchair, and stuffed it next to me. She slammed the back door, opened the front door, rushed in, and slammed it shut. 

"Get to ***** Kindergarten now!" she screamed at the driver. 

The driver pressed the gas pedal, rushing through the streets of Houston. Although my kindergarten wasn't far, it wasn't close either. 

We moved so fast that the streets blurred. A few minutes later, we arrived at my new school. She paid the driver, opened her door, then mine, unfolded my wheelchair, got our things, and carried me to sit on it. 

She said one last thank you to the driver and slammed both doors. She ran to the front door of my school, where we met my classroom teacher and principal. 

"Mrs. Hall, nice to have you here at our school," my principal said. 

"Mrs. Smith, how are you doing?" my Aunt replied. 

"Good," the principal replied. 

"Well, I just want to make sure of one thing. Will someone be helping my daughter?" my Aunt asked. 

"There will be some teachers helping Miss Rhou. Rest assured, she'll be safe here," my principal assured my Aunt. 

My Aunt said goodbye to me. 

"Rhou, promise me to be a good girl, alright? Be strong. I'll pick you up later, okay?" 

"Okay, Auntie." 

She waved goodbye as I entered the hall of my new school. 

I thought to myself and realized—there would be another problem for me to face. Socializing. 

To be continued.... 

*Note: This is a work of Fiction. Any Names, Organization, Etc are fictional. So is any actions here.