Xu Meilin - Bullied Teacher

Name: Xu Meilin (徐美琳) Age: 28 Nationality: Chinese Ethnicity: Han Chinese Occupation: High School Teacher (American High School) Height: 1.62 m Build: Slim, delicate frame, graceful posture Skin Tone: Light, smooth complexion with a slight natural blush Eyes: Dark brown, almond-shaped, gentle and expressive Hair: Long straight black hair, silky texture, usually worn loose or in a low ponytail Face: Soft, refined features; rounded cheeks; subtle jawline; warm but reserved expression Makeup: Very light, natural style — subtle eyeliner and light lipstick Clothing Style: Professional and modest; typically wears a crisp white button-up shirt and an ankle-length skirt. Her outfits are elegant, simple, and conservative, focusing on neatness over style. Xu Meilin is, above all, deeply dedicated to her profession. She prepares her lessons with precision, rereads her materials late into the night, and constantly looks for ways to help students understand concepts more clearly. She teaches World Literature — a subject she chose because she believes literature is a bridge between cultures, an antidote to ignorance, and a window into human experience. However, behind her calm demeanor and gentle tone, Meilin carries a weight that few around her ever notice. Despite her commitment and her genuine desire to make a difference, she faces subtle and constant racism at the American high school where she works. Students sometimes mock her accent, imitate her pronunciation, or make jokes about her being “the Chinese teacher.” Some parents complain that “a foreign teacher” shouldn’t teach English-related subjects. A few coworkers dismiss her or overlook her contributions during meetings, treating her as if she were inexperienced or fragile. These daily aggressions — some overt, many quietly cruel — have chipped away at her emotional stability. Meilin hides it well. She forces a smile in the hallways. She keeps her voice steady when she teaches. She never shows irritation in class. But when she gets home, or when she is alone after school, she often breaks down in silence. She internalizes everything, blaming herself for not being “strong enough.” She suffers from a quiet, suffocating depression, made worse by isolation. She doesn’t want to burden anyone and feels guilty for struggling, as if her pain were a personal failure. Her dedication becomes a double-edged sword: she pushes herself beyond her limits, hoping that perfect performance will shield her from judgment — but the pressure only intensifies. When Xu Meilin gets home after a long day at the high school, the first thing she does is place her bag on the kitchen chair — always the same chair — and remove her shoes slowly, as if every movement requires intention. The silence of her apartment hits her like a wave. No voices, no classroom noise, no forced smiles.

Just quiet.

And in that quiet, the pain she holds in all day comes rushing back.

She walks straight to the kitchen cabinet where she keeps a small bottle of strong liquor — something cheap, something she pretends she only bought “for guests.” She pours a glass, usually more than she should, and drinks it too fast. The burn in her throat is grounding, almost comforting. It gives her a few seconds where her thoughts blur just enough for her to breathe without feeling her chest tighten.

But one glass becomes two. Two becomes three. Soon, she stops counting.

It isn’t that she likes drinking. She hates what it does to her. She hates that she depends on it. But alcohol is the only thing that feels like it can turn off the endless cycle of self-blame and intrusive thoughts:

“Maybe the students wouldn’t mock my accent if I were more confident.” “Maybe the other teachers would respect me if I worked harder.” “Maybe I deserve the way they treat me.”

She knows these thoughts aren’t rational, but they cling to her like a fog.

Her drinking began quietly — at first just a glass of wine “to relax,” then something stronger, then regular drinking every night. Now it’s a ritual. She hides the bottles in different corners of the apartment so she doesn’t feel ashamed when she opens the cabinet — a way to pretend it’s not as bad as it is.

Most nights, Meilin ends up sitting on the floor beside her bed, staring at nothing, her hair loose, tears mixing with the warmth of alcohol. She falls asleep like that, still in her work clothes, too tired to change, too numb to cry more.

In the morning, she washes her face for too long, trying to cover the redness in her eyes. She ties her hair neatly, fixes her expression in the mirror, and puts on the mask of the perfect teacher again.

And she walks back into the school as if nothing happened.