Blog Feed

Since slavery being biracial has always been an issue or in cases beneficial. In slavery if you were biracial they would use the term “mulatto”. For most people is hard from coming from two different world and trying to fit in. It's always one or the other. People think you really can’t enjoy both. Along with being the female sex. Its has been consistently a struggle from years prior to slavery. Women have had plenty to fight for within American history. With that this is where I come in.

Most of my peers are well aware that I am biracial or mixed. But from my appearance plenty of people have thought that I was Puerto Rican. When they do come up to me and ask “What are you mixed with?”. They are in awe when I explain that I am half Jamaican with my other half being African American and Irish. I never go too in depth with everything that I am mixed with just the main portions. What I’ve noticed over  my fifteen years that all biracial people appear to look different. It's always a similarity with this because if you are mixed with the European descent and African American they usually have light eyes with sandy blonde hair. Or if if you are mixed with a Hispanic descent and African American they are usually a couple shades darker and have curly black hair. As for me I’m just a simple brown eyed light skin girl with dark  brown hair.

As someone who surrounds theirself around the African American I’m sometimes perplexed. It’s always I’m too lightskin to be around them. At times you feel isolated from everyone because you just want to be accepted by society. Once you meet someone new its as if they are only seeing you for your hair and skin complexion. Along with being a GIRL. For the women society it has been hard for many years. As a young black girl I have a lot to go through in this day and age. With having to be very mindful of my surroundings. I can’t be worried or stress over any negativity that is brought to me and my follow black girls. From being slaves to being judged but their body figure, black women have consistently had it tough for them. Today in 2017 black women are just loved for their bodies. Not the fact that they are educated and successful in life but their bodies. Social media has showed young girls that having that type of body it is good. Now many young black girls are insecure about that. Luckily for me, I love myself as it is. In relation to the way I dress and  how I keep my hair, I stay true to my culture. Even from walking down the street being a girl is hard because having random men eyeing you down is very uncomfortable.

At this age I am becoming a young woman there are certain expectations for me. Women are suppose to be strong, most are independent like myself. Additionally, I do my best with empowering women. Since I am a feminist. Therefore I feel strongly about the triumph of women. This starts from most of my family being female. As a child child I was influenced by this beautiful and successful women. Admiring that all my life to come figure lots of shame has been past on black women. Though my life I have had plenty shaming because I’m a girl. Like when I try to involve myself with a man-originated sport. Boys would continuously say “You throw like girl”. I get confused because that what I am. However in society that phrase is always taken into offense. As well as women getting paid a smaller salary. It never be like that for females of any age.

Within a few years from now I hope people and their mindsets have changed on people of a mixed race and females as a whole. We shouldn’t be judged by our appearance. Additionally for the women who have influenced me in positive way, I will follow after them. For the people of a mixed race like me, shall continue to be themselves and not pay attention to what anyone thinks.

“Mom I have decided on something,”,I said  in a shy voice.

“What is it Keyonne, you can tell me I am your mother.” She replied confidently.

“I want to play football.”

“WHAT! FOOTBALL WHY WOULD YOU EVER WANT TO PLAY THAT GAME!”

“Well it looks like fun. I would not mind getting hit and knocking people down to the ground.”

“Boy I will knock you to the ground right now for saying that.” She roared at me,

Then she calmed down a bit. “Hey what made you want to play football anyway.”

“To me it looks like a lot of fun and I think it will be good exercise.”

“But you did not want to play soccer you can get exercise from that.” She responded.

“I am not too good at running a long distance, so it think I would be bad at it.” I said.

I could tell she really did not want me to play football but it had not come to me why she would not like me playing football.

She asked me again: “ Are you sure you want to play football.”

“Yes,” I replied.   

“Why do you not want me to play.”

“BECAUSE PEOPLE GET HURT REALLY BADLY THEY HAVE CONCUSSION AND OTHER THINGS!” she replied.

“MOM PLEASE!” I said without a care in the world

“I will be fine we have coaches to tell us how to play so that will not happen to us little kids.”

” Well ok then fine I guess you can try it out but if you don't like it then you can always leave and do something else.”

“OK!” I say with the happiest smile on my face the next day I am coming from school and my mom says

“I have found a great football team near the house so you can was to it when I am not home and one of the people I work with sons play for that team to.”  

“OH ok what is the team called,”  I ask in amazement.

“Oaklane Wildcat.”  

“And their first practice is tomorrow and I have all of your football supplies right there”

“ok thanks,” I turn and look in the living room and see a duffel bag full of pades and color red and black cleats with metal spikes and I was so happy because this was my first time doing anything like this I could not wait to go to practice. I woke up and I was SO happy I could not hold in the excitement after school that day I ran back home I was so sweaty that it looked liked I just go finished play a sport.

“I am guessing that you are ready for football then,” my mom said with a smile on her face.

“Yeah let's get going.” I said almost breaking the door down because of how much I wanted to go and play. The ride there I was shaking like I was opening a snapple but for some much longer we finally get there and I was terrified I get out the car and my mom says are

“you ready to go.”

And I nervously walk over to the coach my mom comes up to him and says

“HI I am keyonnes mom.” And the coach says

“HI I am coach Q.” I was so nervous I could barely speak and the coach said.

“so you must be keyonne nice to meet you.” and he shook my hand. And the coach asked me

“what do I know about football.” and I said

“nothing” then the coach said

“OK great let's get started.” after practice I was really tired and I did not want to do it any more because I did not think the team need me and so I told my mom and she said

“OK”

Then she talked to the coach and the coach said that was really good for a beginner he said it looks like he could do this a profession. And then he talked to me and said that you can't give up because something is hard you have to keep fighting for what you and till that day I never gave up on anything I did and I will not start.

Has your mom ever gotten on your nerves… Like a lot? Well, my mom can be a very annoying at times. All the time that would probably be the be more truthful option for me. She always tries to find ways to be right, no matter the situation but sometimes she’s just trying to enlighten me on things.

For example, last week my mom and I were having in the car having a regular conversation. I was on my phone during the conversation but I was still engaged in the conversation. I was texting a good friend of mine that my mom didn’t know, so she got upset. I was really confused on why she was so upset, because I didn’t think it was that serious.

“I know all of your close friends,” she told me. “You always bring them up in conversation, but how come I don’t know about this one?”

“I didn’t know I had to tell you every time I have a new friend,” I replied.

That only added more fuel to the flame, sadly. Everything I said to her after that was seen as disrespectful or snarky through her eyes. I feel like I can never win with her, even when we just have seemingly insignificant disagreements. There isn’t any enlightenment in this situation, just another loss for me.

One situation where I really did gain wisdom is when we were talking about my ex-girlfriend. That was around my 8th-grade year, so I was most likely 14. I’m not gonna lie, that was the first girl I really cared about; I was usually heartless. I thought that I knew what I was doing, because I was very cocky back then compared to now. My ex and I weren’t on the best terms, and it was easy to tell. My overall mood wasn’t my usual one.

My mom asked me, “what was wrong?,” but I didn’t want to tell her because I don’t like her in my business.  

She caringly told me something I won’t forget: “If she’s making you act like this, it’s most likely not going to last.”

             I didn’t want to listen to her because I thought I knew what love was back then. I still think I know what it is now. Let’s fast forward to the end of the school year. My ex magically disappeared and I didn’t understand why. Long story and a heartbreak later, I began to understand how my mother’s help would’ve prepared me for the disappearance when it happened.

Another thing that I despise about my mom is that she thinks she knows me so well. She’s watched me grow up for 15 years, my entire life, but she doesn’t know what I go through on a day to day basis. This summer we went on a cruise and I was in a terrible mood the whole time. I found myself in the cruise cabin a lot, because I needed people to talk to. So I would call people that could help me with the situation. My mom didn’t like that, because she felt as though I was wasting her money though that wasn’t the case at all. I couldn’t enjoy myself because I knew that I was gonna have to go home and deal with my mistakes.

         My mom said “You’re on a cruise! There are a million things to do, so there’s no reason you shouldn’t be enjoying yourself,” in a stern tone and stormed out of the room.

         I realized she was right and I found ways to forget about the situation that made me upset and started to enjoy myself a little more.

Despite all the little disagreements, my mom and I always find the lesson in it sooner or later. My mom has become one of my best friends because I know I can talk to her about anything and she’ll have some insight on the situation to help me get through it. When I was younger, I never wanted to listen because I thought it wasn’t cool to talk to her about my personal relationships or struggles, but she always helps me through everything now. All of our disagreements have made my and my mom’s relationship stronger due to the realization at the end of each one. I realized my mom would never tell me anything to steer me wrong. She only wants to see me succeed in every way possible and she does everything in her power to do so.

Mamadou Samassa

Date:09/28/17

Miss Pohomov

I was enrolling in the French International School of Philadelphia, on the 12th of April, while flowers bloomed with unique colors of blossom purple and velvet red. The bees flew from vine to flower, grasping onto each milliliter of pollen that was flowing in every breath I took. The atmosphere was breezy, spreading a bunch of little particles of mist around me. I made my way to a seat next to an arborvitae, it’s bark an ashy grey and reddish brown, with its twisting shape providing shade. I sat at the table next to the tree, as I prepare to relax my conscience, a young boy with big fist stood up to me, looked me dead in the eye “Allahu Akbar,” he said. Without any empathy, he let a regretful smile slip right through his reddish pink cavity. My attention navigated towards him with an uncontrollable amount of fierceness and exasperation.

“Do you know what that means?”

“No, but it’s what Muslims say before they blow themselves up, killing non-Muslims,” he said.   

I looked at him with confusion. I wanted to ask him if he knew it was mentioned in the holy Quran of Allah(God) by saying, “If you kill one person it is as if you killed all of the mankind, and if you save one life it is as if you have saved all of the mankind.” The redistrict that enters people's minds saying that all Muslims represent groups like Isis, or that mosques are the hotbeds of radicalisation is completely false. Our prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) called this group the worst of the creation, even though he said they recite the Quran. These are people who believe in the Quran and recite the Quran. In the hadith the prophet said, “They call to the book of Allah(God) but they have nothing to do with the book of Allah, they call to the Islamic law, but they have nothing to do with the Islamic law.”

The prophet also said, “Those who fight them are closer to the book of Allah than they are.”

“Yo,” the boy with his Bolton knuckles yells in agony, “I’m talking to you!”

“Yes,” I reply in a gentle tone

“Why are staring at me like that?”

I  went back to my reflecting. Did he know that jihad is interpreted in many ways: waking up for the morning prayer is jihad, and fighting in the path of God is jihad. Muslims only fight when they are provoked, just like how the United States would defend themselves in any crisis. And, we must incline towards peace if any enemy does as well. Look at Syria, Palestine, Jordan, we suppose that we are the civilians and they are the suspects, they look for peace, and the  headlines are saying, “The US has yet again eliminated another leader of Isis, after Isis has just a week ago killed an American reporter.” What makes you think civilians won’t get killed when you decide to drop “The Mother of all bombs?” If I were to utter the smallest atom of Islam it would start creating differences between people from the way they live, speak, act, interact, and the way they simply understand the world.

If it’s not that all Muslims are terrorist, it starts with the destruction of the twin towers. As my deep thoughts started to weaken, all I saw were the Bolton knuckles which deliberately jacked my face up. It was so unexpected.

“What’s your problem,” I could feel every corner of my face heating up like wood burning after hours of intense calefaction.

“That’s what you deserve, you fake Muslim.”

I want to punch him so badly, my body suppressed heat, my heart is beating faster than ever before, but I ask myself, would the prophet Muhammad (peace be upon) use violence as revenge? No, he wouldn’t because he came as a mercy to all of  humanity, and I must follow in his path as well as the path of Jesus, Moses, Abraham, Zacharia, Yusuf(peace be upon them all) and many more. All prophets of the one and only Allah(God). The prophet Muhammad(peace be upon him) suffered so much during his lifetime. He lost his children, people tried killing him more than once, he was an orphan, and yet after all of these trials and many more, he had  kindness, forgiveness. He treated his enemies with more respect than his own people. So, who am I to hurt this kid? I stood up and looked at him, gave him a smile.

“Why are you smiling, did you hear what I said, fake Muslim!”

I started walking away, “Hey, I’m talking to you. Hey! You walking away because you scared.”

“You're not worth my time.”

“Why do I have to go to the masjid? people don't care about us Muslims. Things are hard these days.”

I knew once I stated what I just said to my parents, I would get right into trouble. I tried to explain to my parents why I thought that way, but they did not want to hear it.

"You are Muslim Adil!!!" my Mom yelled at me.“There is no reason why you should second guess your religion Religion is something that keeps you in  Place.”

She told me that sometimes people in the world are going to dislike things that the person believed in or maybe even represent. My mom is a religious type, she always wants to tell me what God Said and why I should always take time and read the Quran about 1 hour a day.  She started reciting  Surah Al - Kafirun This Surah was very powerful  I knew the reason why she resided this world to me it was because she wanted my eyes to open why and for the words that she's singing to touch my heart. “قل "يا كفار، أنا لا العبادة ما تعبد ولا أنت المصلين ما عبادة.ولن أكون عبادة لما تعبده. كما أنك لن” تكون عبادة ما لي هو ديني.”( Say, "O disbelievers, I do not worship what you worship. Nor are you worshippers of what I worship. Nor will I be a worshipper of what you worship. Nor will you be worshippers of what I worship. For you is your religion, and for me is my religion.")

        I knew this was very important because she would never use this deep of Surah.  I was just staring At her, listening to every single word she was saying. I didn't know what to say or what to do. I could tell that she knew I was scared and confused because of the way the world treats us Muslims. She said that there is no reason why I should hide my religion and I should be proud of why I am Muslims, but she does not understand how many terrorist attacks were blamed on us Muslims.

         I went upstairs to go take off my hot blouse/over garment because I honestly did not feel like going to the masjid, but I knew deep down that I was making a really bad mistake. All I kept thinking about it if people don't like Muslims, why do I have to be proud of being one. We are blamed for everything.  We have censured "The assailants were Islamic psychological oppressors from Saudi Arabia and a few other Middle Eastern Countries. Supposedly financed by the al-Qaeda fear monger association of Saudi outlaw Osama container Loaded, they were professedly acting in striking back for America's help of Israel, its contribution in the Persian Inlet War and its proceeded with military nearness in the Center East". We Muslims are blamed for a lot of stuff and I'm still supposed to be proud of being Muslim

“.تعال هنا الآن ” ( Come here now!) My Mom shouted, I knew that she was going to try and persuade me to come with her, but this time I was really serious. I started to listen all she was saying was Islam means peace, so why should I be scared to let people know I was Muslim? I told her some serious current events that had occurred during the past few years, and they all were blamed on us. I tried not to shout because I knew that if my dad heard me yelling, he would come straight downstairs to confront me.

       “Did you not understand anything that I just told you” my mom has shouted,  she does not really speak very good English, so she usually tends to use Arabic if she wants to chew me out. “I did understand what you said”,  “I just really did not care about what you said”.  I know that I was out of line for saying that, I don't mean to be mean to my mom, but sometimes I feel as though that's the only way she'll understand how I really feel. I overheard my father coming down the steps, the stairs were squeaking like an old stairway my heart was pumping faster than you can ever imagine. We were already late to the Masjid,  and if he would have seen me with my blouse off there would have been bigger problems. I knew that there were problems from the start because whenever my dad is upset about something he usually makes a disgusted face and pretends to look away when he's actually looking straight into your eyes.  Adil “what's all the yelling about”  my dad shouted. “Now we are already late to the Masjid, and to be honest, I don't even think I really want to go anymore”.  

           I started to speak, but I know it wasn't my turn to speak, my voice cracks, saying “she wants me to go to the Masjid, she wants me to tell everybody I'm Muslim, she wants me to do this you want me to do that”. I was talking faster than my heart was pumping.  sweat was coming down my face,  I stop talking for about 10 seconds, realizing that the more I talk the more trouble I will get myself into. My dad looked at me as if I was stupid, he quietly said “man this is stupid see now kids back in my day knew they could not talk to their parents the way that you are talking to them now.

“If a joker talks to his parents like that his father would smack him beside the head”. “See now you got it easy” My dad said,  what it is is your mom treat you like her baby even though you damn near 15 years old she still sees you as a 3-year-old. My mom always hated when he said that,  it's not that she treats me like a baby It's that she wants me to be happy. I started to doze off daydreaming about things that I found interesting about,  pretending that I'm listening but I'm really not.  I seen my dad mouth move over and over again, I knew that he was angry but I just did not want to hear anything he had to say.

         I'm not sure he had noticed that I was not paying attention because I saw his mouth stop moving.  he took a deep breath and said: “what does religion mean to you”? I stared at him confused because 90% of me was still daydreaming.  then he shouted again what does religion mean to you!?  I jumped it's like the words or trying to come out my mouth before I had a chance to open my mouth.  religion means something someone believes in.  “it means something or someone that they worship”. so now what was that hard to say? My dad asks. “I don't know”?  doesn't look right I reply, “you don't know”?  my dad asks that ask, That's the thing Kids these days never know.

   “Why is that PlayStation of yours so important”? Why is that laptop of yours so important, why is basketball so important? He just kept asking questions that I knew the answers to but did not want to say. You're right I announced, religion is something that you should be proud of not disappointed or Ashamed in. I apologized to my parents because I knew I was in the wrong. I want to help people that are just like me, afraid or ashamed who they really are, but at the end of the day, everyone's the same in a way.

It was a cool and sunny day in the city of Philadelphia. The month that was November 2011 and I was a 4th grader coming back from gym class My teacher had taken me, and my friends to the bathroom and my friends and I were in the bathroom playing around. We weren't supposed to be doing that.

Then we started to pick each other up and throw one another. Suddenly, one of my classmates picked me up when I wasn’t paying attention and they had thrown me. When he did it made a loud bang, I hit the ground extremely hard and I suddenly started crying because my right knee had hit the ground so hard.

So, everyone went to go get our teacher. She came out towards the bathroom.

“What happened?”

My classmates told her. So she took me to my nurse and I had told the nurse what happened, why I was there. The nurse had given me an ice pack and kept me in her office with her. Next, we had to call my mom and tell her what happened and she told me to get on the bus and come straight home. When school was out I had got on the school bus and went straight home with my sister Kyianna.  

Around 5:00 pm my mom came home and I told her that my knee hurts every time I'd walk or move. My mom had to take me up to Abington  Hospital because that is where I  got my x-rays taken.

I was very anxious, and terrified because when I went into the room to get my x-ray done they had told my mom that she couldn’t come in.

“I’ll be waiting right here for you” My mom said. “Ok” I said. So, when we had returned to the room me and my mom started to joke around and take pictures.

Later on, my doctor finally came into the room and said the bad news to us. He said that I have a fractured knee and that I couldn’t dance, or do physical things anymore. I started to cry hard right away because my mom said that I might not be able to dance in the Thanksgiving day parade.  I was really sad/ upset because everytime that I had gone up to dance practice I had to sit and watch them and I was hopelessly upset cause I couldn’t dance. They had put my knee in an Ace bandage and gave me crutches. I had walked out the hospital sad and devastated, when we got home my mom, I  told my dad and my two older sisters what the doctor had said. I was letting my knee heal faster because I never gave up and pushed through it and my knee wasn’t 100% heal it was basically like 90% healed halfway. I managed to dance in the parade and I was really happy, satisfied.

As the years went by I was downstairs on the couch watch tv in the living room and I notice that my x-rays were in the corner. I was looking at my dad “dad can we look at my x-rays,”I asked. “Yes we can go get them,” dad replied. As we open up it up and put it against the light my dad pointed out where I had fractured my knee. When I saw it, I couldn’t believe it. “This is why I am the person I am today a stronger hard working person” I said to myself. This made me think of the three words my parents always told me. The three words are to never give up on any obstacle/challenge that is in my way. So the lesson that I had taken from this was to never give up even when a hard and painful challenge is in your way or blocking you from your dreams.  Still here and there I feel pain in my knee but not as much before. I am always willing to share this story to people so they can be amazed by how I became the person that I am today. When my friends are in the hospital. “Don’t worry because you will come back stronger than ever.”I tell them.

It was Saturday morning and today was a good day for me. It was 8:30 AM EST and in 3 and a half hours I was supposed to be ready for an invite to a raid (end game event).

To those who think I waste my time playing video games that’s not the case. I only complete raids once, then that’s the end of me doing that raid. I only do the weekly activities, then there’s nothing else for me to do until next reset day (Tuesday).

I got out of bed, went to the bathroom to pee. I washed my hands then left after drying them. It was 10:30 when I got on the PS4, after I ate breakfast. I went upstairs and grabbed my headset from my room. I had nothing to do on my characters as I already have done the weekly events then I remembered about Xur. Xur is a weekly vender that shows up on Friday and stays until the weekly reset. This week he was on Io (a moon of Jupiter) so I went there and went to the fast travel (a quick teleport to a location) that was closest to him.

When I found him he was selling Vigilance Wing as the exotic weapon being sold but his exotic gear is what caught my eye. For the Hunter (One of the 3 playable classes) he was selling the Orpheus Rig. I was in awe at the timing of it. The Orpheus Rig was the one exotic boots you needed for a NightStalker (One of the 3 ability trees depending on class) as they give you extra super energy (Ultimate energy) for all tethered (suppressed and increased damage from players) targets by your tether. After buying them I infused them with my Stomp-EE5 (a pair of boots) as I didn’t need it for anything. I just went on doing strikes (multiplayer activity) and public events (an activity when in a explorable location) for faction tokens for the faction rally (a monthly event) for an hour and 15 minutes. I went to the tower to decrypt engrams I had and went through my gear before I got an invite. Minutes after going through my entire weaponry I got the invite. I plugged my headset in, put it on and went to join the party.

“Hey how’s it going?” I asked signifying them I was on.

“Oh you know doing what we always do, lead people to victory.” Josh said as he was a co-sherpa (Sherpas are in a subreddit and help those who want to learn the raids of Destiny) for the raid.

“Ok all were waiting on is Tek then we can begin.” Marvin said wondering where Tek was. “Also join up on us when you’re ready while we’re waiting for Tek.” Josh said.

“I'm all set, got my Merciless (an exotic fusion rifle) ready to go.” I said clicking join session to join the fire team.

After a minute or two Tek joined in and we were off to the Leviathan (Location of raid).

“Ok everyone if you follow me we’ll be going through a short cut to our first encounter.” Marvin said as we saw his and Josh’s characters start moving to a hidden tunnel to our right.

As we followed them, we were lead to a forest like area full of enemies and some lights shining on high rocks.

“Ok for this first encounter after we kill all adds (short for enemy) and pick up 2 prisms the WarBeasts (dog like enemies) will spawn in…”(I don’t want to say the entire encounter) Marvin said explaining what was going to happen and where we need to go.

“Does everyone know where they’re going once we begin damage phases?” Marvin asked just to make sure we knew what to do as we all responded with a yes.

“Also make sure you don’t use your supers until we say so.” Josh said adding onto what Marvin asked us.

We started the encounter and we were already prepared with our 4 spores and 2 prisms in hand. After 3 minutes of gathering damage buffs from glowing flowers it was time to damage.

“Alright drop your spores and get to your flowers!” Marvin said as we ran to our respected flowers and with full powered Merciless’ we killed all the WarBeast fast.”

“Ok that was pretty good so before we head to the next encounter were going to take a 5 minute break before we start.” Marvin said as we heard the thud of him lightly putting down his headset. I was already pumped for the next encounter I played my favorite emote (A action you can play/change with a press of a button).

It was August 25, 2015. A memory that will live in my mind forever. I woke up that morning from a deep sweat, because I was drowning in my dream. As I sat on the side of my bed to recollect, my father called me down stairs. I stepped down from my bed slowly because I was weary, and I started to walk down the stairs.

¨Just get washed and dressed, we have to go file some papers,” My dad said as I nodded my head. I went upstairs to pick out some clothes. I threw on some sweatpants and a hoodie because I wanted to dress comfortably for the muggy weather. As I was walking down the steps, I caught a glance of myself in the bathroom mirror. I stopped, stared in the mirror and said,

¨You are going to have a wonderful day,” I had to remind myself to have a positive mindset every day because I was being stalked and harassed by people who lived around me. My father and I got into our big, old, sturdy jeep and drove downtown to file some papers. We made a criminal complaint against the family around the corner which only resulted in us going to court a few times without the problem going away. Since court didn’t work, our last step was trying to get a restraining order. Unfortunately, we were having troubles filing the restraining order, so we just let God take manners into his own hands.

We left downtown and we went home only to find out that our cousins were staying over for a while. My cousins were hungry so they told me to run to the store for them to get them something to eat.

When I was walking past the park to go to the store, I saw the family who was stalking me. All three of the sisters followed me until I arrived at the store. When I purchased my cousins food, I walked back home, but this time, cautiously just incase the three sisters appeared again and wanted some trouble. I walked past the park, and the three sisters were standing at the gate, staring in my face taunting me. Evidently, the three sisters had a problem with me not caring and went back home to tell their family. An hour or so had passed and my family and I were sitting on the steps. We saw my aunt go around the corner a few times and the three sisters plus the oldest sister came around just moments after my aunt returned.

We were all dumbfounded because we wanted to know why our family was communicating with people who didn’t like us. Before I knew it, 15 people came around one corner of my block, and 16 came from the other. They approached me and asked if I had a problem with their ¨Family¨. I said no and then some girl hit me with a cheapshot from behind. In less than 5 seconds, I blacked out and started banging that girl head into something hard while I was getting hit by 5 other females. I got away from those girls and I saw my brother, who was in the Police Academy at the time, getting jumped by 6 men. I wasn’t going to let my brother get jumped, so I jumped in there with them. Somehow, I pulled off one of the men and held him against the wall. I had recognized him.

¨You don’t have to do this.¨ I said to him.

¨Fuck you lil’ girl,¨ He replied as he threw me into the street. I fell on my head and looked around because I felt like my world was falling apart. I saw my brother getting jumped, my mom trying to help my brother, my dad and uncle hitting people with chairs, my other brother fighting off people with sticks, and a very sketchy face with whom I identified as my aunt, just standing there not helping us at all. No loyalty. I felt like I was drowning, only this time, I wasn’t in water. Eventually, I snapped back into reality and started fighting anyone and everyone. I ran in the house to get a knife and when I came back, everything was frozen, still, and silent. The fight was over and nothing could be heard except for the sound of police sirens coming our way. Could this be police coming to help us? No! Apparently, the family who jumped us called the police and said that we harassed them. The police believed them which does not make sense because they were on our property!

Charges were pressed and since then, I have been in a deep depression. I learned that you cannot trust people, not even your own family because at one point, we were all close. That situation affected how I love and how I trust, and it shaped me into the person I am today.

“All right, All Right!! It’s game time boys you ready!!?” said the captain.

“YEEEAAAH!!!!” The team screamed back.

“ That’s what I want to here! Arlight Cosmos let’s get this dub. Cosmos on 3 Cosmos on 3. 1! 2! 3!”

“COSMOS!”

It’s a cloudy day, a little chilly but not too cold. Perfect weather for soccer. Today we were playing a team called Lighthouse. I play for the Cheltenham Cosmos. As a new player I didn’t get a lot of play time so when I got in I played my best. Aside from personal skills I have a serious height disadvantage. I am only 4’9 so I am really short compared to other kids my age. Despite all this I get up and work hard to earn my spot on the team.

“Jayden! Get ya ass over here!” The coach said.

“Yes coach” I replied anxiously.

“I’m putting you on left mid Will needs a break. Can you play that today?”

“Yes coach”

“That’s what I like to hear. Keep ya head in the game, now go warm up.”

I got excited, finally a chance to play. I got subbed in and the second I went in I was running back and forth to the ball. And back and forth and back then back then forth. In 7 minutes of me on the field I only touched the ball twice and when I got it I had to pass it right away.after 10 minutes coach subs me out and tells me I did good. This made me feel good cause now I have served my purpose, now I am worth something to this team. When I got back the team that was on bench all congratulated me and said I did. I was happy but I was thinking to myself, what did I do on the field to deserve so much praise? All I did was pass the ball. Halftime came and we were up,5 to 2. Coach says the score doesn’t matter that it’s always 0 to 0 during the entire game. We gotta play like it's Golden Goal. First Goal wins.

“We’re doing good boys keep up the intensity. Same line up but Jayden I want you up top. Your speed will creep on them and by the time they realize you’re there you gonna be gone. Put balls on net got it?” said the Coach

“Yes coach!” I said nervously

I usually play mid or defensive back but forward? That’s a whole other level, but I can’t let coach down so I gotta play my hardest. The half starts from the grip I’m already touching the ball way more. In 5 minutes I already had two shots on net. The goalie saved both of them but still, I’m doing good. Now here’s where I shine the other team has subbed out 3 kids on their defense. All of them are strong but not faster or more physical than me. I made a few good runs but I haven’t really done anything significant. During this one play, there was this one player who wasn’t paying me any attention.

“Ayo Brad watch 35 he’s on ya back.” said a player from the sideline.

“Yo don't worry about short stuff over there, focus on 13!" the player responded.

So you  know this where the player from the other team messed up because I now am motivated to score because he thinks I’m not gonna do anything so now I gotta prove him wrong. The other team shoots the ball at our net and our goalie saved it.The ball gets punted up field and since the guy was so far away from me I just darted for it. One thing the player didn't know was that even though I'm short, i’m very fast and the player couldn't catch me. I ran so fast that I got the ball and put it the top right corner.

"Yeah don't focus on short stuff worry about the other boul" I said to the player as walked back to my position.The player had the funniest look on his face. Coach was so proud of me and I was happy. I finally proved myself.

All this happened four years ago. Today I am 16 and still playing soccer along with the new sport called Ultimate Frisbee. Soccer taught me that size should never matter. Every sport is strictly intellectual, it’s all in ya head. It’s not enough just to have skills and athletic abilities, you must have a drive and the will to keep pushing and fight for what you want.

Since that day I’ve carried that and always told myself to never give up. By the I’m still short, I’m only 5’3 now. So I know that I can do anything you put your mind to.

I never expected to be a true poet in high school. But once I came to SLA, Philadelphia Youth Poetry Movement lured me in like a neon sign hanging above my head that beckoned, “this is where your destiny lies.”

After writing a group poem for a month, I edited, memorized, and practiced performance repeatedly, until my first real slam arrived. When I stepped on stage, I was a nervous wreck. My fingers shook, I kept wiping my hands on my jeans, and I couldn’t look anyone in the eye. Instead, I looked out to a crowd of blurred faces.

“Wait for quiet!” Mr. Kay said.

Each person on stage introduced themselves to the crowd. Then we tipped our heads down, and locked hands. My teammates slowly slipped their hands out from my grasp to signify that they were ready. All I had to do was take the unifying breath. I placed my lips before the microphone and inhaled. We all exhaled. Then our words came tumbling from our mouths, crashing and falling into the air.

I can still remember the faces of poets in the audience; the applause, snapping, and laughter at lines we wrote. All eyes fell on me, and it reminded me of what I wanted to do in life.

In elementary school I loved writing, because it allowed me to have total control of my voice, in an enclosed space. I created stories in my head that were later forgotten. I loved receiving validation, and leaving people hungry for more of my art. My 4th grade teacher imparted some wisdom on me and my mother.

“One of your daughters, or both, are going to be writers.”

She was right. From that moment on I kept the reminder that someone recognized my talent in the back of my head. I wrote poems in middle school, and performed in classroom slams that were mediocre open mikes. I didn’t know exactly what this passion for writing would turn into, but I knew I was headed somewhere.

SLA’s poetry team called to me at the freshman activity fair. I etched my name into the signup sheet, declaring I was becoming a poet. By December, I had already gathered close friendships with poetry members, and was working hard at the craft.

I’d spend endless clubs writing in the empty halls of school, and later finishing poems on the curb of the parking lot, when the building had closed. We’d huddle together next to the dumpster, fishing for ideas and potential lines to write. When we’d come to a lull in the thought process, I’d run around the parking lot and dance, reviving my energy. After we finished the drafting stage, the long editing process began: lines got chopped up, chewed up, and spit out until they were perfect.

During these sessions Mr. Kay always tells us, “I will never let you go on stage without saying something.”

Part of why poetry means so much to me is credited to writers who continue to assure me of my talent. The acceptance and love that poetry club emanates allows me to put my thoughts to paper, and truly be myself. Our poetry t-shirts have an image of a pen touching a heart, which reminds me where all our writing comes from. We all have a story to tell, and luckily we have the opportunity to do such a thing.

PYPM provides a safe, welcoming space for poets to share art. I proudly stand on stage every chance I get, holding in my heart a love for the people that sit before me, with eager ears and eyes.

My last slam meant the most to me, because it was the citywide Championships. Each time I reached an unfamiliar stage, my anxiety increased. I rubbed my jean shorts continuously, with sweaty palms. This was a performing ritual, the wiping away of my nerves. The tips of my fingers vibrated uncontrollably. The dirty, rusted mirror leaning against the wall backstage revealed my face, and that didn’t help. I wasn’t ready for such a looming crowd to hear my words and watch me perform. This was not the small audience I was used to. I put on a facade, but inside my stomach somersaulted out of the theater.

“I’m gonna pee my pants this time, I mean it.” I said this every time I was backstage.

My teammates gathered around me, and I nervously wrung my hands.

“Wait, ready for our chant? 1, 2, 3!”

“BOOCHA!”

We whisper-screamed the inside joke in unison. Background mumbles of daunting words drifted to my ears.

“Coming to the stage right now is S, L, A!”

With my pen in hand, I point onwards to my future with poetry, ready to hack at yet another piece of paper.

¨Dad, what are those?¨ I asked.

¨They are called ¨Bung Bungs,¨ my dad replied, as we crossed the street away from the subway station.

My family and I were in the busy streets of Beijing, China at night. We had just visited one of our immigrated American friends and were on our way back to our apartment building. My dad raised his hand in the air when we reached the curb of the sidewalk. As a little kid with only a few weeks in a foreign country, I had a lot of questions.

¨We're going to ride in one of those things?¨ I said. Then a small, boxy, three-wheeled vehicle enclosed in a dark green tarp pulled up to the side walk. My dad went to the front of the ¨Bung Bung¨ and started talking to the driver in Chinese, telling him the address of our apartment. I stared at the odd vehicle from the sidewalk for a few seconds until my mother beckoned me to get into the back of the Bung Bung. I climbed in through a small rectangular door in the back of the Bung Bung and saw the dimly lit interior. My family and I all crammed in on one seat in a small compartment. Then I started to feel the ¨Bung Bung´s¨ motor come to life from underneath our seat and the vehicle started to move.

¨Why didn't we take a taxi?¨ I raised my voice over the roar of the motor and the wind blowing through the open windows.

¨Because these are cheaper than taxis for going short distances,¨ said my dad. ¨They're also good with getting through places that are too small for cars and taxis.¨ He added.

¨If they are cheaper for going short distances than we should have these in America.¨ I thought. ¨But why don't we?¨ It wouldn't be until I got back to America when my father would tell me that the ¨Bung Bungs¨ were unsafe. He told me that the ¨Bung Bungs¨ were not very protective during crashes because of their non-solid exteriors and lack of seat belts for passengers.

Then I wondered what other exotic vehicles there could be in other countries. I recalled back to when I lived in the United States to try to remember if I had seen any ¨Bung Bungs¨. I remembered from visiting cities that I had seen taxis, although I never ridden in one until I lived in China, but I still did not remember seeing Bung Bungs on the U.S. streets at any time. ¨They may have been in American cities that I have never been to.¨ I thought, but I also argued with the fact that they very might be only in Chinese cities. I pondered this thought up until I fell asleep in my bed, in our apartment.

Bung bungs were not the only way I had seen Chinese people get around Beijing. I had seen merchants and salesmen ride around on bikes, pulling carts of different sizes behind them. In these carts, there were items and products waiting to be sold. Some of the other people used these cart pulling bikes to transport their families through the city. I had seen mothers and fathers on bikes and their children would sit in the carts. Outside of the cities, in more rural areas, I saw carts being pulled by animals from oxen to donkeys. I have also visited Thailand and there some of the people living in the rural places rode on the backs of elephants to get through nearby jungles. I even took an Elephant ride with my family and friends while visiting. Also, in Thailand there is a larger and more open, vehicle that is similar to the ¨Bung Bung¨  called a ¨Tuk Tuk¨.

Now that I am back in the U.S., I have had some time to reflect. In different areas of the world people use different modes of transportation that can be very distinct from somewhere else in the world. However, in the end, transportation is the same everywhere: whether it be taxi or a ¨Bung Bung¨, bicycle or subway, it is still a form of getting around.  People everywhere want to get from ¨point A¨ to ¨point B¨, no matter how different the animal or vehicle that moves them.  My hope is people in America can create a small and affordable vehicle like the ¨Bung Bung¨,  but safer to ride.

My first concert I played at made me the most nervous, anxious I’ve ever been. “All of that practicing, for what?” My teachers would say to get us ready. My friends and I were no older than 13 and we were performing our first concert as a classical orchestra. Ever since then, we were accepted into the orchestra Play On Philly in 5th grade. The teachers would have us practicing two hours after school, everyday. That first concert, so long ago was when I realized I was now part of something big.

When we took the stage at West Catholic high school, I felt nervous. My orchestra was performing for hundreds of parents. I made a lot of musical mistakes that day, but nonetheless, I was proud of myself. Performing in a concert and attending one are two completely different things. I never realized what people went through when they had to give it their all, to impress the crowd. “Show them your worth!” My Viola teacher would say. I’ve played viola for 6 years, nearly every day after school. I wouldn’t say viola isn’t the hardest instrument to play, but it’s more about being consistently good. Being as though it’s a string instrument, it requires a certain mindset where everything has to be perfect. From playing the correct note, following the tempo, remembering scales, and either playing loudly or softly. The viola is like a violin but just a little bigger. I’ve alternated between 3 different teachers, each one was different. My first teacher taught me the basics, but after that she left to go work with a different orchestra. The music system is a competitive one so even teachers have to go their own ways to improve. My third teacher was half strict and half easy going. My second teacher was Ms. Andriana, who I consider a friend. She was the one who elevated my peers and I, to the next level. She really cared for us and made sure we would impress everyone with our skills.

I was now part of the classical music system in Philadelphia. Being apart of this system is surprisingly hard. Once you get involved, there’s a lot of dedication and discipline to insert in with playing instruments. For example,every instrument player was competing with other students and other organizations for a spot in the orchestra. There’s either cooperation or competition between other orchestras. Stores, museums, centers, even government officials give out opportunities to play at their sites, specifically to Play On Philly. The perks of the music system is being able to meet widely known, famous musicians. Being offered scholarships, college tours, and being able to travel the country.

I was in a big system as an small individual. I learned a lot from being in the music system. Being a team was the main part of playing with in an orchestra. It is an experience that is very unique. There has to be chemistry between the player, the conductor, other players, and teachers alike. Everybody either follows their own rhythm or links up with other’s rhythms. Extreme focus and dedication is required otherwise, that person who doesn’t have that will drag down the orchestra. There is always a way to improve, and the conductor will always make the orchestra improve. For that reason, myy feelings toward the music system is both negative and positive.

They work the players hard. I loved that and hated it at the same time. Learning an instrument isn’t easy, as which is what most teachers would imply. That was the main reason why they had us working so hard. I admired their ambition for them to get their students to learn and improve. However, they didn’t take into account that we were just kids. Just transitioning into a competitive system and having us work work nonstop. It’s been 6 years since then. Playing the viola for that long payed off. By the end 8th grade I was nominated for multiple rewards for being best musician. That feeling of appreciation and recognition is none like no other. I was given my last reward in front of hundreds of people. That was when I realized why the teachers pushed us so hard. It was to make us know, kids like my peers and I, young African-Americans could achieve great things. The music system is a hard, competitive one. However, I found a way to be apart of that system and reap the benefits from it. I would not take back those 6 years of hard practice and concerts because I learned dedication can take me to soaring, new heights in life.

“Happy Birthday!”

To most people this is a normal phrase mainly said on ones birthday. For me however, it’s a whole other mess of a day, because my birthday falls on December 27th. Every year, on Christmas Eve, my family has a party celebrating both Christmas, and all late december birthdays, considering there are three: me, my aunt Michelle, and my grandmother.

“Thank you! I haven’t seen you since last year!”

I’d say these things without knowing half the people I talked to. The whole tradition had just become so routine.

Stage 1 always starts with us arriving either first or third, greeting our grandparents and a possible close uncle. My grandmother would be freaking out running back and forth making all the food. She’d spend hours and sometimes days into making the food, usually lots of pasta and Italian dishes. The rest of us would just sit and watch TV, only moving for each guest that arrived. Each family that arrived would go through the same greetings. Stage 2 starts with usually the father of each family, the only exception being my godmother, would present the 3 winter birthdays with their gifts. I purposely would plant myself closer to the door for this reason as well as the fact I could greet first instead of awkwardly standing and waiting. Following a perfect pattern, with a few late arrivals and those giving gifts when they parted.

Stage 3 can be either the worst or most entertaining part of the night. As the oldest “children,” my sister and I would have to take care of the younger children in the sweltering basement. Even though it was winter, the basement always felt like ninety degree temperatures. My sister, as per usual, was of no help, sitting on the steps talking to the third oldest. Meanwhile, I would always attempt to play a boardgame or something with the fourth oldest, who is about 8 or 9 at this point. The four youngest toddlers would throw anything they could pick up, and would scream and yell at each other. At times it’s a lot of work, but it can be entertaining to watch them play.

Stage 4 always favored those who got there early. All the best meals and dishes would go very fast. Especially the holy grail of Italian food: the Stromboli. My sister, father, and I would devour the entire stromboli before the majority of the guests could even arrive. Other than that, I'd really only scavenge the tables for spaghetti, meatballs, and plain rolls of bread. The food was also a useful tool to keep the children stalled.

Cake is usually the 5th and final stage for most of the guests. There are typically 2 or 3 cakes, depending on whether my aunt, Michelle (the 2nd christmas birthday), comes or not. Usually my aunt and grandmother would have cakes that were average, but never truly compared to mine. The ice cream cake, chocolate and vanilla ice cream with a layer of crushed oreos in between. That is the kind of cake that could only be described as perfect. Luckily, because it was always my cake, I could make sure I’d get a big slice first, before the little kids could get their grubby little hands all over it.

Finally, the part of the night, stage 6. This is where the parents start rounding up their kids and trying to get home so they can get a good night's sleep and set up their presents. Others wait for the end, either due to how closely they are related to my grandmother, or to make sure that when they leave there is less people to have to say goodbye to. This is where I finally get a bit more relaxation before having to leave. My main core family, I would usually see the next day due to the order of houses for Christmas. That order being, mother/grandparents, father, grandparents.

Christmas Eve is probably one of the biggest nights of year for me, in terms of family traditions. It’s something that I can really enjoy throughout anything that happens that day. Most people might be unhappy sharing their birthday, but compared to other family events, none come close and I feel special being a huge part of it. I never really get or want to do anything for my birthday considering it's over winter break and people are busy. Which is why I enjoy Christmas Eve and the rest of winter break so much. Of course I'd still have birthday cakes on my actual birthday, but the Christmas Eve party just feels like mine, so many people are there for my birthday.

I was in Gym class. 6th grade. It was Friday, and on Fridays we had we got to do whatever we want. The only thing was, we had to be moving as in doing something physical like jumping rope or playing basketball. I was playing basketball with one of my friends. As we were playing, my friend said I was pretty good at it. Her not knowing this was my first time really playing. A little later the gym teacher came over. He asked me if I was interested in playing for the school team. I considered going because I needed to get involved. Honestly I thought he was asking me to play because of my height like most coaches do. There wasn’t really a tryout, he just picked some girls that could play.  In my eyes I seen that he picked people who were tall and fast. Including me.

I went to the first practice and not being as big as a fan of basketball I liked it and I learned the concept on the game pretty easily. Some of my close friends were on the team too so it didn’t make me as scared of nervous as I should have been. At one practice and gave me and my friend a piece of paper with an address on it. “On Friday I want you two to come to this practice for an outside team.” I was surprised! It was just the first few practices and I’m here.

The practice my teacher invited me and my friend to was an  outside team. This team was at a gym on 34th & haverford. A gym I was familiar with. There weren’t many girls but my coach from school was there and introduce my friend and I to the team. The practice was really simple.  We did laps, basketball drills, challenges.  After that cool experience, we started having practices and games at another . On the team,was a starting playing as a power forward. The basketball season started around fall into winter time  for school and the team I played on for outside of school as well. The school games we played were easier. Not as competitive as the outside games were. The outside team was kind of like a traveling team. Every Saturday or Sunday or both. Which wasn't great because this caused me to cancel some plans for me to hang out with my friends. I was upset because I couldn’t hang out with my friends as much, but . I was having fun playing in the games and with my friends there. Some games we would lose but  we didn't give up nor lose our positive attitudes and played as best as we could.

Some games I would get hurt like my ankle and my knee but “what’s a game without out pain” my mom would say. If I complained about my ankle hurting she would say “you ball so hard.” I played basketball for about 2 years after that. Then one Saturday things changed. I got into an argument with my mother on how I didn’t want to play anymore. It wasn’t my teammates neither was it the games. I just felt as I was done with it. Yes I loved the sport but I felt as I had had enough. I did continue to play or the rest of the season in school of 8th grade but I stopped going to practices at the outside team.

A few weeks after that I went to play volleyball for an club outside of school which I used to go to before I played basketball. I rarely got hurt and I  enjoyed it very much . It also involved more girls and we got along with each other very fast. I liked volleyball more because basketball was more of a contact game, it was another  reason why I told my mother I wanted to stop. Till this day I still play volleyball for the club team I am with and also my school. My team mates are the best and we still play with a positive attitude. I don’t plan on quitting volleyball like I did basketball. I want to play in college but I know after college, it might not play anymore. My mother has pointed out to me that there are no 40 year old volleyball players, so I’ll enjoy it while I can.

In my middle school years, I had the same teacher for history class, or as they called it then, social studies. My teacher and I had a lot in common, we are the same race, had some of the same interest in music, and the main thing we shared was step, but we did not always see eye to eye. She once told me, she was so hard on me because she knew that I would go places and not lower myself to what the system says. High expectations I guess. Even at such a young age, I always knew that there were going to be situations when I don’t reach people’s expectations. In a moment of my life, a moment of failure, and a moment of disappointment to myself and to someone I thought I could look up to, I am going to share with you this story of how expectations and distractions can lead to judgement and failure.

The day every student in school would get their report cards. We would receive a grade for every class we had and our responses would be unpredictable.  As I walked quietly into my social study teacher’s classroom, she stops the lesson and in an authoritative voice says to me, “Teyonna why are you late to my class?”

Great, all eyes on me, I thought to myself.

“I stopped by the dean’s office on the way up. I have a note.” I handed her the note and took my seat. She continued the lesson. About 10 minutes later, I raised my hand.

“Can I use the bathroom,” I said.

“You have 2 minutes,” She said to me.

Her classroom was always just across the hall from the girls bathroom, so if she was to look out of the doorway, she could see and hear everything that was going on. I did my business in the bathroom and walked out. Then I got distracted. The dean’s office was one of the most popular places to be on the 4th floor near the first stairwell, also in looking distance of my social studies teacher’s classroom. I made my way towards the dean and the people sitting near her desk and suddenly I heard a distant shout. It was my teacher. “Teyonna get in this classroom” she said. I turned right back around and went into the doorway, but she pulled me aside. This won’t be good, I thought.

“If you continue to worry about what’s going on in the halls instead of my classroom, then you won’t like what you’re grade will be or what I have to say at the report card conference ”, she said to me in a calm, but stern tone. I just walked away.

Report-card conference time came and my aunt and I went through each floor where we talked to different teachers and discussed my behavior and grades in their classroom. Everything went  well until we got to my social studies teacher. She was the last teacher we were seeing that day, with the worst grade on the report card. We walked and she was sitting there with the biggest fakest smile I had ever seen. She greeted us, then we greeted her. My aunt looked at my report card and straightforward she said, “why do you have a D-minus?”, looking at me. Then at my teacher, “why does she have a D-minus?” My teacher went through the whole nine yards of why she failed me. One of the main reasons was because I was letting people influence me with the wrong decisions and my interests was always somewhere else when it came to her class. I admit to being distracted, but I also believe in second chances and not failure as a lesson. In order for me to have gotten that grade back up, I was assigned 3 packets of work.

There was always something about my teacher that bothered us, I say “us” because it wasn’t just me who she bothered. There were other students and other parents, including mine. My  teacher is a young black woman who was great until she tried to teach me a lesson. I promise, my intentions were not to disrespect or put down her or any other teacher that may find themselves with the same bothering personality, I am just simply sharing a small piece of my life. The reason I am sharing this story is because, there would be times when a distraction comes and there will be times when you may miss a few lessons that was supposed to be learned, but there should never be a time where an intentional failure comes because someone else believed that you needed to learn a life lesson.

“Mom I have decided on something”, I said  in a shy voice.

“What is it Keyonne, you can tell me I am your mother.” She replies confidently.

“I want to play football.” I said proudly.

“WHAT! FOOTBALL WHY WOULD YOU EVER WANT TO PLAY THAT GAME!” She yells in a confused yet angry tone.

“Well it looks like fun. I would not mind getting hit and knocking people down to the ground.” I explained.

“Boy I will knock you to the ground right now for saying that.” She roared at me,

Then she calmed down a bit. “Hey what made you want to play football anyway.”

“To me it looks like a lot of fun and I think it will be good exercise.”

“But you did not want to play soccer you can get exercise from that.” She responded.

“I am not too good at running a long distance, so it think I would be bad at it.” I said.

I could tell she really did not want me to play football but it had not come to me why she would not like me playing football. She asked me again.

“ Are you sure you want to play football”

“yes” I replied

“why do you not want me to play.”

“BECAUSE PEOPLE GET HURT REALLY BADLY THEY HAVE CONCUSSION AND OTHER THINGS!” she replied.

“MOM PLEASE!” I said without a care in the world

“I will be fine we have coaches to tell us how to play so that will not happen to us little kids.”

” Well ok then fine I guess you can try it out but if you don't like it then you can always leave and do something else.”

“OK!” I say with the happiest smile on my face the next day I am coming from school and my mom says

“I have found a great football team near the house so you can was to it when I am not home and one of the people I work with sons play for that team to.”  

“OH ok what is the team called”  I ask in amazement

“Oaklane Wildcat” she replied back

“and their first practice is tomorrow and I have all of your football supplies right there”

“ok thanks” I turn and look in the living room and see a duffel bag full of pades and color red and black cleats with metal spikes and I was so happy because this was my first time doing anything like this I could not wait to go to practice. I woke up and I was SO happy I could not hold in the excitement after school that day I ran back home I was so sweaty that it looked liked I just go finished play a sport.

“I am guessing that you are ready for football then” my mom said with a smile on her face.

“Yeah let's get going” I said almost breaking the door down because of how much I wanted to go and play. The ride there I was shaking like I was opening a snapple but for some much longer we finally get there and I was terrified I get out the car and my mom says are

“you ready

to go” and I nervously walk over to the coach my mom comes up to him and says

“HI I am keyonnes mom” and the coach says “HI I am coach Q.” I was so nervous I could barely speak and the coach said

“so you must be keyonne nice to meet you” and he shook my hand. And the coach asked me

“what do I know about football” and I said

“nothing” then the coach said

“OK great let's get started” after practice I was really tired and I did not want to do it any more because I did not think the team need me and so I told my mom and she said “OK”

Then she talked to the coach and the coach said that was really good for a beginner he said it looks like he could do this a profession. And then he talked to me and said that you can't give up because something is hard you have to keep fighting for what you and till that day I never gave up on anything I did and I will not start.

My mom had driven all the way from Philadelphia to Baltimore, and we were sitting in the car outside my dad’s house. I had a few more minutes before I needed to go inside; the agreement was, at 8 o’clock I needed to go inside. My dad left when I was three. Ever since then he's fought my mother for custody of me and my siblings. Two years ago he finally won. He wanted nothing to do with my older sister, morgan but, my brother and I had to move to his house. I was so upset that I had to live there. The only thing keeping me sane was weekend visitation with my mother. When she would drive us back to my father’s house at the end of the weekend we were expected to go inside by 8pm.

   I got out of the car, dreading what had to happen next, when I had an idea. I sat down on the grass and told my dad I was not going inside.

    At first, he tried to convince me that I had to go inside. He kept telling me to go inside, that it was just what I was supposed to do.

“Come on Emily, just come inside please.” I remained sitting on the grass where I was disregarding anything he had to say.

I was on the phone with my sister, and she was with my mom. My mom had driven up the road just a few blocks. She was waiting to make sure everything was okay before driving all the way back to Philadelphia.

    After about 20 minutes of my dad and his wife yelling at me, I hear my dad come out to the front yard. He was on the phone, and I assumed he was talking to on the phone with his mother. I eavesdropped on the conversation listened when I heard him saying that I was a runaway fourteen-year-old child. Right then I knew he had called the police when he gave them his address.

   I was still sitting on the grass on the front yard on his front year when the police arrived. Two 2 police cars pulled up, and there were three 3 officers in total. They attempted tried to approach me calmly and tried to talk to me and tell me that I needed to go inside. Of course I of course, did not move. I did not say a word. It didn’t take very long for the police to slowly become less nice and gentle toward me. One female officer looked me in the eye and very sternly told me that I needed to go inside before they forcibly brought me inside. I then decided to go inside. Anything was easier than being brought into the house by force. So, I went inside.

    By this point, I was off the phone with my sister but then proceeded to call. I called her again while sitting and sat down on the bottom step of the stairs right inside the door. My father was so angry that I went didn’t go straight to my room and went to sleep. When he started yelling at me again I just went outside again, still talking on the phone with my sister.

    My sister kept telling me to go inside because she said it would be as easier than all of this, but I didn’t care. I sat back down on the grass and waited for my dad to give up just like he h. He had given up on my sister a few years. ago earlier so, So I thought this would make him give up on me, but I was wrong, and He called the police again.

    This time I thought they wouldn’t come;. I wasn’t trying to run away, and they knew that all I wanted to do was to go home with my mom.

   The police showed up again and I went inside with no problem. I sat back down on the step and my father proceeded to yell at me again. This time, I sat down again on the bottom step, when he started yelling at me again. I didn’t move, and. he took my phone right out of my hand and called the police again. This time I’m sure they were annoyed. They got there and brought me right up to my room per my father's request. My mom went home and I went to sleep right after that.

I’m an Algerian immigrant who was raised in America. Having to live and adapt to both worlds was not as challenging as I expected. I adapted to the difference in food, clothing, and language easily but there remains one variety I can not acclimate: beauty. Specifically my hair.

I cherish my curly long thick hair, although I was obsessed with silky straight hair.

In Algeria, the ideal hairstyle was straight hair, but my hair, on the other hand, was the complete opposite.

I can vividly remember the struggle getting ready for school every morning.

I remember stretching loose the bones in my body. I lazily threw on some clothes as I dragged myself over to the bathroom sink. Carefully and slowly I took my time brushing my teeth, so I could postpone hair time.

My mom would peek her head into the bathroom, and ask, ”you ready?”

I nodded in response.

She reached for my hair. I tightly gripped the edge of the sink and the towel in my hand, I shut my eyes, scrunched my face, and waited for the explosion of pain. She shoved her fingers inside the big ball of hair. The search of the hair tie has begun.

When she would finally get a hold of it, she’d hold my hair close to my scalp with one hand and with the other, pulled the hair band with all of her might.

Tears gliding down my face was the only type of soothing I felt at the time. I loosened the sweaty grip of the towel and sink.

Years have passed with the same struggles, but I feel more comfortable about it. I’ve accepted that yes this is my hair. This is me.

Until one summer day in Algeria. My cousins and I told stories, talked and laughed.

“Oh yeah Assirem, let me see the pictures from the party last night!” Yasmina my cousin says.

Proudly, I scrolled through my camera roll, quickly searching for the best picture before handing her the phone.

I sat patiently waiting to be bombarded with compliments, my chest raised high, big smile across my face.

“You went to the party with your hair like this?”, She disgustingly murmured out.

She quickly hands me the phone back as if it was a dirty diaper.

I chuckled awkwardly, my heart stood stiff as a rock. I can feel the redness arising under my skin. I looked over to the rest of my cousins for some comfort but they all agreed

“What do you mean? I like the way my hair looked.”

“Well I just thought you would straighten it, the fact that it was a party and all.” she rolled her eyes looking at her fingernails.  

I got up and walked out.

Many experiences such as these happened in Algeria, this caused me to be more aware of how my hair looks.

Until I came to America. I've been to many parties. I would be shocked seeing girls coming in with hair curly, poofy straight hair! These observations made me appreciate the difference in my beauty, that sets me apart from others.

At school one evening , exhaustion ran from my scalp through my body to the tip of my toes.

3:05, finally time to go home. I unlocked my locker as a fast as possible, hoping to not mess up. My three best friends surrounded me impatiently, ready to go home.

Suddenly, a shiver ran down my back. I jerked my head back quickly.

“Of course,” I thought to myself with relief.

Two girls were wrapping and brushing their fingers through my hair. In the least awkward way, I gently began to loosen my hair out through their finger.

“Assirem, so do you like braid it or put twists in it for it to come out this way.” One of them stated reaching back for my hair.

“No, it’s natural,” I chuckled.

They both took a step back.

The other girl followed up by, “so then what products do you put in it for it to curl like this.”

I looked up to the top of my locker.

“water,” I stated jokingly as I inserted my notebook into my book bag.

Now I think to myself alone in the quietly bathroom. Watching the steam rise from the straightener sitting patiently on the marable. I divide my hair into two sections, it is easier that way.. I run the last strand tightly through the iron from root to the tip. I stand back. One side was big volumized curls, the other was flat straighten hair.

I bend down gently to pull the plug out of the outlet. With a smile of satisfaction and accomplishment, I walk out.

Straight or curly?

I am both.  

“Zoe or Chloe?” Tia says.

         That’s the million dollar question. Who am I? Am I my sister? Or am I me? We both sigh. We both laugh. We both sag our shoulders. How was I supposed to know that a few shared gestures will cause a conflict of telling the difference between two people?

          I want to blame my mother for dressing us up alike as kids. I want to accuse my former self of letting it happen. I wish to blame the people who started the conflict. I blame myself for getting conflicted of who I am.

          Zoe’s tall. I’m taller. I have hazel eyes. She has brown eyes. She’s a brown girl. I’m a light skin. I have lighter hair than her. I’m quiet. She’s outgoing. Zoe has her style. I have my own.

     “I’m Chloe,” I reply. She expression shows defeat. I show an understanding. I feel disappointed.

For all my life I have to bear through the persistence of people thinking we are alike. We “look the same.” I should dismiss it off nor shouldn’t let it get to me. But that is being said about all black people. We all look alike. We’re black. Big lips. Everything. How am I supposed to ignore a stereotype? Why should I?

I always try to dress differently from my sister, even if I have to express contrastingly or to move from my comfort zone to be noticed. To not be put in the same category as her. My personality is different from her. Everything I do is to get away from the ignorance of people. I’m afraid  I’ll be so consumed into standing out in the crowd, that I will lose the qualities that make me.

There are those few miracles that came to my life where we were separate people. They did not let the words of ignorance devour their ways of greeting. They were able to notice me. The person who I am.

Thursday evening or Sunday meeting, at the end of the meetings, Brother Carter always told us “It’s the Zoe and Chloe Show!” At a young age, I appreciated it. Loved to be part of my sister. Call me selfish, but I want my space; to be separated. I’ve gained my own electronics, school, and even my own room. It’s bad enough that we must share the suffering of ignorance from people.

When I was 10, I remember on a Sunday morning, there was a special meeting in my congregation. The circuit overseer was there. We were going over the Watchtower. I was going to raise my hand for the next question. He looked around the room until he met my eyes. I smiled. I was ready. At least for the Watchtower.

“Zoe please.” He said. I was confused. Zoe was home, sick. I didn’t register at the moment that he was talking about me. Another brother came with the microphone. I took the microphone and gave a deep breath.

“It’s Chloe,” I replied. He gave a look of shock. I felt my mother’s disappointment. I wasn’t sure then why there was such a reaction. I didn’t realize then the hardened gaze I gave nor the venom in my voice. It was little, but enough for it to be known.

Even to this day, I can’t get past the guilt. The fact that I let such emotions escape from the facilities of the mouth and my eyes. The truth many knows, but don’t wish to meet, was the anger I felt of someone who knew me for years to still mistake me for my sister. I took my time into getting to know people, and yet in return, I “influenced” the ongoing struggle to a separate individual. A slap in the face they say.

I sometimes wish I was the only girl, but I know I don’t want it. I love my sister. I just wish we weren’t forced to be tied to the hip bone. I do hope and know there are people that will take the time and see we are two different people. I do wish they find me. The ones of the constant persistence of merging us together. They can stay a distance from me. As long as I know who I am, I should be good.

The score was 19 to 19. We were on a 15 game win streak. The tension was thick and I never took my eyes off of the tv. The ball was inbounded to me, so I ran up the court with it. I had an open lane to the hoop because my defender was guarding someone else. I held the square button and held my breath as my player flew into the air and was immediately surrounded by the other players. It was a trap. My player came crashing down, dunking on everyone that was under the basket. I leaped up and screamed in joy as I had ended the game that was so contested.

Video games were always apart of my life even at a young age. My family was always playing the video games and I couldn’t help but to want to play too. They would play games like Final Fantasy 7, Grand Theft Auto, Crash Bandicoot, Kingdom Hearts and more when they wanted to play some one player games. Those games were fun, but I would usually play the multiplayer games with my cousins and dad. We played all sorts of multiplayer games like basketball, Sonic 2 and 3, Fight Night, Madden, Tekken, Soulcalibur, Mortal Kombat and much more.

Playing these games made my childhood pretty competitive when it came to gaming. Now, I wasn’t the best, but the point would be to just have fun even if you win or not. When I received my first game system, which was a VTech V smile, I was overwhelmed with joy since I didn’t have to beg to play the game anymore. After receiving a V Smile, I wanted to get even more games. When I got older, my parents bought me a PS3, and that’s where it all changed right there. My desire to play the game went from being a hobby into a habit. All day, every day, I would be on the game until my mom would yell at me to get off the game.

I play video games because they entertain me when I’m bored or help me calm down if I’m upset. Video games bring a massive amount of fun to me but that fun does not come alone. Every video gamer knows the experience of the gamer rage, whether they have raged only once or if they rage every day. If you play video games a lot, you’re bound to get angry, especially if it’s a competitive video game. The rage is unlike any other type of rage because you’re not mad at the world or anyone around you, you’re mad at how difficult is it to succeed a goal in that game. But that urge to succeed is what keeps you playing the game, and that’s what I like about video games. They gave me the determination that I have today.

I remember one time when I was playing NBA 2K17 with my friends and we were playing against some people online in MyPark. We kept it a contested game until the other team started destroying us off of screens and fast dribbling. My friends and I were mad, especially me because I absolutely hate screens on 2K. When the other team hit the winning shot, anger filled up inside of me. I was trying my hardest to control it, but it was overwhelming me. The people who won were talking their trash talk on the game chat yelling in everyone’s ears. I got up and yelled back at them and kicked the office chair I was sitting on. Right before their mics cut out, I heard “Run it back then, come back around!” from the people who beat me. I was furious when I heard that. My mom yelled at me to get off the game but I refused. I wanted to go around and beat those guys because I lost. So that’s exactly what I did, and by doing that my team and I won and they left the park. Playing video games showed to me that if you try hard enough, you can achieve your goals. Even though sometimes I don’t try my hardest in school, I do try my hardest when I want to do something I’m passionate about, specifically video games. I feel forced to go to school and I don’t mean to say that in an offensive way, I just do. However, when I play video games that feeling is not there. It’s enjoyable while providing a challenge for me. For some games, I have to carefully strategize how to complete a challenge. Others games can be easy and does not require much thinking. Either way, I enjoy playing video games and they have influenced me in an important way.

All my life I grew up in a Allentown rice and bean making environment. My family always goes  to my great grandma's house  and the smell of rice and beans just lures you in. I use my Spanish One  knowledge and a little bit of the spanish I  speak at home,  to communicate with my mama because like me,  she only knows one language. I know English and she knows Spanish. I never knew the importance of speaking spanish. I doesn’t understand and not knowing something or ignorance is terrible especially when it’s your own culture and race.  

When my family moved to Philly when I was younger all  my friends were African american . I just adapted to that way of life , so I felt more connected with one side of my race.I didn’t learn about my race until I got a lot older. I believe the friends you are around will shape you into who you are  and vice versa.Then, when I was younger , I moved to Carlisle because my mom went to get her law degree for three years. The majority of my friends were Caucasian, and because of that, I slowly began to lose my roots. I started acting like my friends until I was discriminated for it.  That would be like a wake up call.

“ Hey Zeyah”

“Wsp Aaron”

Outta nowhere Aaron licked my face

“ Yooo why did you do that”

“ You black so I wanted to see if you tasted like chocolate”

( Zeyah Runs off to the office)

When I moved to Philadelphia,I attended M.C.S. located on Spring Garden,with the majority of students were black, and I began to transform. For example when I was in Carlisle, I listen to more Pop and songs on the radio, but Philadelphia was trendy with Hip-hop. I started admiring hip-hop more,  and starting adapting to Philly slang and I had to get tougher. The only problem was my school had a astonishing Social Studies class but it didn’t have a Spanish class where I could  learn. I didn’t mind it as much until , I wanted some more food and my mama who her only language is  spanish couldn’t  understand me

Not speaking Spanish when your Spanish is terrible.You can’t even have a simple conversation with your own family.  Everywhere I go they start speaking the language and I just have to shake my head.

“No se”

It’s frustrating especially when other hispanics come at you for it. One day I was meeting new people and I met some spanish girl at school.

“Hey”

“Hey”

“What are you?”

“ Puerto Rican, Dominican, Black”

“ *starts speaking spanish*”

“ uhhh...I’m currently learning on Rosetta right now.”

I make up little slick excuses so I don’t look as bad. I say things wrong to like the pronunciations of different foods or just regular words because I had little practice in saying these words.I say if you learn as a baby you will know more because babies soak up more than when you grow up learning. Even though I struggle with the language.

Even though I struggle with the language, I still love my culture and  never will forget my roots. Through my eyes this system is very important because this is you your personality and your traits.  I love everything about my cultures I can relate to so many people since I’m half and half. Everything to Malcolm X and Collard Greens to pastelillos de arroz y frijoles. My family embraces their culture too. We love dancing at parties and just being ourselves. My mom introduced me to Mark Anthony which is my favorite spanish artist right now. Currently I'm still learning but the instruments and the beats in which  makes you want to dance. All I do is dance like in the Dominican Republic where they are very proud to be spanish. I learnt some words there but everything was so culturally based the people dancing Salsa and Meringue until sun up until sundown.  I often hang out with both of my families on my dad's side and on my mom’s side. My mom’s side is spanish and my dad’s side is black. I hang out more with my dad’s side now because they live closer, when I’m there I eat more cornbread, fried chicken, and white rice My spanish family eats more fried plantains,  pastelillos, and rice and beans I do see sometime a mix though in cultures which I love seeing. We eat these foods like at get togethers.

Misjudged

All my life, I have been judged based on how I look. People assume that I am white because my skin tone is white. When I tell them that I am not, they can start to see how I do not look as white as they thought. They look deeper than my skin color and see features of me that they do not recognize as white. For example, my nose is very arab looking, It is long and round at the end. My hair is also very thick and dark. Does having green eyes and light skin make me look less Arab? Arab people have an olive toned skin color but it is still light skin. So I ask myself what part of how I look hides the Arab looking features?

It was the first day of freshman year and I walked through the crowded cafe in my school where it was loud and chaotic. There were people all running around trying to find their classes. I started to search for my room too. I finally found it- room 301, it was the art room. The other students and I that were waiting to go into the class walked into the room. We all sat in random seats because almost no one knew each other. There were so many new faces and people to take in and names to remember. The walls were covered with windows and you could see the busy streets below. I liked this room, it was a very free and open space, it left a lot of room for imagination and creativity. When class started, we were told that we would have to work in groups of two and draw a picture of someone else’s clothing item or anything that they had on them. I turned to the boy next to me. He had dark brown hair and olive toned skin.

We simultaneously asked, “Do you want to be my partner?”

We both laughed at the timing of our question, and then we introduced ourselves.

“My name is Amani.”

His name was Naseem. As I was talking to him, I noticed that he had a hat that had an embroidered Palestinian flag on it. It was black which made the green, red, and white colors of the flag stand out.

I immediately asked, “Are you Palestinian?”

My smile reached from ear to ear. I have never met someone that is my age and is my ethnicity.

“Yeah, my mom and dad are both from there,” He said. “Why?”

“I am Palestinian too! My dad grew up in Ramallah (a city in Palestine).”

We were both smiling now, but he found it hard to believe that I was Arab. I started to get annoyed, as if I would purposely lie about my ethnicity . Why did he not believe me? I continued to try to convince him. I spoke a few words in Arabic, like hello how are you, to prove to him that I am indeed Arab.

“You look so white though! I still can not believe that you’re Arab.”

After all this he still would not have been able to tell that I was Arab if i did not tell him. I was relieved that he finally believed me. I automatically felt close to him even tho we just met.

This happens to me very often where I have to prove myself as not white. When someone tells me I look white, I get offended even though I am partly white. It makes me feel closer to the part of myself that is Palestinian and the culture that goes along with it. It gets very annoying when people point out that I do not look like my ethnicity. I can not change what I look like. I wish my ethnicity could be recognized more clearly before people start to judge me. Ethnicity is a complicated thing because your appearance can deceive what people think about where you are from. After going through these experiences it made me realize how easily people can misjudge based on something that person can not change, their appearance.

All my life I grew up in a Allentown rice and bean making environment. My family always goes  to my great grandma's house  and the smell of rice and beans just lures you in. I use my Spanish One  knowledge and a little bit of the spanish I  speak at home,  to communicate with my mama because like me,  she only knows one language. I know English and she knows Spanish. I never knew the importance of speaking spanish. I doesn’t understand and not knowing something or ignorance is terrible especially when it’s your own culture and race.  

When my family moved to Philly when I was younger all  my friends were African american . I just adapted to that way of life , so I felt more connected with one side of my race.I didn’t learn about my race until I got a lot older. I believe the friends you are around will shape you into who you are  and vice versa.Then, when I was younger , I moved to Carlisle because my mom went to get her law degree for three years. The majority of my friends were Caucasian, and because of that, I slowly began to lose my roots. I started acting like my friends until I was discriminated for it.  That would be like a wake up call.

“ Hey Zeyah”

“Wsp Aaron” lllllll/lll

Outta nowhere I Aaron licked my face

“ Yooo why did you do that”

“ You black so I wanted to see if you tasted like chocolate”

( Zeyah Runs off to the office)

When I moved to Philadelphia,I attended M.C.S. located on Spring Garden,with the majority of students were black, and I began to transform. For example when I was in Carlisle, I listen to more Pop and songs on the radio, but Philadelphia was trendy with Hip-hop. I started admiring hip-hop more,  and starting adapting to Philly slang and I had to get tougher. The only problem was my school had a astonishing Social Studies class but it didn’t have a Spanish class where I could  learn. I didn’t mind it as much until , I wanted some more food and my mama who her only language is  spanish couldn’t  understand me

Not speaking Spanish when your Spanish is terrible.You can’t even have a simple conversation with your own family.  Everywhere I go they start speaking the language and I just have to shake my head.

“No se”

It’s frustrating especially when other hispanics come at you for it. One day I was meeting new people and I met some spanish girl at school.

“Hey”

“Hey”

“What are you?”

“ Puerto Rican, Dominican, Black”

“ *starts speaking spanish*”

“ uhhh...I’m currently learning on Rosetta right now.”

I make up little slick excuses so I don’t look as bad. I say things wrong to like the pronunciations of different foods or just regular words because I had little practice in saying these words.I say if you learn as a baby you will know more because babies soak up more than when you grow up learning. Even though I struggle with the language.

Even though I struggle with the language, I still love my culture and  never will forget my roots. Through my eyes this system is very important because this is you your personality and your traits.  I love everything about my cultures I can relate to so many people since I’m half and half. Everything to Malcolm X and Collard Greens to pastelillos de arroz y frijoles. My family embraces their culture too. We love dancing at parties and just being ourselves. My mom introduced me to Mark Anthony which is my favorite spanish artist right now. Currently I'm still learning but the instruments and the beats in which  makes you want to dance. All I do is dance like in the Dominican Republic where they are very proud to be spanish. I learnt some words there but everything was so culturally based the people dancing Salsa and Meringue until sun up until sundown.  I often hang out with both of my families on my dad's side and on my mom’s side. My mom’s side is spanish and my dad’s side is black. I hang out more with my dad’s side now because they live closer, when I’m there I eat more cornbread, fried chicken, and white rice My spanish family eats more fried plantains,  pastelillos, and rice and beans I do see sometime a mix though in cultures which I love seeing. We eat these foods like at get togethers.