I was destined for failure.
I woke up and started my usual routine for school. Brush, wash, floss, and fix my edges. I head to the train station and watch my Greenbelt train finally arrive. I get off at Anacostia station, which is only a 5-minute walk from my school. As I walk towards my school, my eyes widen at the sight of that familiar yellow police duct tape with a dozen police cars and ambulances nearby.
Someone had been shot right next to my school.
I passed a few police cars, walked into my school building, and began class as normal.
Most students haven’t become desensitized to the disappearance of classmates because they have died or been sent to prison. Most students don’t fear for their safety when walking to school, and most students aren’t entrenched with the smell of marijuana in school hallways and classrooms.
Unfortunately, I am not most students.
I see and experience these occurrences nearly every day, so much so that I have become numb to them. But what I didn’t recognize was that this numbness was poor mental health. The emotional walls I built to survive my environment slowly disconnected me from my feelings, my hope, and even my belief in my own potential. The numbness I needed in order to keep moving forward was really the mental exhaustion of a student who needed their community to be changed and uplifted.
Indeed, these factors are symptoms of a larger systemic problem, one that also influences my entire school’s academic experience. The average SAT score in my entire school is 580–950. When students such as myself are constantly exposed to violence, instability, and low expectations, it becomes difficult to prioritize mental wellness or academic success.
I was destined for failure.
And I believed it.
It was not until tenth grade that I discovered a superpower within myself: my voice.
I joined the debate club at my school, and after winning my first tournament round, something shifted in me. Standing in front of a room full of strangers and defending my argument gave me confidence I had never felt before. For the first time, I realized my voice carried power, and that meant I had power too. Power to advocate for my community. Power to change my future. Power to guide future generations of students in the right direction.
I began using that power outside of debate through my school’s voter registration club and Pathways 2 Power (P2P), a student-led gun violence intervention group. In communities like mine, many people feel ignored by the political system because they believe they don't have power, that their voice doesn't matter. I wanted to help change that mindset by encouraging students and community members to register to vote and engage civically. Through the voter registration club, I hosted candidate forums to educate young voters on ranked-choice voting and connect them directly with local candidates. Through P2P, I also worked to prioritize mental wellness in my community by leading roundtable discussions that encouraged students and teachers to openly express their emotions through questions like, “How are you feeling today?” or “What color best represents your mood right now?”
My lived experience taught me that oppression is not always one singular moment. Sometimes it is the accumulation of low expectations, unsafe environments, and systems designed to keep communities trapped in cycles of inequity. But I also learned that it only takes one voice, one question, one idea to eradicate all injustices.
I was destined for failure, but I chose to become destined for impact instead.
“What do you know, you freaking monkey?!” The statement pierced deeper than any knife. What deepened the wound was that it came from my closest friend. Tears immediately welled up in my eyes, and it took all the energy I could muster to choke out, “What is wrong with you?” without bursting into tears. The person who had stood beside me since kindergarten now regarded me as some animal, all over a game of basketball. His cruel words echoed through my mind. Attending a Catholic, predominantly white institution as the only Black student in my grade, I heard countless remarks like this. As a child, I took pride in my Ethiopian heritage. Race was never an issue. But as I matured, my race became the basis for my degradation. Eventually, I lost my sense of self.
The end of elementary school marked a crossroads for my peers and me. The colorblind lenses of my childhood friends shattered and the difference in our skin color became clear as day. Racial targeting began as middle school progressed. Initially, I brushed off the racist mistreatment as nothing more than a running joke, but it began to seep into my mind. My inability to accept myself began in small ways, like wanting to spike my curly hair to match my classmates. It intensified into nights of endless crying because my skin made me feel so alienated from my peers. The pride I’d once felt in my heritage was engulfed in the shadow of conformism. The others became only more vile, with venomous slurs rolling off their tongue like acid searing my skin. Their hatred slowly infiltrated my psyche. When my self-image was at its lowest, a single visit to my high school’s club fair changed everything. There, I found the club that would help me reinvent myself.
Upon reading the poster for the Black Student Union, I realized the club was a community of students with similar backgrounds, and the thought of meeting people who could understand the struggles I faced electrified me. Discovering a club dedicated to Black empowerment was a shock, given my past experiences. But at the first meeting, I was welcomed with open arms. For the first time in years, I felt comfortable in my own skin. Sticking with the club was a no-brainer, and as time advanced, I yearned to discover more of my ancestors and the rich culture they passed down. As I learned more about the resilience of my forefathers, I began to feel pride where I had once felt shame. The Black Student Union instilled in me a level of racial identity that my younger self never could have fathomed.
Without struggle, there is no success. If I had never faced these hardships, I would still be indifferent about my heritage. These experiences have motivated me to pursue a legal career, intent on aiding minorities facing racial injustice. I plan to use the university’s resources to gain a foundational understanding of how politics and socioeconomics enable racial discrimination. I have always been interested in the law, and incorporating my loathing for racial injustice into my legal career would allow me to meaningfully combat it by representing indigent defendants pro bono, many of whom are Black.
My experiences with racism destroyed my self image. By finding a community of people like me, I regained the sense of cultural pride I once lost. Now, I am determined to utilize my passion for the law and my hatred of bigotry to put an end to racial inequity in the criminal justice system.
