Madrielle

A show that never made its appearance on French television even though it is absolutely amazing and everyone should watch it at least once in their lives. Why is it not famous in France? Because it attacks racism and sexism by showing a rich, educated black family. By showing a mother who is also a doctor. It shows that systemic racism/sexism is a thing. It shows that jokes can be racist, sexist or homophobic. It therefore shows that France, this “perfect, beautiful and progressive” country can be a place where racism takes place. This seems to be the French people’s secret shame. They hide their own problems and point their fngers at other countries instead of trying to better their society. Hopefully, this will give some people a reality check.

So, what did we learn? Racism sucks. Some people in France are racist. Some people in the U.S. are racist. What can we do about it? I wouldn’t know. Discrimination has been going on for centuries, and it won’t stop just because a teenager wrote a memoir about it. I still hold on to the naive hope that, one day, my generation will change the world. Maybe we should all write memoirs everytime we get a text from a friend.

Sincerely, A black teenage girl trying to change the world.

Daisy Dimapilis

At the gate, I could see the front door was wide open. The yellow light from her living room fooded out to the midnight sky. Although I had a mask on, it didn’t feel right to walk in. I wouldn’t think twice before this plague, but the last time I saw her was last July. The July of 2019 was spent like every other. Walking around Main Street, participating in street events that blocked trafc, tasting brand-new kinds of alcohol, going to the boardwalk, partying, and many other joys. My loathing of this present moment made me freeze. Freeze and shudder.

My eyes were fxated on the dark fat-screen TV until it nnbecame a blur.

I heard footsteps coming down from the stairwell followed by a dainty yawn. My heart kick-started. And my tongue slowly transformed into sandpaper.

“Hey there,” she submerged with a smile, “long time no see!”

There was a long silence after that. The ambulance’s sirens sadistically soothed me as it zoomed past her house. My short, black hair few in the cruel and cool wind like a single raven’s wing fying south for the winter¹.

Her lip quivered. I knew that she felt my pain, but couldn’t pin-point the cause.

Speak, old friend! Speak! I could hear her mind howl. But I couldn’t! All I could do was pant and cry. She crossed her arms, tilted her head. “I don’t know what the hell is….heh, get into the nhouse.”

Miraculously, I walked into her house without pulling a muscle.

Everything that I saw as I walked in, made me feel like the whole past three months were nothing but a Virtual Reality horror game. The viridian chalkboard with nothing on it, except the piece of white chalk placed strategically in the middle of the tin ledge. The black Kit-Kat clock ticks with its constantly eye-rolling. The scent of Cherry Chapstick few into the air. Floors that were slippery on the hottest day of the year. “I can’t live at my place anymore,” I declared. She turned her head over her shoulder and sucked some Show Orchid of her bottom lip.

“That house you showed me right after high school…you know that place.” “They fnally fned you for squandering?” she rubbed of some mascara.

I shook my head. “Look at your hand,” I scolded, “Why are you wearing make-up at midnight?” I could sense her worry. She was right, but I felt far from comfortable to tell her the whole story. My lack of comfort made me wanna change the topic. “Does all of this,” she gesticulated, “have to do with your mom?”

She snifed the air haughty.

“I’m going to bed,” she descended up the stairs, “You know, I always have extra clothes upstairs in the bathroom.”

“Our friendship,” I panted. She poured milk into my bowl of toasted rice cereal. As she screwed the top onto the jug, she purred, “Is what?”

“I dunno,” I said, “It’s so dream-like, so unreal, so, so ethereal…”

She leaned back, and looked into my eyes. All four of our eyes were tearing up. I enjoyed my cereal soggy like some kind of freak. The evening rain dripping over my head and into the bowl actually brought a nice, new tang. “I didn’t really like my house, anyways,” I groaned, “I’ve always dreamt of living at your place.” “But why are you crying,” she raised her left eyebrow, “And questioning our friendship?” “It has nothing to do with my mom.” I lied, “It has to do with this extremely, extremely weird and strangely traumatizing dream I had last night.” “About what?”

“I dunno. But ‘Baby’ Justin Bieber was in it.” I said. “Like the song?” she laughed, “Why were you..who did he kill?”

“Yeah, but he killed no one,” I chuckled back, “He just pulled recently hung convicts and stufed their heads with feathers. And...poof! The heads came back to life.” She pulled a newspaper under her rump. It wasn’t an entire newspaper, just the weather section. “Cool!” she abruptly exclaimed. “Cool, what?” I mumbled. She swished the page to me.

“Look!” she pointed. I spotted an advertisement talking about a screening of Edward Scissorhands at the local drive-thru theater.

I hate that movie, I thought, It brainwashed my mother! It subconsciously told my mom to abandon me! God, don’t tell me anything about it, don’t, just don’t! “I don’t see anything,” I raised my arms, “The rain is making the paper soggy! Therefore very incomprehensible!” “There’s a meteor shower tonight!” she beamed, “that’ll get your mom of your mind!”

“Yeah,” I put on a fake smile, “it will.”