On the cold night of  November 8, 2016, Donald J. Trump was elected President of the United States. I stayed up late so I could see the results trickle in, or at least I tried to. As the polls closed across the country, the look on my mother’s face became more and more tense. This was supposed to be a historic night for women everywhere, but things clearly weren’t going as expected. Eventually, I fell asleep because the next thing I knew my mom was shaking me awake, a decidedly grim look in her eyes. I knew what had happened. In my eyes, Trump was the most racist, sexist and dishonest slug known to mankind. THAT had become president. I knew my life would NEVER be the same. 

Not even a month after the elections, I started to notice a change in how people acted. To be honest, it had been ramping up for months, but I tried so hard to ignore the increasing hostility from strangers, usually white men. It struck me on one day in particular, the day I became BLACK, as if that was the only characteristic that defined me. While riding the train with my mom, I was confronted by a woman who had the audacity to call me, a then-12-year-old boy who was quietly reading a book, the n-word. After that day I thought of myself as a different person. I thought of myself as a BLACK boy and not just a boy, which was new to me. I had never thought myself to be black. My mom is white, and my dad is black, but I had always seen myself more white than black. That interaction changed my view of who I am and it continues to evolve today. 

I would like my contributions to this newspaper to be used as tools of education. There are so many people out there that would scoff at a 13-year-old journalist, but if you are reading this that means you took time out of your life to hear the story of a young man trying to end racism. I can only do so much, but I know that I can share how racism, and all the “isms”  are hurting not only me, but everyone around me. Racism is often ignored and dismissed. There are so many misunderstood people out there—Muslims, Jews, refugees, homeless, and even teenagers—just to name a few. All of these groups have to endure pain and hate just because they aren’t exactly like us. People shouldn’t be discriminated against due to their skin color, religion, sex, or race. 

About a month ago I came across a movie called “Loving,” which tells the story of the Loving v. Virginia court case of 1967, in which Richard and Mildred Loving fought for the right to have an interracial marriage. I was inspired to try and write about what we, the people of America, can do to end racism. I know I can’t do it alone, and that’s why I’m trying to help educate those around me who can’t see how bad things are because they have never really had to open their eyes to that reality.  

Hopefully, my articles detailing my experiences interviewing, interacting and volunteering with these marginalized communities can help open people's eyes and encourage them to join our war on racism. This is the mark I want to leave, the mark of an activist. I’m trying to bring the world together one 500-word article at a time.  

 

                                                    

Why is love so painful? Some people say that love is the most beautiful feeling ever. You forget every single thing that is surrounding you. But in my case, love has been the most painful thing. 

This beautiful and emotional moment happened in 2014 when I lived in Bangladesh. A boy was welcomed into my life by my cousin´s suggestion. One afternoon, I was coming home from shopping by his house. I was stunned when I saw him. He was so handsome, looked so caring, like you can blindly trust him. I walked fast so he wouldn't recognize me. When I got home, I ran to my cousin and asked her all about him.  Then, a surprising thing happened when I went to Facebook: I saw a friend request from him. I started to blush so hard, and I quickly accepted the friend request.  

I started to look at all his pictures. He looked so adorable. I waited one full week just for him to text me first. On a Friday night, he texted me and the first hello was my first step toward him, but I didn't know what he thought of me. We talked as good friends. In the end of 2014, I only had one week left before I was coming back to the U.S., and I wanted to tell him my feelings. 

One day when we were texting, he asked me if I had a boyfriend. I said no. He asked if I had a crush. I said, “Yes. I love someone, but it's just from one side.” He asked me who he was. I didn't want to tell him that way. I wanted to tell him face-to-face. I didn’t have any chance to do it. I took some time to think and decided to say everything that was in my heart. I was in shock when he said, “I just treat you as a friend.” I asked him so many times why was it like that, but his answer was always the same. 

 I came back to the U.S. and decided to block him on FB so I can forget about him. I cried every single night and my pillow always got wet. That's not the worst part.  I had to pretend that I was happy when I was fully broken inside. 

I started school; it helped me focus on something else. I added him on Facebook again. I texted him so many times, but he never replied. He was always online but avoided me. He never wanted to talk to me even after I shared everything I had in my heart. He never wanted to understand me. My first love hasn’t given me anything except a big lesson. Keep your family  first, keep yourself second, keep your dreams third. I have been losing everything since I lost my first love. I know for sure that I will never forget him, no matter how old I am. 

The following is an excerpt from Seana’s developing novel about African-American women attending school throughout history. 

[Margaret Wright, age 12, 1919] 

I go to school on my daddy’s wagon with my 7 other siblings. The wagon smells like old rat. One of the wheels comes off the wagon, so it makes a squeaking noise. OWW!! That darn ole’ wood bench hurt through my flour sack dress! I got out the wagon walkin’ like a snail. I be scratchin’ as I walk through that dirty dirty ground to the school house. The classroom’s burning like my mama’s roasting pan. The books are ripped, walls are dirty, lunch looks like regurgitated dog food. Thinking about these disadvantages makes me feel depressed. I can’t walk out of a building or on a street without being stopped by a Ku Klux Klan member. I feel frozen inside, with a hole-riddled heart. 

 

[Angela McDonald, age 16 , 1975] 

I don’t like the feeling of waking up at four in the morning to go to a school where I don’t fit in! I am a METCO student, which means I live in Boston but attend high school in Marblehead for a better education. Every morning, I get on the school bus that smells like rotten compost. As I rest my head on the shiny hard window, I look outside. The bus pulls out of Roxbury. I see run-down apartments with faded bricks and cracked windows. Stores that are going out of business. People saying profanities and children throwing snowballs against the bus windows. Then the bus gets to the freeway, which is quieter. All I see are trees. A hour later, I start to see neutral-colored houses that look like  Barbie homes. I see yachts that are like the ones I see in the movies. The flowers seem tropical. My anxiety is in my head. Thinking about the racist knuckleheads that always throw rocks at me and say “Get out of my neighborhood darky!” That made me cringe. The bullying and discrimination makes me believe this is just the way life is. 

 

[Seana Fuller, age 18, 2017] 

I wake up with a smile on my face as I scroll through my Instagram feed and see my friends’ pictures. When I get to school, I open the blue double library doors and hear the chatter of students and teachers. I walk up the stairs with my head up high, smile on, and glistening on the inside like a diamond ring. I wear a strappy white blouse and tight skinny jeans. I stroll to my favorite table. The librarian greets me when I sit down. Her fair skin does not matter, her character does. A school environment means acceptance, no matter the gender, race, sexuality, religion, or culture background. Going to class is easy. When the bell rings, I make my way through the hallways with clusters of students.  

 

Author’s Statement 

Each generation is different, from socioeconomics to technology, culture, politics and social  justice. Every generation has pros and cons. It’s important to analyze the history of African-American women, including their strengths, battles, resilience, inner beauty and most importantly, perception about blackness.