I’ve never been a social butterfly, but when I received an email from one of my teachers at SEO, a rigorous academic program, asking if I was interested in giving a speech, I did something I never thought I would do: I accepted. Instantly, my mind panicked. I had been a person who would get nervous speaking in front of anyone, yet I had decided to speak in front of 200! 

At the time, I couldn’t understand why I did something so impulsive; however, in retrospect, I believe that somewhere in the periphery of my mind, there sat a girl shaking when her teacher told her to read a page of  “The Three Little Pigs.” She watched as the letters on the page faded. “He h...u...f...f..e...d,” she read as her peers' laughter pierced into her ears. There sat a girl who watched the rain pour onto the house of straws as her vision became blurry. There she sat with a room full of students feeling alone. 

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” I heard that same question ever since I got into school. My parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents. Even my cousins and my friends asked what I wanted to be. But answering that question was harder than it seemed.

“I want to be a doctor.” Tora, one of my best friends answered.

“I’m going to be a lawyer,” Annika replied.

“I don’t know what I want to be,” I muttered.

I could never answer that question. If I didn't know what I wanted to be, would I be a nobody? A person with nothing different about them. It was harder to even explore the options because of the constant pressure from others. My aunt on my mother’s side of the family was studying to become a nurse. My oldest uncle had become a computer programmer. I was shown jobs that were from academic stances and I quickly wanted to get away from academics. 

Until I turned eight, my grandfather had gifted me with a keyboard for my birthday. He smiled brightly at me. 

“You need to make your future, Bre,” He beamed brightly.

 I didn’t know what to do with it. But I learned on my own. I played chords and played random notes that I thought were amazing (even when they were not).

     Elementary School to Middle school was one of the challenging parts of my Sixteen years living So far. Growing up I didn't look like every other kid in school I was different. I was the “Black kid”   Everybody's skin were lighter than mine And I was the only dark skin one . I could never accept myself because of my complexion because of the distressing jokes being made about the way I look.  Constantly hearing “your too black” “African booty scratcher” “Why are you so ugly” Was taking a toll on me, leaving me with a sense of thoughts on … why me? Why couldn't my parents make me look like everybody else?  That’s when I came onto instagram, it was full with lots of new videos, new people and more. As I discovered those people I saw that they were unique in their own way and they knew how to accept them self for how their natural look.

As a storm brewed outside and turned the winds into a howl, I rocked in a rotting wooden chair that creaked with every backward tip. The whir of the fan and hum of the refrigerator evaporated and veered my attention onto the white noise ensemble of distant moos and rumbles. My grandmother tangentially hollered, “Se fue la luz,” until breaking into a raspy laugh when I slopped over the chair’s arm in whines. Because the department hadn’t cut off the water for the past two storms, it would now: faucets from the kitchen and bathroom simultaneously whistled as the water reduced to a trickle. While the stickiness of the air worsened, despair carried me into a frenzy of anxiety and rage, for I had been robbed of my summer. 

I vividly remember the process that went into the first meal I ever made  by myself. I finished an episode of Ina Garten’s Barefoot Contessa, and for some reason, inspiration coursed through my veins. I sprinted to my kitchen, grabbed an unopened chicken breast, reached to my very empty spice cabinet at the time, and reached for the iodine salt, ground black pepper, and industrial grade paprika. I made a faux stir fry, and for my first ever recipe, I did not think it was bad. However the yearn to improve upon the kinks of my recipe, I believe is what inspired my drive.

It pains me not, that I couldn’t bring her uncle, or aunt, or grandfather back. Nor did my limit to directly help her during this time primarily impact me. The most wrenching facet of all, was her inability to help. What is a child expected to do but mourn, and hope for nothing worse: this child wanted better. She yearned to be there for her family in any way she could, regardless of limitation. She missed class the next day, and the day after that. 

Hearing this tragedy, at my core, I trembled—ever softly—for her; for the student learning so that they could, one day, teach; the individual that leads by their own experiences, however wrought in anguish they are; the person that inspires people like me, through such pain, to continue learning, teaching, leading, and, above all else: caring.

Space and abyss

But what is true

Our endless imagination

Created from within

We live so we can lie

And tell ourselves life never ends

In the moment we run

Through these shallow barriers

Nothing stops us

We defeated the non endless eternity

Oh how we grow old

Not being aware of such constraint

Our happiness is free

Time is of no essence

Once ascended in glee

Oh how we deceit 

While we live nonchalantly 

Although my sister slept right above me in the top bunk, and my mom was in the room next door, I felt the most alone I had in awhile; I’m sure we all did. I never thought I would miss the normal world so much. The only thing I looked forward to every week were the Friday seminars with my classmates. We would play kahoot together on google meet, and write jokes in the chat box. 2:30 PM on Fridays were the only times I felt normal that April.