Runners-Up

“Identity Project” By: Rachel W.

FOR J&K By: Judith B.

To Junique and Kareena… Life can be cruel It can chew you up and spit you out It can make you cry and start to doubt, Yourself and everything you know you are But I promise no matter what they say You’re still a star

To Junique and Kareena… Listen to your big sister when I say these things I know these things, I have felt these things… They’re watching closely and constantly criticizing your size But they still won’t notice the hurt behind your eyes So you might sink deep into the confines of your mind And go on with life forcing yourself to be kind So, you wear this mask, the baggy clothes so they don’t ask… Or tell how much weight you lost or gained Because you don’t want to be looked at strange But know that it’s okay to go through a change Your big sister will love you the same, Because she went through the same

To Junique and Kareena… Listen to your big sister when I say The key to surviving is to pray, don’t play When it comes to these things They hate us. They hate us. This country has a cycle of breaking down to barely build back up then tear back down again When it comes to black women and men And they’re not done Heads only get turned when people get concerned about our fathers, brothers, and sons’ Incriminated. Dehumanized. Adultified. Gentrified So many aspects go into the lies America tells to mess up our lives I’m forever in fear of a day where someone tells me I’ll never see one of my brothers again All because they don’t fit America’s slim definition of men My heart skips ten beats just thinking of the day either of you encounter one of the monsters The monsters that are out to get us If you see one be brave, face that monster head on Remember your big sister told you that you DO belong

To Junique and Kareena… Every strand and curl in your head is perfection At its finest… that along with your complexion God made you in His image so please realize your privilege Your thick 4c hair, your beautiful brown skin Your perfect faces drowned in melanin Listen to your sister when I say, I never had someone to say These things I say

My hair was called “nappy” so I was unhappy About how it was and never realizing they only said that Because they knew no better, but I know now that it’s better Better to have thick 4c hair as uncontrollable as a bear Because I know my roots are rooted so deep So deep in our culture… Afro-Caribbean is what we are So I wear my afro so big it’s seen from far

To Junique and Kareena… This world does not deserve you I wish I could preserve you In a glass box so the whole word could see How incredible and special tiny humans can be Always teaching me, how to be a better me Making me happy and saving me Without even knowing that where I’m going is for you For you, your big sister does everything for you So, hear me when I tell you, I love you… I do

“But I promise no matter what they say You’re still a star”

Clearing the Rocks

By: Erin B.

“Care about each other.” But not too much When someone trips over a rock We help them up But we do not clean their scrapes We do not bandage their wounds Put forth a helpful facade But the rocks are not moved

“Think for yourselves.” But do not disagree Learn history in our schools Except for indoctrination or race theory

“Learn about each other.” But only the pleasant parts Ignore your peers bleeding out Because of their gashes and scars

“Accept each other.” Invite someone to eat with you But not if their wounds Are discredited by religious views

“Young people should be kind and respectful.” But only to those without scars Because scars come with century old problems That we are told are too hard to solve

“Hold out a hand.” But ignore the falling and the bleeding Because children should be kind But not progressive or left leaning

We are clearing the rocks Trying to heal the bruised While more boulders are thrown in front of us And the mistakes of the past are excused

In South India, it is a rare sight to see someone with no facial hair. Girls’ upper lips are usually covered with a light South Indian mustache. I bear one of these myself, hence the name “Mustachio Da Pistachio”, given to me by my cousins in India. For the better or worse, there, I was much like anyone else, trying to do her best at school to have a great future. But, my future was apparently more interesting than I had planned for it to be.

When my South Indian ‘stache and I moved to Iowa approximately four years ago was when I faced the fact that I was the outlier. All the Indian girls I initially met through parental connections were all about shaving the thing right off. Many of the conversations they had, I noticed, were about when their next threading appointment was and which Auntie did the best job. But I was so used to it being common, that I turned a deaf ear to their claims.

First month of grade eight went fairly smoothly. Well, all except the lesson about Frida Kahlo’s art in Spanish 1. Apparently, her having a unibrow warranted snickers galore, rather than respect for her stance, what she believed in, and advocated for. As the laughter came to a gradual stop, I questioned why everyone was so against the idea of women not removing their facial hair. After all, there was nothing totally revolting about it. This resulted in the snickers resurfacing and a lot of eye rolls.

Wherever I turned, be it real life or TV shows, there were always comments about what society defines as “un feminine” characteristics being repulsive. One of my most eye-opening experiences was in Geometry in freshman year when three of my male classmates spent thirty whole minutes rating women from our own class on Instagram. But, I wasn’t going to stand up to them. Especially in a place like Johnston.

Wow. Society was more messed up than I had thought it was.

Unfortunately for society, though, I was not going to buckle. Instead, I was going to become Frida Kahlo 2.0: “Mustachio Da Pistachio”. I made up my mind to never shave off the thing that was going to make my life an apparent agony, and rather use it to advocate for what I believed in.

For once in my life, I stopped focusing on my personal goals and accomplishments, and focused rather on doing my part to make the future a more equitable and inclusive place. Over time, I applied these views on several aspects of my life: be it bringing up feminism as it relates to different topics in classes and Community of Racial Equity meetings, actively being a woman of color in STEM, or leading a community of young female activists to advocate for environmental justice and awareness. You would also be happy to know that standing up to people who disrespect my views has now become a piece of cake.

Although being the “mustache lady” is a feminist ideal, it isn’t always easy to be the only one standing up for what she thinks is right. Even though I want to make an impact on the world, I often stop and stare longingly at the Nair Wax Strips at local grocery stores, wondering when society will accept me for the original, unaltered version of myself. Until then, though, I will be Mustachio Da Pistachio, Frida Kahlo 2.0, fighting for equality and striving to do my best to change the future.

By: Saumya B.

By: Brandon V.

Today on my way from school I noticed a cent A single sent sat near the sole of our foot Lonely and tarnished through years of abuse The barely perceptible head of Lincoln stood , Walking past the relic relegated a thought through my mind: How much does a cent cost in America?

We could go on about the price of the metal used , Or other statistics that would satisfy our brain. But today was different, I didn’t want to be blind. And thus began my journey as to why a hand full of tossed away dimes lingered in my mind

At essence, a cent is earned through work No matter how mindless or meditative. So the answer is simple, is it not, a cent costs your time? Not necessarily, many people work their lives away for a dime raise. Let’s take a look at the question from a rich person’s perspective. A prime example is Jeff Bezos Who worked his employees down to their bones Who didn’t even give them time to use the bathrooms Or let’s take a look at the workers perspective At places like Case Farms or other chicken plants That were built off the backs of vulnerable immigrants Who were lured by the promise of a job

Only to be enslaved working less than minimum wage Horrible working conditions, working nonstop.

America, a beautiful country to live in,

But a horrible country to work for.

The hands of those above us push down on us with such calamity From back in the days of gerrymandering Or colonizers and conquistadors Took the native’s land with such force Today, their heavy hands still remain, Still unwavering, still unchanged, Jagged county borders can prove such a claim Exclude certain communities Only to improve others

The lie of meritocracy Definition: The only way they get away with it

The belief that if you work hard enough, money will come your way But these ideas are of the past, Only meant to quell the fears of the lower class

“Keep grinding”they say, but with this ideology,

You’ll find no peace

So this entire nation was built off the backs of the lower class. Or a better way to put it is your ancestors’ land. I hope you’re finally beginning to understand why I wrote this letter. To future me, please be cautious, America is no land for the overly curious. This letter is a cautionary tale required to live in America The real cost of a cent in America is your soul I pray that you aren’t stupid enought to trade out your moral compass for gold. To sell yourself out to the ones that oppressed your people. But if you do, and you lose your way And shamelessly indulge in what you crave, When the bells toll And the piano plays such solemn tunes I hope gold and fame can fill the place of beating blood and a unpolluted soul And keep your casket warm

But, If you chose the contrary, I can safely assert That the future will be anything but certain, Knowing you, you’ll embark To grand places But without money, you won’t go far Let hope drive the way But you’ll quickly learn why they call it the American “Dream” A dream that you’ll no longer be caged, but with this mindset, you’ll find no key.

So, please, control your greed and selflessness To survive, be the line in between these two extremes And live out your dreams through hope and peace or fear and fright.

Walk past every cent you see. A penny might cost your sense of self in America, But it means nothing to me.

THE LIFE OF A SMALL TOWN

By: Emma M.

I am black and deaf. Well, that is how my hometown has always identified me. I am deaf. When I was five I got my first hearing aid, but being deaf was easier than being black. Technically, I am biracial. My mother is white, and my father is black. And this, the color of my skin, was harder in my small town than being deaf. Growing up presented many challenges, so it took me time to understand who I am. My small town is right on the edge of Lookout Mountain, and predominantly white. The first time I remember my race seeming to matter was in the second grade; I recall my friend lining us up based on the color of our skin from lightest to darkest. I was at the darkest end of the line and, for some reason, according to my friends, this was a problem. That same year, when we would make up stories to play, I was always the maid or dog, never the main character. As all young girls do, we played “princesses”, but I always had to be Tiana because she was the black princess; this always made me sad, because Ariel was my favorite, but I was too dark. Now, as I look back, I see these situations through more mature eyes. I remember the first time I was called the “N” word and how the word seemed to cut. My mother never knew how to console me. My mom is white; how could she know how the word can hurt a young girl? So, I turned to the best black man I knew, our janitor, Mr. Henry. Mr. Henry is a great man, not just a black man and he said, “You can’t make unkind kind. I should always stay kind. That is how you beat them.” I will always remember those words. From elementary through middle school I was the only black student. It is a strange feeling being in a room and seeing no one who looks like you. I remember teachers asking my opinion about slavery or racism – I have experience discriminations, but does that make me an expert? I would tell myself that high school would be better, but it wasn’t. I was a teenage girl and couldn’t wait to date, But I was told, “I don’t date black girls.” Words can cut and leave scars. I was told black girls were “too loud” or black girls weren’t their type. Everyone had ideas on how, I guess, to make me look less black. I was told, “Oh! You don’t need sunscreen; you won’t get sunburned.” “Don’t you want to straighten your hair for this dance?” “Why don’t you get your hair relaxed? It’ll be much more manageable.” Truly can anyone be an expert on how to be a color? Somehow I grew up thinking there was a “right way” to be black and felt I was doing it all wrong.

I know we come in many shapes and sizes, and from so many different places, there is no “right way” to be who you are. Until I was sixteen my mom was a single parent. I spent all of my family holidays with her side of the family-- “my white family.” Now I’m 18 and my dad is in my life; he and my mother are married now. Recently I have had the opportunity to get to know and spend holidays and family times with “my black family,” but the truth is, I don’t feel any different. I don’t feel any more black. Something I’ve never understood is how someone could act black or act white. Despite all of this, I don’t feel like I act like any sort of color. I am simply myself. I am a young, biracial woman. I have spent most of my childhood feeling confused about the world, but I’m slowly learning how to love myself. I’m proud of who I am. I have worked hard in school to beat a disability. I have made some great friends, and I have learned who I am as a person-- not black not white, but as someone who will be great. I have plans to do great things, and my greatness will not be because of my skin tone. It will be because I have a drive, and I will be successful. If I could go back in time to give a piece of advice to my younger self, it would be this: Be who you want to be. Curly hair will not make you any less pretty. Just because you don’t look like the other girls, you aren’t any less of a girl. It took me 18 years to feel like I was worthy, and the truth is, I have been worthy all along- for 18 years. I will do great things despite hardships. I will push to be a better person every day. I will come back to my small town and show how kindness, just as Mr Henry said, is better than your color.

“I know we come in many shapes and sizes, and from so many different places, there is no ‘right way’ to be who you are.”

By: Coco Z.

Who am i?

Who am i To judge the world When its in love

In love with itself In love with one another

Too busy in love to care about me

Why, i’m just a speck of dust i didn’t ask to be here

Here to watch everyone else fall in love

Who am i To be mad at the world When it’s unfair When i think it’s unfair

But who cares what i think

Who cares about what a girl thinks A yellow skinned girl With shriveled up almond eyes And a flat slab taken for a nose

Too quiet for others to hear But too odd for others to miss

It’s funny how achievements Time that i’ve dedicated Can seem so worthless in their eyes

They credit my race My stereotyped race

They think it’s natural Natural for me to make good grades And stay respectful and disciplined

Little do they know

Those pitch black nights Lonely dreams Guided by fears of rejection And misunderstanding

i questioned my life My presence my worth i asked myself where Where i wanted to go i asked myself why Why can’t i be loved

Suddenly Through the shadows of my dreams A light glistened And brought epiphanies and tranquility

i finally came around My dreams became colorful A compass cleared up

My life is guided by a moral code A code that values ethics A code that reminds me To hold my head high And keep going As long as i know It is enough

They don’t have to remember me For my success and accolades

Though i hope they do remember A confident girl who found herself Amidst the silence of support And cacophony of barriers

A girl who didn’t slip into the abyss The abyss of conformity Where everyone else is perfect And she herself is lacking

Though too many times betrayed Too many times let down I remember My original goals

Goals Goals that i’ve set

Dreams of helping others Understanding others Moving others But

Now

I know

I am enough.

No matter the treatment Remember good Remember there is light

Because even in the darkest hours A voice inside echoes Like the streaks of the sun After a stormy surge

I remind myself I am not here to please the world I am here to change it

So, hey, don’t worry about what they think Think about yourself Put yourself first . . .

I am meant to be here I am strong and courageous Independent and wonderfully made

I will make my mark And stand up for myself Myself and others that know how it feels To be thrown around

They can toss us however they want Because in the end We designate our paths Our paths don’t have to align Because why should they?

It is our life Our life to live and think and cherish To treasure and trust

Looking back it even seems funny Funny how the world judges

Just a couple of words A couple of gestures A couple of remarks Can make me question myself

Like a caterpillar I shut myself out Out of the voices of the world I reflected and pondered and listened Listened to the stabbing pain Pondered on my original values Reflected on myself

Hey you, yes you The pain is ephemeral It comes but it will also go Let it go

Then the electrifying embrace comes You wrap yourself around love And self-awareness and euphoria

You, yes you You are enough You deserve to be happy

There will always be ones that care Care enough to pull me out of the shadows Wake me up And remind me to love myself The answer is simple The answer lies within myself The answer: Love myself

Why do i care what others may think Why do i let them dictate my life Life that i now treasure

Hey you, yes you

I didn’t ask to be here But I’m glad I’m here Here to make my mark And here to radiate positivity Here to balance life and continue life I am Coco

Here

No longer confused No longer ashamed Vision no longer foggy with tears For my eyes are clear

I don’t see much Because my waxing crescent eyes Are too busy smiling

My wonderous crescent eyes

Love yourself Appreciate yourself

You are meant to be here Never question that. Here I am.

Inside Jokes by Viviana A. I spent the majority of my childhood looking between the spaces of other people’s heads, but it was never by choice. I was raised by my mother, aunt, and grandmother, who almost exclusively spoke Spanish; however, even in their constant company, I had failed to pick up my family’s native language. At age four, I recognized that I was falling behind, and I had to accept that I could not be as intertwined with my family as the rest of the children. I didn’t know how to ask for help, and this experience was humiliating enough to convince me that I was better off not speaking at all. I remember this period well; it was defined by silence measures too long, confused and angered faces, and the stifling feeling of being misplaced in my own home. This two year period started molding my life pretty early on, even when I had reached out to try to shape the clay myself. A speech therapist followed my progress closely throughout grade school and was always quick to reward me with worn down toys from Happy Meals for speaking English, but never Spanish. It’s alright to only speak one language, he had told me. I didn’t pay him any mind; I was a bitter child who refused to accept any comfort from anyone who did not share my mindset. Who was this man to comfort me, I thought, when he was able to go home and talk to his mother, his children, his cousins? At this point, my parents had already moved from my grandmother’s crowded home into their own humble abode, but as an only child, I yearned for the presence of others my age. I found a second home with my cousins, and it was shortly after I embraced their presence that I was called white for the first time by a family member. Perhaps it wouldn’t have come off as a shock if it had been anyone outside my family that had said it; every other day, people seemed to question my race. I had heard it all at this point; are you Asian, are you Black, are you Native American? But my uncle, someone who I used to think of as a second father, had asked me what sweet I had wanted one day and called me white when I said ice cream, and he made it sound like an insult. I was so confused by this, I asked him to explain himself later and he responded: You don’t speak my language. You don’t eat like me. You don’t act like me. And then he laughed, as if it was funny that I ever considered myself to be Mexican, and I assumed it was supposed to be, so I feigned an awkward smile. What did an eight year old know about humor? I look back on these moments, as there were many more to come, and it feels silly to be so upset over it. My uncle was always making jokes, always bringing laughter to every room, and always went out of his way to speak to me when he saw I was by myself. What is one more joke if it means company? It’s a lot. It’s a lot when you watch your family dance and sing while you sit at the dinner table because no one bothered to ask you to dance. It’s a lot when you finally do get up to dance because no one taught you how, because your parents were too busy working themselves out of poverty to teach you traditional dances, and now you’re watching your aunt’s face drop into an expression of practiced calm that hides disappointment. It’s a lot when you try to be a little more like the people who surround you, trying out words in their language and eating more of their food, just to be ridiculed for stepping out of the circle drawn around you in salt. And it’s a lot to feel like a stranger intruding at your own birthday party, as if you were watching an intimate gathering from outside a window. You understand what’s happening, but the intimacy of company escapes you, just out of reach. And it’s a lot, but it’s just a joke, and it will always be a joke to anyone in my family but me. But it serves as a reminder to myself that while I am of my family’s blood, I am not considered one of them. There is comfort to be found in isolation, in the fact that it doesn’t last forever. The seclusion I experienced with my family led me to be more open about the world, more willing to observe its details. With this, I found more friends and a wider viewpoint of the world around me. What I went through certainly wasn’t easy, but it’s safe to say that I would do it again. I’ve found comfort in knowing that the world and the people around me are not just the facades they put up and even greater comfort in being able to discover new things about them with the understanding and open-mindedness I developed because of my own past.

THE BOY WHO’D NEVER BEEN IN LOVE By: Gabriel D.

The young boy had never been in love before. The first time he had ever considered attraction, it was the very base kind. Mature adults with pronounced features who treated him nicely, and who he wanted to impress back. They, of course, only returned a chuckle and a nod, a “how cute” directed not at him, but at his parents. He didn’t exist as a being to be considered, only a product of his parents toting him around, as he was not able to be left home alone yet. When finally he could be considered as a target of love at some new level, he was at school. He saw the girls and boys around him and simply saw friends. In second grade, he began to understand that he should be happy when a girl hit him with a jump rope because it meant she liked him, no, like-liked him. And he understood that the boys who played sports during recess were allowed to pull the girls’ hair more than he was. He, the jump-rope boy who put on lip gloss at his friend’s house and didn’t understand why her parents thought it was funny, who ate lunch with boys but then played with the girls, who liked baseball sometimes but liked hopscotch better, didn’t want to pull the girls’ hair anyway. Up until middle school, he had never had a crush on anyone. He sat on the stone ring around the tree and watched as boys and girls congregated alone. Planes were only crossed when a boy was going to throw food at a girl, or a girl was going to cross to another group to spread the news of the food-thrower, and a passing guy notified the so-called food thrower that a girl was talking about him. The boy was okay with watching, never wanting to become part of the chain. Quickly, though, he became tired of other boys and even girls questioning if he liked anyone or who he liked or why he didn’t like anyone. At night sometimes, the question would fly back into his head, and he would be the prosecutor and the attorney and the defendant all at once. So, he came up with an alibi. A “truth” to hide behind so he wouldn’t have to find out what conviction was. There was a girl, of course, with corn hair down to her shoulders and a cute smile that came with a sweet chuckle. Eyes always darting down and hands always at her face, he found his attraction in her unsureness, a mirror. She, like him, was scared. It was in seventh grade when the boy first experienced the word “gay.” During the most awkward time of one’s awkward years, Health, the most awkward topic, arose. Human Sexuality. His health teacher was explaining sex and not stopping to laugh like the rest of the students were. The friend who introduced him to his fourth grade crush and was now his ride home on Tuesdays came out as bisexual in that class. He was always smart and politically minded, and he relished in the shock from his classmate’s faces as he explained how the curriculum was homophobic and, even though he didn’t know what he wasn’t learning, he knew that he must speak. The teacher explained, struggling and struggling to not show that she was struggling, that the class only explained contraception, but that his matter was an important issue to discuss. The boy’s friend looked satisfied, and the boy followed up with him after class. In a dismissal so nonchalant it took more effort than truly not caring, the boy reminded his friend that it didn’t matter to him that he was gay, or bi, or whatever, an act of misinformed goodwill. Going home from school later, he thought about the implications of his friend coming out. If his friend knew he was gay in seventh grade, could he learn he was gay too? He was sure he wasn’t, but then again he never had crushes on anyone. Was there a name for that? Could he just be young? For a while, the boy toyed with the idea. He did research and found communities on the internet that shared experiences and created inside jokes and made light of what was hurting them. As the boy walked deeper into the pit, with the darkness of ignorance suffocating him, he saw a light. He was never able to place the reason he could finally see the end of the tunnel, but he ran towards it. He tripped over rocks, stalagmites of self-hatred and questions, hit his head on unlovability and a lost piece of childhood, but he emerged, scarred, on the other side. Though it still took strength to force past his lips, he was gay.

Black Sheep, Rise like the Morning Sun By Jay B.

ystack, ost its Dear Jay,match, to find. Black Sheep, Rise like the Morning Sun By Jay B.

Like a needle in a haystack, Like a sock that has lost its match, Purpose can be hard to find. Even if you look Up. You are yet again,

Outcasted and pushed aside. Your experiences that are woven together

Through your race and gender and sexuality

Are not like the majority. Therefore,

You don’t matter.

And Down.To side.

whole world th your Or sifeet. de. mble and fall and crash and burn. To side.

Often it feels like the whole world a black Is crasheep. shing beneath your feet. And you’re left to tumble and fall and crash and burn. u are nothing but your race. To the world you are a black sheep.

To white America, you are nothing but your race. urself Walk the streetsbeneath a white sheet. To grab bite to eat, ed to the l And soon later,ong list of those g at the wrYouong couldtime, find yourself beneath a white sheet. he wr Dong ead anway, d gone. wrong Another statistic addedplace at the wrong time. to the long list of those Who were sleeping at the wrong time, your own Carryingcommuniskitty tles the wrong way, united by Or runningyour race. at the wrong place at the wrong time.

d and You could lookpushed aside. within your own community wanna l Whove. ere you are all united by your race. identi Butfy. even there, y You are outcasted and pushed aside. to whi Becauseteness, of who you wanna love. ple shit. ”And how you want to identify. To them, your identity y where Is an assimilation to whiteness, sedly uni “Someted white people shit. ” love se to i Anddentifyin wtheith. community where You are all supposedly united Through who you love And how you chose to identify with. The black sheep,

Made to feel small

By a world

You constantly feel small Asking yourself, “Why do I matter?” “What is my purpose If everyone in the world Marks me As the outcast And pushes me to the side?” It sometimes feels as though there is no light Because of the world Forming a dark cloud around you Because of who you are

However, You must remember That there is hope. There is light. You must remember that out In this great big wide world, There is someone. And your story matters to them. Out there, In this GREAT BIG

W I D E GREAT World, There is someone who looks up to you. Who looks up to your story. And how far you’ve come. And that inspires them

Someday, There will be a kid Black, Queer, Trans. Who feels like there is no hope left in the world. Who feels like they cannot go on. Who feels as though they are the outcast. Who feels as though they are being pushed aside. Swept away. Who looks up at you And says, “This is me, ” “This is who I can be, ” “Maybe there is hope. ”

Although it feels As if there is so little purpose In a world where you are made to feel Like your life doesn’t matter, That your identity doesn’t matter, Just know that it does. Whether it be today, Yesterday, Today,

Tomorrow, A year from now, Here,

It matters to someone. Your story matters. Or There,

Sincerely yours.

The Villain of My Own Story

By: Janeeta S.

I make your days and nights a living hell. Whispering in your ear, “You will always amount to nothing.” I creep into your life, Killing bits of pieces of you. Tearing down what makes you, you. You are not worthy of loving yourself You are such a joke. Your kryptonite being water. The sun beating you black. Your hair trapping the souls of those who dare put a hand through it. Weighed down by responsibility in fighting against generational traumas. You are front and centered, prepared to fight against the barbaric enemy, as if you are not your own enemy. You walk these lands all loud and proud. As if deep down inside of you, you are proud of who you are when in reality you are not. It is time for you to face your demons. The demons that are tormenting you when you stop and stare in the mirror. That emphasizes your African features. Big nose. Big lips. Kinky, coily hair. Brown skin. It is time to face your tormentous demon. I stop and stare in the mirror. I weep and weep. Cursing the heavens, crying out to know why He made me this way. I struggle to find peace and satisfaction. The feeling of a burden slowly entered me. Burden of being of a race, that has face enslavement, segregation, public lynchings, and many other horrid events. The guilt swallowed me in a gulp. “You are beating yourself up because you were not offered a path of representation of people like you. People who rock their natural, curly bush on their head. Singing sweet lullabies, comforting and caring for their coils. People who were born with the admiration from others who did not praise one shade over another. Walked alongside people who would love them no matter of the doings of the sun.” I swayed with the words. Coddling my broken spirit, giving me hope. I have been the villain in my own story. Terrorizing myself with words that strode along to only hurt me. When I stare in the mirror, I do not see the person that hated themselves. I see a person who has put up a fight. Winning the battle of self-hatred. Destroying the hatred within.