by Emily Helie
In the hush of the humid morning,
when the air clings like memory,
South Carolina wakes slowly —
stretching beneath the weight of its history.
The palmetto trees lean gently,
like elders listening to the wind,
and the red clay underfoot
reminds me where I’ve been.
I grew up in a town too small for secrets,
where everyone knew your name
but not always your story.
Mine was quiet. Mine was full of shame.
I sat in classrooms full of chatter,
but math made the world blur.
Numbers danced like strangers
I couldn’t seem to keep up with.
I felt dumb.
Not just confused —
but like something was broken in me
And seemingly no one knew.
Teachers tried, I think.
But they were tired,
spread thin like butter on too much bread.
And I didn’t know how to ask for help,
so I stayed quiet instead.
Until one day,
a teacher noticed.
Not my grades, not my silence —
but the way I clenched my pencil
like I was holding on for dear life.
She didn’t fix everything.
She didn’t have magic.
But she stayed after school,
and she listened.
And that was enough to start.
She taught me that effort matters,
that questions are brave,
that learning isn’t a race
and I wasn’t too late.
That year, I won an award.
Not for being the best —
but for showing up,
for trying again,
for refusing to disappear.
And I wonder now,
how many kids like me
are sitting in classrooms today,
feeling small,
feeling unseen,
waiting for someone to say,
“I see you.”
South Carolina,
we are better than this.
We are more than a score
on an annual state report card.
More than the crumbling hallways
and ceilings that decay.
More than teachers packing boxes
because hope can’t match their pay.
We need to pay them what they’re worth.
We need to give them time,
support,
respect.
Because they are the roots
of every future we hope to grow.
We need to stop pretending
that rural kids don’t matter,
that broadband is a luxury,
that mentorship is luck.
It’s not.
It’s the bare minimum.
Let’s build a state
where every child has a chance —
not just the ones in shiny districts
with new textbooks and clean floors.
Let’s make sure
that when a student raises their hand,
someone’s there to answer.
Not just with facts,
but with care.
Let’s make mentorship a mission,
not a miracle.
Let’s make learning feel like belonging,
not like passing a test.
Let the palmetto tree stand for courage —
for growing slow,
for bending without breaking,
for roots that hold on
even when a storm comes.
Let it wave above our schoolyards,
above desks and doubts,
as a promise
that we will not forget
the ones who struggle quietly.
South Carolina,
you are soil.
Rich, red, stubborn.
You’ve raised poets and farmers,
dreamers and fighters.
But soil needs tending.
Roots need water.
And kids need teachers
who have the strength
to stay.
So let’s give them that.
Let’s give them what they deserve.
And maybe then,
in every classroom,
we’ll find not just answers —
but hope.
About Emily Helie
Emily Helie is a senior at Mid-Carolina High School in Prosperity, where her algebra 1 teacher, Mrs. Nicole Frick, inspired her poem. The daughter of Chris and Peggy Helie, Emily loves to read, write, and ride horses. She plans to attend the University of South Carolina and earn her bachelor’s degree in business administration.