STILL I RISE

These graduating seniors embody poet Maya Angelou’s promise to find a way into a “daybreak that’s wondrously clear.”

BY ELISSA CHUDWIN AND CHRISTINA HUGHES

High school can be stressful and chaotic, as students navigate academics, friendships and impending adulthood. These students’ experiences would keep most of us down, some of us out. Instead their heartache propelled them to a future worthy of their struggles.

Colt Brock

Braxton and Colt Brock always had shared striking similarities and major differences. Colt is academic, usually clean-shaven and outspoken. His older brother grew an unruly beard and “hated” school, but he was a genius when it came to mechanics and working with his hands, Colt says. After graduating Lake Highlands High School in 2014, Braxton sought out his own social group, like-minded friends with a yearning to ride and work on bikes. Braxton didn’t go off to college, but he labored some 50 hours a week. “All he knew was work,” Colt says.

At night Braxton slept on a twin bed, parallel to Colt’s.

At 21, he and Colt, 17, still divvied their childhood room. “We shared that room, it seems like, all our lives,” Colt says.

There’s no need for twin beds in the room today.

When Colt returned at the beginning of the school year, there were few at Lake Highlands High School who didn’t know Brock had died, killed in a hit-and-run motorcycle accident in early August.

“People look at you. They don’t know what to say. There are a few people who actually do know how we feel,” he says.

Austin Silva, who died suddenly last year, was a classmate, he says. The Kampfschulte family of Lake Highlands, who lost a little boy to a rare illness, also made efforts to help Colt’s shocked family in any way possible.

Braxton was killed on his way home from work at about 9:30 on a Thursday night.

Responders told his family the driver might have not even noticed that he hit Braxton.

Colt was brushing his teeth when he heard loud banging at the front door. “Braxton,” he figured, “always trying to scare me.”

But it was two uniformed officers on the porch instructing the family to drive to a Plano hospital, where, they said, Braxton was in ICU.

Except for sister Katsie Rane, a sophomore who was away at camp, they gathered into the car.

“I knew whatever it was, I had to hold myself together, because I knew my mom was not going to be able to take it,” Colt says. “I had to keep it together.”

When Colt, mom and stepdad arrived, the physician immediately imparted the unthinkable news: “There is no chance of him waking up.”

The surgeon was blunt, Colt says.

“It seemed mean at first. It hit Mom instantly like a wrecking ball to the gut. I went into shock, I think. The words were so hard, quick, unexpected, but now I understand why,” he says.

For one thing, Braxton’s remaining organs were healthy and young, and he had always spoken ardently of being an organ donor. He didn’t drink or party, his family says, so they expected viable parts.

But they had to move fast.

“He officially died the day following the accident, Friday, and we already had the ball rolling and everything,” Colt says.

Six people received Braxton’s life-saving organs and 75 others benefited. Skin, bone, eyes — almost everything was put to use.

Braxton wasn’t the sentimental type. “I recall thinking at the funeral services, he may not have liked everyone in this room, but he loved all of them, and would have given any one the shirt off his back.”

Giving his organs was a small catharsis, Colt says.

The devastated family pressed through the pain, because they had no choice. Sister Katsie has suffered a condition called fibromatosis most of her life. Some cases are treated with chemotherapy at certain stages; in 2016, Katsie’s needed to be.

“She got sick, lost hair. Mom and my sister would go to MD Anderson hospital in Houston every Wednesday for treatments.”

But she is “a fighter;” they both are, he says of his sister and mother.

Since Braxton’s death, Colt’s stepfather has undergone a total hip replacement.

His mom eventually stopped working as a teacher and became her family’s nurse for a while. But the family is financially stable. The accident was mostly covered by the state, because it is considered a criminal case.

Braxton’s life insurance policy will go toward his siblings’ college funds.

Police still are searching for the white pickup truck, caught only in blurry images on a Plano street camera. “I can’t — none of us can — look at a white truck without thinking about it,” Colt says.

Colt used to be the senior wrestling captain but quit the team in October.

He started an architecture and design club. It is a national affiliate — so far only 20 high schools have chapters. LHHS “swept the district” at the first competition.

Colt plans to intern this summer at PBK Architects, the company that did the latest redesign at LHHS.

Eventually he hopes to earn a master’s degree in architecture. He loves the work, because it keeps his mind busy with problem solving and satisfies his creative side.

As he readies to head home for the day, the topic of facial hair emerges. In photos taken before his brother’s funeral, Colt’s face was smooth.

“In wrestling, we weren’t allowed to grow [a beard], but I stopped shaving the day of the accident.”

Now he sees a little more, even, of his brother in the mirror each day. n

ABOVE: Since the death of his brother, Braxton, Colt Brock wears his brother’s thumbprint on a necklace.

LEFT: Braxton Brock was killed at age 21 in a motorcycle accident.

Imani Johnson

It was devastating for a third-grader like Imani Johnson, who prided herself on good grades and hard work. Thanks to a new standardized exam, which she did not pass because of test anxiety, she was held back.

It would never happen again, the youngster promised herself — no excuses.

Almost a decade later, the Lake Highlands Exchange Club selected Imani Johnson (along with Colt Brock) as Students of the Month last September. Certain teachers at Lake Highlands High School, where Imani is a senior now, refer to “the Imani effect.” The infectiousness of her hard work and dedication influence even the adults around her, AVID teacher Matthew Morris says.

“She reminds us of why we chose our field. She’s a beacon of light in a sometimes bleak world,” he says. “She may seem overly zealous at times, but she is goal oriented and won’t stop until she achieves. And those of us who have worked with her — our lives are forever changed for the better.”

Imani fought hard with Advanced Placement Geography early in high school. As a freshman, she used what she learned in AVID, an academic club for students, to start an inclusive tutoring group. She now maintains the website, coordinates volunteers, provides snacks and connects students with outside resources.

“I’ve learned a lot from creating a group on campus, from improved management skills to effective advertising. It’s my hope that this group will remain on campus long after I’ve left high school,” she said upon accepting her award.

If that sounds exceedingly mature for a high schooler, make no mistake, it is all Imani. She is a reluctant grown up, she says, half joking. She is the oldest of five siblings. “When you are in that position, you are no longer a child,” she says. “You

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Follow us on Facebook/Instagram have to be an adult. Not to say my parents don’t pull their weight, but I come home to all these little eyes looking up at me, wanting, needing.”

She loves them, but family is a touchy subject. “I sometimes feel a stressed relationship with my family,” she says. “I struggle with anger, depression and other things I try to numb myself from.” She doesn’t feel they totally understand the depths of her angst.

“I have been so down at times that I have wanted to die,” she says. “Young Life has been such a big part of healing and guiding me, spiritually.”

At Camp Buckner, which Imani attended recently, she admitted the suicidal ideations and received help. She learned that her own thoughts are all she can control.

“You can hold the gun, but your thoughts pull the trigger,” she says.

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To an extent, Imani feels her struggles are of her own making because she holds in emotions. It is palpable when talking to this young woman with the 1,000-watt smile and overflowing energy. She rumbles, and only a slim fault line seems to exist between enthusiasm and anxiety. But she understands now the need to talk to her adult mentors — Michael Morris and Rhianna Anglin, AVID instructors, or “Ms. Meredith,” of Young Life.

“Imani’s uniqueness lies in her dedication to just keep going,” Anglin says. “Her positive attitude, her strength of character, her belief systems and her dreams keep her moving toward her goals. ... I am so excited to see her grow and change as she enters this next phase in her life because she can offer this world so much.”

Imani just received a full-ride scholarship to Bennett College. She also is interested in attending Houston Baptist.

She wants to be a nurse. She wants to serve. She is content with seeing “where God takes me.” n

Mansour Lam

Mansour Lam is an eloquent communicator, although he has yet to realize it.

The wiry, mild-mannered 17-year-old doesn’t need to be verbose to be articulate. His voice has a poetic cadence, and he thoughtfully answers questions in just a few words.

But Mansour, who speaks several languages, doesn’t talk about himself much. He worries his Senegalese accent is difficult to understand. The Lake Highlands High School senior prefers writing more than speaking, he says, because people relate best to others when they can’t see their faces. He excels in his AP classes despite that he enrolled in school for the first time at age 11.

“The fact I wasn’t born here, and I’m doing stuff kids who were born here can’t do, that I’m very proud of,” he says.

Mansour’s quiet demeanor shifts when he describes his family. He is the second youngest of 12 children, several of whom still live at home.

“You can’t get bored,” he says. “It can be frustrating but fun at the same time.”

Even Mansour’s eyes smile as he imitates how his brothers play basketball. They’ve practiced the sport every Saturday for years with little improvement. The Lam siblings only take granny shots, he says, as he haphazardly throws his arms into the air.

“I kind of like that they’re horrible, and I’m good,” Mansour says.

Since they immigrated from Senegal in September 2010, Mansour has relied on his family during the “bad days” — the times it feels as though needles are poking his stomach and his limbs are ripping apart.

Sickle cell anemia has caused lifelong bouts of excruciating and unpredictable pain in Mansour’s arms, legs or chest. He was diagnosed with the red blood cell disorder before he spoke English and could fully understand the disorder’s consequences.

“The fact that I know what it is makes it harder,” he says.

If powerful painkillers like hydrocodone don’t quell the agony, Mansour is hospitalized — sometimes for two to three weeks. His mother won’t leave his bedside, despite his siblings’ offers to stay with him. His father, a devout Muslim, prays until the episode ends.

A bone marrow transplant is the only known cure for the disorder. Mansour hasn’t found a match.

“I’m honestly not worried about it,” he says. “When it comes, we deal with it. That’s all we can do.”

Mansour only confides in his best friend when he’s in pain. She doesn’t treat him differently like he worries others might, he says.

“I just know I’m me. I’m not a bad person. The things I can’t change, I can’t change. There’s no point weeping over it.”

Even though Mansour has missed dozens of days of school, he thrives in the classroom.

“It doesn’t deter him from his sincere belief that his life is going to be great,” AP U.S. history teacher Casey Boland says.

Mansour was accepted into the University of North Texas and plans to have a career as a physical therapist.

“He has that overall rosy positive attitude, without a hint of arrogance. If I were him, I’d be the most arrogant person on the planet,” Boland says.

Mansour’s parents fled war-torn Mauritania, a West African country bordering Senegal, in the 1990s. Children in Senegal aren’t required by law to attend school, so he went to an Islamic school that only taught the Quran instead.

“We didn’t have enough money to buy bread in the mornings for breakfast,” Mansour wrote in an English class essay. “The 11 years that I lived there, I had to go around [to] different houses, asking for rice and milk.”

With little food, his parents applied for visas to enter the United States. Mansour — who dreamt they were in the U.S. before their visas were approved — was excited, until he became sick for the entirety of the eighthour plane ride, he says.

“I remember praying: ‘This is not what the food is like, because this I cannot get used to,’ ” he says.

The family thought they’d go to Ohio, where their extended family lives, but U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services brought the family to Dallas. They ushered them into a townhouse near Forest Lane.

“The fridge was filled with anything you can think of,” he says. “That’s not something we were used to. Adapting was a different story.”

Mansour walked into school for the first time without knowing “hi” was a greeting or that uniforms were required.

“I hated the first few months,” he says. “It was the worst. I remember doing a test — everyone circling, bubbling — and I had never seen a Scantron … All eyes are on you. You’re just different. Everybody knows you have no idea what’s going on.”

One of his teachers bought him a winter coat and uniforms. The kindness she showed is, in part, why he gives his phone number to every new student and offers to befriend them.

It took Mansour a few years before he felt at home in Lake Highlands, he says, and he didn’t prioritize education until he became an upperclassmen. He studies for an hour every night before he even begins his homework.

“Now I just focus on my education instead of what I’ll eat for lunch,” he says. n

‘Efron’ Genet

The week before prom, Fitsum “Efron” Genet is preoccupied with the details of the Egyptian Nights-themed event. The animated 18-yearold is the senior class vice president tasked with planning the milestone.

This is Efron’s chance to be remembered at Lake Highlands High School, he says, and opportunities like that can’t be wasted. He rattles off all the key decisions he helped make, from the venue to the music to a special guest appearance, a local petting zoo’s camel.

Efron could be pegged as a politician in the making, even though he wants to be a doctor. He’s outgoing and charismatic — the type who treats strangers as lifelong friends.

Efron doesn’t introduce himself as Fitsum, his given name. He tells his peers his name is Efron, just like the actor. His father, though, gave him the nickname when he was a baby.

“I like it because it’s one of the good things my dad gave me,” he says.

Efron hasn’t seen his dad since he immigrated from Ethiopia to the United States when he was 9. His mother relocated to the U.S. when Efron was a toddler to ensure her son had better financial and educational opportunities. She worked several jobs to send his family money for necessities and pay for Efron’s private school education, where he learned English.

Without his mom nearby, his father, aunt and a nanny raised him. He and his father bonded during the day, but alcohol consumed his dad’s attention at night.

“My dad was an alcoholic; I remember it very vividly. That’s why at 7 or 8, I made a vow never to drink,” he says.

Efron’s father never moved to the U.S., and he won’t see Efron receive his diploma this June. Efron learned his dad died from a heart attack in March. The news hasn’t registered yet, and Efron says he’s unsure if he’s begun to grieve.

“I’m angry that he died before he saw me succeed,” Efron says.

His father’s death isn’t the only thing he’s had to reconcile. Growing up, his dad told Efron that his mother abandoned them. So when she brought him to the United States at 9, he felt like he was moving to a new country with a woman he knew little about.

Even though he spoke English fluently, he was considered the weird kid in school, he says. He struggled with his mother’s rules and living with his little brother. He felt his dad stopped caring. Then, when he was 12, his aunt died of breast cancer.

“I just didn’t feel like I was loved,” he says.

Navigating between cultures while in mourning was overwhelming, Efron says. He was suicidal as a middle-schooler, but he never mentioned how he was feeling to anyone until he attended a Young Life camp. He found solace in religion and met a mentor, Adrian Neal, who he’s still in contact with today.

“I felt God, and I know trying to end my life wasn’t what I was meant for.”

Now an honor roll student, Efron played football and ran track. He credits football coach, Lonnie Jordan, for increasing his work ethic and confidence. Efron also volunteers at Ethiopian Orthodox Church in Garland and attends Village Church.

He’ll either attend Aurora University in Illinois, West Texas A&M University or A&M Commerce, depending on the financial aid he receives. Efron is paying his college tuition by himself, and he hopes to graduate with little debt so he can eventually afford medical school.

He and his mom don’t argue anymore, and his little brother — albeit annoying, he says — reminds him of himself.

“I love my mom,” he says. “She’s my rock.”

Imani Johnson, one of Efron’s good friends, has watched him not only become more self-assured but also become more responsible.

Any challenge or mistake he views as a lesson, she says.

“If I go through pain, I hope I come out better for it,” he says. n

If you, or someone you know, is feeling depressed or suicidal, you have options. Contact teacher Casey Boland, A106, or call 1-800-273-8255.

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