Why I Push

Michkael McKenzie '25

Cradled in my mother’s arms, I feel the pain of disbelief mixed with sadness streaming from her eyes. Each drop is heavier as they fall, soaking the surface of my skin. Still encompassed in her arms, I turn my head away from the top of the steps where my Uncle stands with a glare infused with rage, to my mother who stands in front of the door with her keys in hand. Though I am present in the moment and I sense that something is wrong, it is too much for my tiny brain to comprehend, so I fall asleep The usual sensation of familiarity I typically feel when I arrive home seemed foreign to me. In an attempt to understand this unfamiliar feeling, I woke up. I realize that I am fastened into my car seat, I ignore the unfolded piles of clothes, the mixed up pairs of shoes, the scattered collection of hangers, and my nebulizer. All of this was in the car with me. I shift my gaze towards my mother, watching her head rest on the cushioning of the steering wheel. She was muttering some phrases which, at first, seemed like empty words stringed together but as I listened more intently, I realized that it was a prayer.

“God you hear me. I put Michkael before you dear Lord. Forget me Lord, cover him dear Jesus.” My mother has always prayed to God but this one seemed a bit different, it was more of a cry for help. As I look out the window, I realize that we are no longer in the backyard with the gray blocks of wood fitted tightly together fashioned with a roof at the head. No, we are stationed in the empty parking lot of a deserted “Wendys.” I was 4 years old. The heat beaming from the sun subtly kisses the middle of my forehead, as I slowly open my eyes. The familiar smell of cleaning agents and sick people weave in and out of my nose, with each breath. I struggle to rise from my lying position, realizing that I am bound by the IV pierced into the protruding vein in my right arm. Feeling a familiar sensation of warmth resting on my leg, I shift my gaze from the machine monitoring my heart, to my sleeping mother. As if she hears my worries, her head slowly rises and turns to face me.

She looks different: The corners of her eyes bleed a light red, she wears an ironed blue-striped button-up which differed from the one she wore the last time I saw her, and the circles around her eyes have darkened. I wonder how long she’s been waiting for me to wake up, I wonder how long she’s been worried, I wonder how long she hasn’t eaten, I wonder how long I’ve been making her wait. How long? As if she hears the clashing of thoughts in my head, she reaches for my cheek and rests her hand there.

“It’s alright. It's alright.” Though my eyes have become blurry due to the tears welling up at the bottom, I can make out a smile across her face.

…

The oxygen in my lungs is being stripped. It’s becoming harder to breathe. Everything is moving slower, like a slow motion film.

…

People wearing blue outfits burst into the room They have a panicked look on their faces and they’re talking with each other while looking at my monitor, but for some reason I cannot hear them, Oh those must be the nurses? Why are they here?

…

The fluorescent smell of my mother’s perfume lingers in an invisible silhouette in place of where she originally stood. Where is she?

…

I start to regain my sense of hearing.

…

“Hurry up! He’s losing consciousness!”

…

“ Grab the oxygen tank!”

…

“Stay with us kid!”

I was 6 years old.

To this day, I still get flashbacks to all of the sleepless nights I had out of fear for my safety.

“Michkael we’ll come for you in the middle of the night, take you out of your bed, tie you to a chair, and brand you!” Even though I sat back and laughed like it didn’t faze me, internally I was mortified. This happened during the summer of 2022, when I attended a camp in Nantucket. I was training to be a caddie, and I was elated. Not only because I knew that I was going to be making a lot of money which would help out me and my mom but I would also be meeting many interesting people. Although I had never shied away from work, the struggle of this job exceeded my expectations. I didn't expect it to be too difficult because I have never been intimidated by hard work, but it turned out much worse than I had imagined Over the weeks, the experience that I had been dreaming about for months had become my worst nightmare. Everyday, I would wake up at 6 am and get ready to go to work for about 4 hours unless I had gotten a double loop which would be another 4 hours, totaling 8 hours. I would eat, check in with my mom whenever I got a chance, go to sleep, repeat. I knew that it wouldn’t be easy being one of the few black people in Nantucket, but it didn’t scare me. Unfortunately, I was antagonized daily by my white peers and most surprising, I was faced with the same hate and discrimination from white adults which made it unbearable. Day in and day out, the hate increased but I concealed my pain behind a smile. I didn’t want them to see that it hurt me. As the days went by, my smile started to fade little by little. And the once snarky comments started to turn into increasingly hateful speech, which began to match their actions. My clothes started to get pulled out of my locker, stomped on, and my bed routinely got flipped. My normal routine had changed to getting up, going to work, not eating, not calling my mom, picking up my clothes, folding them, putting them back in my locker, flipping my bed back in position and making it up again. A month of camp went by and finally I found the courage to tell my mom that it felt like I was selling my soul for a dollar mom had been constantly praying for weeks because she said she just could not understand what happened to her happy and confident son before I knew it, I was on the ferry home the next day. I was 15 years old.

I am 15 years old. The rustling of the fall leaves sing as they wisp by my ears. The aroma of sweet potato pie and Starbucks’ pumpkin spice latte fills the air. There is a slow melodic sound from my shoes that matches the rhythmical pattern of my pace as I walk up the steps of “Berkshire Hall.” While walking up the steps of my future, I remember the nights in the car, I remember the nights spent in the hospital, I remember the nights spent in fear of my life A smile forms across my face knowing that despite any adversity I face, I will make it through. Finally reaching the top of the steps, I pull open the main doors and walk through them. I push through the sea of people that fill the entire lower half of “Berkshire Hall” and find my way to the front. Our Head of School enters the atrium–taking “center stage”– looks directly at me and greets me.

“Welcome.”