I looked down the line of other students’ hands. Their skin was white and plump, like they never had to pick a bean in their lives. They didn’t have to earn a dollar in the fourth grade. I put my hands together, hoping to cover one with the other. I noticed the black stains deep in my fingerprints and the lifelines of my palms. I had done the dishes the night before. I had washed my hands after using the bathroom. But I was still stained, marked a worker, poor and in need. I hid my hands in the open compartment of my desk, wanting something to hold onto, I grabbed a pencil but held too tightly and broke it in half.