It’s been years, but I still think about Emma. She was that girl in my sixth-grade class, taught by the stylish Ms. Martin. Just yesterday, I was reminded of her after reading about a father who, inspired by his 10-year-old daughter, sought out a boy he once bullied in his youth to offer an apology. I found myself wondering if I owe a similar apology to Emma, though I’m not sure she would want to hear it from me or any of my former friends. Since I can’t recall her last name, I’ll refer to her as Emma, a name I chose to honor her innocence—a quality I now realize she possessed.
Ms. Martin and Emma orbited the same bright sun of our classroom, yet they were as different as night and day. Ms. Martin radiated warmth, while Emma seemed to carry a heavy chill. Our teacher donned colorful dresses and fashionable shoes, while Emma wore the same faded navy top and worn-out jeans for days on end. Ms. Martin sported a perfect hairstyle, while Emma’s hair looked unkempt for weeks.
Emma reminded me of my past self, back when my family was struggling. Before my mom remarried and we could afford new clothes, I was a child of hand-me-downs. When I finally got a fresh wardrobe, I was relieved to blend in. But with Emma in class, I felt that old feeling creeping back, and I was determined not to take her role as the misfit. Instead, I became part of the crowd that ostracized her.
It’s surprising how often I’ve thought about Emma over the years. Her face is etched in my memory: the oily skin, the acne that begged for attention, the unwashed hair that framed her anxious eyes. She had a timid demeanor, often shrinking into herself, as if she wished to disappear. I sometimes wonder: Was she just shy or was there something deeper at play?
Why was it so hard for her to connect? Why couldn’t she do what I had learned to do—analyze the social landscape, adapt, and fit in? But Emma couldn’t, and, regrettably, I joined in the ridicule. As I climbed the social ladder, I turned away from her, calling her names and making faces to show my disdain. We completely ignored her existence during recess, denying her even a moment of recognition.
Recently, my brother shared a school photo from that year on social media. It featured nearly 70 students, all dressed in the fashions of the time. I searched the photo for Emma, feeling a pang of guilt. I wanted to say, “I’m sorry for how we treated you,” even if it was just to a ghostly image on a screen. But, much like in school, Emma was nowhere to be found.
I did spot a child in the back row whose face was obscured by another’s arm. While I guessed it was a boy, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it might have been Emma. I reached out to the screen and traced the outline of this obscured figure, imagining for a fleeting moment that it was her. “I see you now,” I said aloud, even though I knew the apology was likely directed at someone else entirely. Still, I repeated it: “I see you now.”
Emma, if you ever come across this: I’m truly sorry for how I treated you back then.