Open Letters

When I was in third grade at St. Jude Cathedral School in St. Petersburg, Florida, I learned a lesson that stuck with me—not about math or spelling, but about trust, promises, and standing up for what’s right. It all started with a fundraiser, a classic school popcorn sale, that turned into what felt like a scam to a group of kids who just wanted cooler classrooms. Looking back, I’m still amazed at how we, a bunch of eight- and nine-year-olds, saw through the broken promises and refused to play along.

It was a hot Florida day—aren’t they all?—when our teachers gathered us to announce the big plan. If we sold enough popcorn, the money would go toward installing air conditioning in our classrooms. In St. Petersburg, where the humidity makes you feel like you’re swimming through the air, this was a dream come true. Our classrooms were stuffy, the fans barely cutting through the heat. The idea of cool, crisp air while we worked on our multiplication tables was enough to get us buzzing with excitement.

So, we hit the ground running. Armed with order forms, we went door-to-door, pitched popcorn to neighbors, begged our parents’ coworkers, and sweet-talked relatives into buying tins of caramel and cheddar popcorn. I remember the pride I felt tallying up my sales, imagining how much closer we were to that air-conditioned paradise. We weren’t just selling snacks; we were investing in our comfort, or so we thought.

After weeks of hard work, we turned in our orders and waited for the good news. Instead, we got a bombshell: the air conditioning wasn’t happening. Why? Because our classrooms didn’t have the “right windows.” I can still picture the confusion on my classmates’ faces. Windows? What did windows have to do with anything? It sounded like a flimsy excuse, but as third graders, we didn’t know enough to push back. We were disappointed, sure, but we trusted the adults to know what they were doing. Maybe the windows really were the problem.

Fast forward to fourth grade, and you won’t believe what happened next. The school announced another popcorn sale, and—get this—the money was again supposed to fund air conditioning for our classrooms. The exact same promise. No mention of the previous year’s failure, no explanation about those mysterious windows, just the same shiny goal dangled in front of us. I remember looking at my friends, our eyes narrowing. Did they think we’d forgotten? Did they think we wouldn’t notice?

This time, something clicked. We weren’t just disappointed; we were fed up. The “wrong windows” excuse had already rung hollow, and now they were recycling the same promise without addressing why it fell apart before. It felt like a betrayal, like we were being used as free salespeople for a school that didn’t care enough to keep its word. So, we did something bold for a group of kids: we refused to sell their popcorn.

I won’t lie—it felt powerful. We weren’t going to knock on doors or bug our families for a cause we no longer believed in. Our little rebellion sent a message: you can’t keep promising kids something and not deliver. I don’t know if the school expected us to just go along with it, but our refusal must have thrown them for a loop. I like to think it made them rethink how they talked to us about fundraising, though I’ll never know for sure.

Looking back, I wonder what really happened. Maybe the school genuinely wanted air conditioning but didn’t have the budget or the right building setup. Old schools like St. Jude’s can have quirks—outdated wiring, weird ventilation—that make upgrades tricky. But if that was the case, why not tell us? Why not say, “Hey, we tried, but it’s more complicated than we thought”? And why, oh why, would they make the same promise again the next year without fixing the problem? It’s hard not to feel like the popcorn sales were more about raising money for the school’s general needs than delivering on what they told us.

We poured our hearts into those sales, believing we were making a difference, only to be let down not once, but twice. It taught me early on that adults don’t always have it together, and sometimes you have to call them out when they’re wrong.

I’m curious if other St. Jude’s alumni remember this popcorn saga or if it happened in other years. If you went to St. Jude Cathedral School and have a story like this, I’d love to hear it. For me, it’s a bitter memory—a reminder of how my classmates and I stood up for ourselves, even as kids, and a lesson in the importance of keeping your word, especially when you’re asking others to trust you.