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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.

Before I found out out about my adoption, I never  thought about being adopted and never cared. There was a time that someone asked me if I wanted to be adopted, it was when I was about 7 or 8 years old. Most of the kids living at the orphanage in Beijing, including myself were on a field trip or something like a vacation one day.  On the trip I was invited to a room where the walls were decorated with trees and bamboo. Inside were at 2 people. One of the person were chinese, and the other was a foreigner. I sat on one of the two benches in the room, and then they asked me to draw a person, so I drew. When I was finished, they commented on the way that I drew the person.

“ Look he even drew the neck,” one of them said to the other in amazement. After that they asked me if I wanted to be adopted and I said no to them, so then I went back with the other children. I was happy with my life and didn’t want to leave all of my friends.

I waited about three years, so when I was about 9 or 10 before I considered the idea of adoption when my close friends were being adopted. I waited  a month before I got introduced to my new found parents.

That same day someone at the orphanage took me into a room where I was introduced to two foreigners sitting  and signing a paper. As I walked into the room they looked up and smiled at me,  someone then told me to hug them, I was scared to do so but I still did it anyway. I went up to my mother first and hugged her and said “I love you” in English and I did this because I wanted to show appreciation to them, then I went to what is now my ex-father and did the same thing to him. As we were leaving the orphanage I was holding my tears back. What would happen to my friends still at the orphanage? Would I ever be able to see them again?  

Later at Hong Kong we stayed at the airport and waited a couple of hours for our plane to America. On the plane we watched a movie and played video games for most of the ride. Then I went to sleep for a little bit and woke up to the darkness of the Philadelphia Airport. Then we saw my family waiting by a van to pick us up.

On my first day in Philadelphia I was introduced to my mother’s family. I remember that I was very nervous to meet them. But I got through that part very easily, the difficult part is next. When the family started to ask questions I couldn’t understand anything and all I did was sitting there and staring them.

A couple of day later my mom told me about my friends and how they were also being adopted. I wanted to talk to them, so I asked.

“Can I speak to my friends?” I said.

“I’ll see what I can do,” my mom said.

Then the next day she put one of my friend on Skype and told to talk to them. Whenever I saw her I got very happy, because she was a very good friend and her name is Alexis. We were talking in Chinese when we talked, but I was embarrassed because my mom was listening. Then I asked Alexis about my best friend Andy.

“Do you know Andy’s Skype?” I said.

“No,” she said.

At that moment I was disappointed, but then I turned to my mom and asked her the same question.

“Yes,” she said.

After that I kept talking to Alexis, and we told each other what happened in our adoptions. She told me what happened to my friends at the orphanage,

“Some of them were also adopted and some are still there” she said

Then after I finished talking to Alexis I called Andy. I was overly excited to see him. When he picked up I started to speak.

“Hi, how are you?” I said.

“Good, how about you?” Andy answered.

“Amazing!”

Then we just went back and forth asking each other question for a couple of hours. I told him everything that happened, EVERYTHING. Then we had to depart from each other, but I was still very happy. For the next couple of months Alexis, Andy, and myself called each other every week.

For me adoption meant a new life and new opportunities. This experience help me understand that life could be great if we choose to help others, as my parents helped me to be happy. I hope I get to help someone to be happy like I was then and now. With my friends I am happy that I get to see some of them again but to I still miss Beijing, which still have some of my close friends within it.

I Am Fifteen Years Old

My friend lives 13 miles away from my house. I take four different public transportation lines to get there. Over this hour-long trip, I see new people of all ages ranging from about 10 to 50 years old who take Septa daily, like me. Nine out of ten times, men assume that I am a lot older than I am based on my appearance. They say my dark long hair and makeup makes me physically look older. My tight fitting clothes make me look more flattering which can come off as grown. My straight posture and focused but kind facial expressions make me look mature. I’m only fifteen but men are ignorant.

This one day was a terrible day to go to my friend’s house. Because I didn’t want to spend $2.50 on the bus, I decided to walk to the subway. As I walked along Oregon, a small white Honda filled with college boys honked at me. “Hey sexy lady, why don’t you come in the car with us?” yelled a scrub in the passenger side but then drove off in a rush. I paid them no mind like I usually do when this happens. I didn’t think a tank top and ripped jeans was showy compared to my other outfits.

“Mmhhh, you looking real good there sweetheart,” a 40 year old man says as his eyes followed me slowly trying to take me in. I focused myself towards the subway entrance and ignored the very annoying perverted man. At the time, I wondered if he would still have said that if he knew I was only in my first year of highschool.

I skipped down the flight of stairs only to be glared at by strangers. The subway pulls up and I always go for the middle carts. The moment the doors opened up at Snyder, I could sense this man’s attention locked on me. He settled himself across from me. I just stared down at my feet and then looked up to catch glimpses of this man gazing at me. He was obviously lost in his thoughts. I wondered if would he still be imagining things involving me if he knew I was fifteen? I waited for the subway to fully stop before getting up to prevent myself from falling. I could see that he looked surprised when this was my stop and proceeded to look at me until the subway moved on.

Hundreds of people shifted themselves into the tiny staircase of Exit 3. When I get to the top, I take a right and go straight until I get to the other staircase. From there, I go all the way up and then take a left to the end and then another left to go down the staircase. Here, I stood against a pole as I waited for the next L to come. A group of people from the southbound BSL came flowing in. A short man, around in his thirties, stands beside me. We remained in silence for about a minute until he complimented my hair.

“Thank you,” I smiled politely.

He continued to talk about his mother and his tattoos. Basically anything to keep my attention to hit on me. I attempted so many times to end our conversation. That day, the L decided to take it’s precious time getting to me. It’s like everything that day wanted to make me suffer. When the L rolled up, the man asked me where I was going. I told him that I’m on my way to school. He then questioned what college do I go to and I told him I was a freshman.

“A freshman in college?” he asked.

I responded, “No, in high school.”

“Wait so how old are you?” he said surprisingly.

“15.”

“Oh my gosh! I thought you were 21 or 22. You look so much older like I thought you were an adult.” He awkwardly said his goodbyes and parted ways.  

I can’t blame people for what they think of me. This society is stuck on what a “older” female should look like. But I’m not trying to look older and I don’t do it for attention. I have a passion for fashion and my style is popularly shared among older women. The way I speak can also make people believe that I’m older because I’m not afraid to speak out and I have manners. Kids are usually rude and wild so older men wouldn’t try to approach them. The idea of what’s right and wrong for young and old people is so broad and controversial that we should just do what fulfills our own happiness. But the intentions of naive men shouldn’t have to get in my way of doing me.

“Mayah!” my mom scream-whispered.

“What?” I replied. I then sat back and sighed.

“You didn’t shave your armpits in the shower,” she hissed at me.

Somehow, I knew this argument was coming.

“Yeah I know. I didn’t want to,” I replied.  

“Mayah, we’ve talked about this. There are just some things you do as a lady. Shaving your arms is one of those things. People see you out without your underarms shaved and they judge you. Just… please do it next time you shower,”

To her, that was end of discussion. But I wasn’t accepting that.

“No mom. If I, me, personally, want to shave my armpits, I will. And mom what even is the definition of ladylike? That seriously comes from a time where society told women how to dress. So you’re doing that. Congratulations,” I said, clearly embarrassing her with my tone and frustration.

I could see her eyes become irritated, like this was not the argument she wanted to be having, because she didn't think it needed to happen. But I wasn’t giving up on what she thought, so I pressed her, just not at that moment. She let it go, rolling her eyes at me in the process.

We finished the manicure, and left to go home. Neither of us continued the argument, so it was dropped.

This conversation is always in the back of my mind when talking about my body hair with her. Since then we have had the same dispute over and over, both of us always saying the same thing as before. I don’t see her side, and she doesn’t see mine.

I remember the first time I had ever shaved my underarms. I wasn’t even the one to do it. My mom said I had to start, and that it was something I had to learn to begin to do as a growing young lady. I was terrified she would take the razor and cut me by accident, which would lead to me excessively bleeding. (As you can see I was a very overdramatic scared 12 year old.) We were in our bathroom, and she had me raise my arm, put some water on it, and stay still. To this day I still hate shaving my armpits. No matter how much shaving cream, soap, or water, it always makes me feel like I am going to accidentally hurt myself. And I can describe it as nails on a chalk board. However, I still do it to this day for one of two reasons. One being I like raising my arms when wearing a sleeveless top and being a smooth goddess. But the more serious reason is that I still have a problem with what other people think of me. I do it so people don’t look at me and say, “Ew what is she doing.” This is what society has said and done to women. Young adults, even in this evolving generation and society. I am shamed more than I want to admit, and it pisses me off that this is the society I live in. That I am judged for what hair is on my body.

I don’t only feel judged by my own mother on this issue, but most of society. So many people say women can dress however they wanted that they’ll support them. But that is only half true. When it comes to body hair, there is still some double standard to that. How society doesn’t question why men don’t save their legs, arms, or facial hair, but women are called gross or unappealing if we don’t shave everything. Lastly, the fact that I am even uncomfortable typing the word ‘armpit’ over and over truly shows how much society has put women into this box of feeling ashamed of our bodies.