In my memory, my dad always encouraged me to be my best self, explore the world, and believe in those who cared and loved me, which helped to make me who I am today. Besides, I’ve grown up with a pretty good model that my father always was.

One year, my father nearly lost his life. He was twenty-seven years old then. For several months, he’d been suffering from stomach pains. My dad was a former track star, so he knew how to handle pain. Convinced it was nothing serious, he just made a face until it was over whenever it flared up. My mom and dad were visiting his parents in Englewood, New Jersey when extreme pain struck my dad again. However, that time, the pain didn’t fade away although my father tried to take control of it. Meanwhile, my dad developed a high fever. My grandparents rushed him to a nearby hospital. The doctors in the emergency room were confused about his condition. My dad’s symptoms seemed consistent with appendicitis (阑尾炎), but the pain wasn’t localized to the lower part of his stomach, where the appendix (阑尾) is located. While they were debating what to do, a 33-year-old surgeon named Dr. Ibrahim, spoke up, “It must be an appendix.” Dr. Ibrahim guessed it was a rare condition and insisted that my dad should receive an operation immediately, although others were against his decision.

Dr. Ibrahim turned out to be very correct. My dad was wheeled into surgery and his appendix was removed just before it could burst and cause a deadly infection. At last, he got rid of danger.

What if my father hadn’t been in Englewood that day? What if young Dr. Ibrahim hadn’t considered? He was in the right place at the right time, and it saved his life. Now I am a father of two children. Like my father I will never forget Dr. Ibrahim.

While I tried hard to fight against my terrible cancer, my husband passed away due to a heart attack. I was so sad. My mother came to stay with me. I wondered what I'd do with my 86-year-old mother.

A week after she arrived, I asked, “Mom, why don't you crochet (用钩针编织) anymore?" She said she didn't know what she could make. I advised, "How about flowers? We can share them with others." Mom nodded. While she worked, I offered assistance. Before long, Mom crocheted many flowers and we sent them to friends and cancer patients. In the next few weeks, several thank-you notes arrived in our maillbox.

Later, Mom wanted to crochet the butterfly. She created one and sent it to my friend Yvonne. She loved it and attached it to her hairclip. One day, she called, "Some volunteers were sent to Haiti to help with the disaster there. Could you send me another butterfly? I wanted some volunteers to bring the butterfly to a girl in Haiti to offer her warmth and hope." Then we sent another one to Yvonne and she again attached it to a hairclip. The hairclip was later brought to a girl in Haiti. The girl, called Mary, had felt sad and hopeless after suffering from the disaster. But when she received and wore the butterfly hairclip, her face brightened. And her bright eyes showed more hope for the future.

I was excited to know that Mom's creativity was encouraging people like this girl. But some people who didn't know us well thought it was a waste of time crocheting these things. Surely, I couldn't see eye to eye with these people on my mom's efforts of crocheting. Her project was meaningful. It made my mother have a purpose in life. And helping her carry out her project, I felt I led a richer and more hopeful life myself.

I’m Amanda Gorman, I’ve been crazy about writing poetry since third grade. After polishing my skills for about a decade and having judges review my poetry and videos of my performances, I was named the country’s Youth Poet Laureate in 2017, I’ve read my work at the Library of Congress. It’s been an excellent journey especially since I used to have trouble saying half the alphabet.

My twin sister Sarah and I were born very prematurely, which led to lots of ear infections. I didn’t have as much luck as Sarah and the ear infections left me with a severe hearing problem, making it difficult to understand speech, which caused me to develop a speech impediment. My sister would have to translate when I spoke because people had no idea what I was saying. Writing wasn’t just fun: it was a way to have my voice heard and to stop me from feeling pity for my disability. And I was determined to read my poetry in front of audiences.

Our single mom couldn’t always afford medical help. Sometimes she had to choose: Shall I put food on the table or make sure Amanda can say this word? When we couldn’t pay, I’d spend about an hour a day recording my talking and correcting the mistakes gain and again. But poetry was a constant. I didn’t need expensive materials to train myself to be better at that.

At age 20, I still suffer from self-doubt, but i have got a necklace which my grandmother gave me. When I’m nervous before performing, I hold it and say, “I am the daughter of black writers who fought for their freedom, broke their chains and changed the world” And 100 percent of the time after saying that, I’m ready to go.