When I was a little girl, I used to get two pairs of shoes a year — one for back-to-school shopping, and one in the wintertime. This particular year, I was in the sixth grade. I got a pair of green jelly sandals with my back-to-school shopping, and I loved them.

I used to walk to school — about two and a half to three miles. The weather was starting to change, cool in the mornings and warm by the evenings. So I decided I'd be smart about it: I put white socks on with my green jelly sandals. I thought it was fine.

As I was walking down the hallway, I ran into a friend. She looked at me and said, "Chinna, why do you have those socks on with those sandals?" I said, "Yeah girl, my feet were cold!" She burst out laughing, then ran ahead into the classroom. I hadn't walked in yet, and from the hallway I heard her telling the other kids what I had on — telling them to look at me the second I walked in. I heard them getting their jokes ready, taking turns deciding what they'd say about my clothes and my shoes.

The only other shoes I owned were the ones from the end of the previous school year. They were worn out — before school let out that summer, I'd tried gluing and stapling the soles back together myself, because my mama couldn't afford to get me another pair at the time. Socks with sandals wasn't a choice. It was the only option I had.

Instead of walking into that classroom, I went to the restroom first. I cried and sobbed until I'd gotten the hurt out, then washed my face with cold water so no one would see that I'd been crying. Then I walked into that classroom to face them. I kept my face stone-still while, one by one, they took their turns making jokes about my clothes and my shoes. I was breaking inside — but I wasn't going to let them see it.

As an adult, I made a vow: to do everything within my power to make sure no child ever has to feel the way I felt that day. Green Jelly Beans is how I keep that vow — restoring confidence, hope, and dignity to the little girl I was, and to children like her.