The Queen

When my first-grade homeroom teacher introduced a project where we designed a poster board depiction of a famous person with fun facts in the pockets, the classroom was filled with giggles and bubbling ideas. While they threw out ideas like Michael Jackson and Jane Goodall, I had the idea of doing a poster on an African American like Martin Luther King, Harriet Tubman, or Rosa Parks, but those felt too obvious and simple. On the way home, I told my dad about the project with my feet swinging from the back seat.

He added, “What if you did your project on an ancient African queen?”

A queen! That would be different and unique. Looking up “African queens” on my small hand-me-down laptop that was way past its use-by date, I clicked on links populated by Google and scrolled through biographies. Finally, I found a warrior, diplomat, and tactician that sparked a light in my dark brown eyes.

Nzinga Mbande, born in 1583 in Ndango (modern-day Angola) descended from centuries of Mbundu Queens and Kings. When she was an adolescent, her brother poisoned their father to expedite his ascension. Nevertheless, Nzinga overthrew and killed him for his traitorous act. As the new queen, she fought against the Portuguese efforts to enslave her people.

Decorating the hallways, the classic Black history trio of course was featured along with other historical figures, but I can tell you with confidence that I was the only one who chose an African queen. Queen Nzinga continued to inspire characters in my writing and Black History Month dressups long after the project was completed.

However, the light dimmed after transferring schools in second grade. Latin was a different world, located across town with new classmates, and I was the only Black girl in the entire second grade.

In the majority of lower school, despite having peers to play with, I never felt I fit into my grade, drifting like a ghost from place to place. Trying to fit in, I floated around to different groups, and in class I would choke back my voice even if I knew the answer. It felt good when I was in those groups, but I didn’t feel like I belonged.

In the poetry unit in fifth grade, I stumbled upon my old Nzinga documents on Google Drive. Remembering her influence, I wrote a free-verse poem addressed to my ancient and modern pan-African ancestors who contributed to Black people’s existence and success. I worked tirelessly on the poem, and my teachers featured it on the board. I hesitated about having it hang where my peers were to see, but I had a what-would-Nzinga-do kind of moment.

In a meeting with the Portuguese about a peace treaty, they provided Nzinga no seating except for the earth beneath her feet in hopes to humiliate her, yet a servant knelt to become her seat. The Portuguese, who sought to destroy her pride, were astonished since she was able to bring her seat to a table that wanted her to feel inferior. Like her strength in the meeting, I realized the importance of my Afrocentric, renaissance, and confident truth regardless of how I was perceived. Finding my voice, I entered an oratorical contest in 7th grade, joined Speech and Debate, and received invitations to speak from my church.

This past summer, descending the entrance steps of the National African American History Museum’s main exhibitions, the same picture that adorned the website which sparked joy in my little eyes stared back at me. Queen Nzinga was the first historical figure depicted in the exhibit, introducing her excellence as Queen to visitors, a reminder of Black achievement and royalty beyond the transatlantic slave trade. As her story remains unknown to many, I will continue to bring not just my own self to the table but hers as well as a reminder of the excellence residing within myself.

Helen Hurden

The woman’s name was Amber, and I knew she was perfect. Her flawless, golden-blonde hair fell in waves to her waist, deep blue eyes captivated passersby, and a math degree hung on a wall of her ivy-covered cottage. An immaculate white Jeep matched the fur of her Bichon Frise, and an elegant wardrobe brimmed with floor-length dresses that twirled about her as she skipped through fields of daffodils and lavender.

Becoming Amber became my obsession: I donned floral dresses, caked my eyelids in twodollar Target eyeshadow, and spent hours perched in front of my bathroom mirror attempting fruitlessly to braid my hair in a vain attempt to imitate Amber, the shining figure newly sprung from my childish mind. I dragged my mom through department stores, gazing longingly at glittery prom dresses and heels. I dashed colored pencils across sketchbook pages, leaving wobbly drawings of rhinestone-studded wedding gowns and evening wear in their wake.

Yet I soon realized Amber was not alone; another, unnamed figure began to take shape. This new girl burst onto the scene as I pretended to wage war at playgrounds, challenged classmates to cartwheel contests, and defied death by leaping off the tops of slides. I studied photos of my dad on the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro and gazed transfixed at the women on American Ninja Warrior, wishing for their strength. I begged my parents to take me on camping trips, attacked ropes courses and ziplines, and terrified my family by swinging from the tallest trees I could find.

This girl and Amber lived side by side, even as other characters emerged. Grainy videos feature me singing at the top of my lungs and giving impromptu speeches and performances. The backstage chaos of a theater performance and thunderous applause at the curtain call captivated my senses. I twirled my way through musical theater camps, filled my afternoons with dance classes; hip hop, ballet, jazz, lyrical all took their turn. On summer evenings curled on the couch,

Who’s Line is it Anyway blinked onto the TV, and a new love was born.

I scoured book fairs for reading on ancient Egypt and Greece and found my eyes tracing the paths of strangers at the mall, lost in fantasies of the intricate paths of their lives. Most fifth graders wouldn’t ask for a collection of Edgar Allan Poe’s morbid poems and short stories, but when I received an illustrated version for graduation, I gobbled it up and began to write my own morbid spin-offs.

Alongside frantically searching for showstopping ensembles, I joined the Ultimate Frisbee team (where boys pummeled me nearly every game), and eventually switched to Cross Country, where I embraced the exhilaration of physical challenge in nature. I abandoned summer knitting classes in favor of backpacking, rock climbing, and whitewater rafting trips, things Amber would never dream of doing. When I decided to spend four months at High Mountain Institute, a semester school in Leadville, Colorado, I thought I’d deserted Amber for good. As I participated in backpacking and winter camping expeditions alongside academics, I wondered: how could Amber exist alongside so many out-of-character interests?

Over the years, it has become clear I can no longer confine myself to the mold I cast as a child. Amber lives on as one among the many visions I crafted for my future self, none of which alone satisfy my widespread interests. In reality, Helen, with all her complexities and passions, is the only persona that will truly fulfill them all. She is complex: an ever-expanding figure forever tacking on more angles and sides.

Her nature: Multiformis. Maybe that means purple-streaked hair instead of Amber’s perfect la sal y las algas llevaron a la mujer a la orilla depositándola en una playa rocosa para que la marinera la encontrara. la marinera no tenía fama, ni aventuras magníficas, solamente suenos del abrazo tibio del mar. fascinada, la marinera levantó a la mujer a sus pies, calmando los tiembles en su cuerpo. ella caminó a la mujer a una casa pequeña donde las dos quedarían en convalecencia, una marinera aislada y un milagro del mar. pero un día, la mujer se puso de pie su piel pálida y seca, el agua implorando su regreso, Su marinera suplicando que ella se quedara. pero un humano no puede superar El Mar. entonces la marinera la acompañó hasta la orilla donde la mujer estaba planeando salir para siempre. la mujer se dirigió para despedirse, pero las lágrimas de Su marinera la quemaron cuando ella las rozó. entonces la mujer presionó un beso a los labios de Su marinera y la tiró hacia abajo, mientras el agua hizo espacio para una más. salt and seaweed pulled the woman to shore, depositing her on a rocky beach for the young sailor to find. the sailor had no fame, no adventures, only dreams of the ocean’s warm embrace. Mara, the woman whispered when the sailor asked her name. entranced, the sailor lifted the woman to her feet, calming the trembles in her body.

Mara, la mujer murmuró cuando la marinera le preguntó su nombre.