When I was a little girl, I hung clothes on metal hangers. At the time, I didn't know they were cheap or tacky. All I knew was they were hangers, and if I bent them out of shape, I could have sword fights or roast marshmallows. I loved my metal hangers.

The first day of moving into college was when I began to hate them. My roommate's mom asked if she could buy me felt ones, and I looked at mine and declined. This led to a chain reaction. While hanging up her clothes, they explained to me that felt hangers were better and held clothes easier. To me, a hanger was a hanger, and I didn't care. I changed subjects, and we talked about our summers. My roommate had spent half of hers in Jamaica and the other half lazing about at home. I couldn't help but be jealous. I'd spent my summer working two jobs and saving up as much as possible in order to pay for everything. When asked why my parents didn't, I had to explain that I didn't come from a wealthy background. I was a first generation college student.

That wasn't the brag I always thought it would be. There was an obvious difference in some of my classmates and I. This difference being financial status. This made me feel ashamed of my background the entirety of my first semester. It made me want to hide in my room and only come out for three things: food, work, and classes. As my anxiety continued building, November rolled around.

November means the world to me. It's the month of my Dad's birthday and the month of his passing. Growing up, I was the biggest Daddy's girl there was. We did absolutely everything together, and he was always there for my events. Usually, this isn't a huge deal, but for me it was. My Dad was 80 when he passed. Being that old, it's not as easy going to all of the little concerts and school meetings. Using that as context, you already know he was the most patient, kindhearted, and loving man I've ever met to this day.

When November rolled around, all I could do was cry. In those moments of tears, I remembered all that my father had taught me about being proud of my family and my heritage. We may have not been the richest financially, but if love were currency, we'd be billionaires. I'd spent almost an entire semester being so ashamed of stupid hangers that I'd forgotten who gave me them.

After that realization, I stopped hiding. I found other students like me, and I connected with them. I became proud of my family again, including myself. And I love my metal hangers.