I have begun every conversation with the usual opening line, “Entschuldigung, mein Deutsch ist noch nicht so gut” since I moved to Hermsdorf, a little village in east Germany in 2015. The purpose was to let the Germans know that they shouldn’t expect me to express more ideas or respond quickly and accurately, so I escape too much conversation with them.

Learning to speak German was not funny for meat all. Even if I could technically write academic (学术的) articles in German, the thought of calling a doctor to make an appointment (约定) would still bring me anxiety. I would stammer (口吃) during small talk with a mother I had never met before, while dressing my one-year-old at kindergarten.

This went on for almost ten years until a month ago. I was at home, telling my husband about a meeting I’d had. As usual, I started the meeting by apologizing (道歉) for my poor German. The lady behind the desk looked at me somewhat confused, “But your German is great.” “She is right, you know,” my husband said. “I don’t know why you still think you speak poor German. OK, it is not perfect, but who cares?” After living in Germany for nearly ten years, why did I still worry so much? I finally saw the light. It was because I was trying to protect my feelings.

Lately, when I sat across from a woman who could be my future boss, I felt anxious about the interview, especially the unavoidable question, “Tell me about yourself.” I really wanted to use my usual opening line, but I didn’t and thought I should trust myself and my German. That afternoon, l was called back to meet the CEO who told me that I was hired, and when we shook hands, she didn’t mention anything about my German skills.

My army career as a second lieutenant (少尉) was unpleasant to go through.   I was assigned to Korea for my first year; returned to Fort brag for two months; and then sent to the Persian Gulf War in 1991.

Married for only a year and a half, I was missing my wife and baby daughter a lot. As a unit on the go in the years before cell phoned and Wi-Fi, we had limited opportunities to communicate with loved ones.   

One night while sitting by myself, I looked through the “Any Soldier” mailbox, an old cardboard box with letters and packages from Americans. I chose one shoe box-size package.   Inside were 20 cards from children who had asked various questions about army life.   At the bottom was a letter from their teacher in Ohio explaining how her kids had put the box together and how they supported our efforts.   

I was truly touched and decided to write a letter of gratitude. I thanked the teacher for what her children had done-its impact on my patriotism (爱国精神), and my uplifted faith. For security reasons, I was able to sign only my name.

Around 2013, I received a Face book friend request from a woman with whom I shared no contacts. She raised one question: “Are you second lieutenant Bartholomew?” I replied that I had been at one time.

“Dear sir,” she wrote. “We have never met, but in 1991 I was a second-grade teacher at a school in Ohio and our class sent a care package addressed to ‘Any Service Member’ The thank-you letter you wrote was framed and has been posted on the school wall for more than 20 years.   I wanted to thank you again for your service to our country.   God bless you. ”

We never spoke again, but this respectable teacher reinforced my belief in doing what my mother always taught me: Write thank-you notes-you never know how many people your kindness can touch.

Brie Fainblit in California does her homework by candlelight whenever the power gets cut off. If the water goes, she fills empty bottles at school to wash her hair. She is used to not having what other people have. Mostly, the 19-year-old student just accepts it.

But she won’t do that for prom (毕业舞会).

She wants to be Highland High School’s prom queen and turn heads.

Fainblit lives with her mother, who is disabled, and her aunt, who works two part-time jobs to support them.

There is never enough money for new clothes. Usually, Fainblit finds what she can at the local Goodwill, but the prom dresses there are too big and too old.

So, back in September, with the dance a distant dot (点) on the calendar, she decided to make a dress for herself—out of soda-can tabs (拉环), for free.

For months, Fainblit’s aunt, Sylvia Davalos, has asked everyone at her jobs to help. Together with Fainblit and her friends, they have turned her dining room table into an assembly line.

But who knew that tabs came in so many colors, shapes and sizes, or that some have holes and some don’t? Who knew that many would have sharp edges that would need to be smoothed out?

And who knew that it would take many months to get enough perfectly shaped, identical (同样的) silver tabs for one prom dress?

Fainblit’s mother and aunt haven’t been able to buy her much. But they have tried to make up for that by emphasizing creativity over cash. For her dress, using thick black thread, Fainblit stitches (缝制) tab to tab in row after perfect row.

The dress is not finished. The tabs have taken their toll: Fainblit and her mother both have Band-Aids on their fingers.

Other girls in Fainblit’s class will have gone to the mall to pick out their dresses. Some will ride in cars from their homes to the school, where a bus will take them all to the prom.

Brie will have no special chariot (座驾) and no pocket money to burn.

But she’ll be a proud Cinderella in soda tabs, with her soda tab prince by her side.