From the young age of seven, my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. My sister was only five and my brother had just graduated from high school. I never knew how much I really depended on mommy and how that would have to change. She needed more rest, more help, assistance with things that you shouldn’t typically need a second hand for, more medicine, my mom was fading. When it all really hit me, it was when she lost her hair. Her pride and joy that she carried over to us. It was all gone. It broke her and seeing her feel as though she’d lost all her beauty broke me. Radiation wasn’t kind to her, I watched her lose a lot of weight. Most days she’d cry alone and I know she just missed being a mother to us. Then it started. My little sister started to fall behind in her development academically. The first parent meeting, then two, three, the big conference involving the principal. No one knew and I felt as though no one cared to know. Then came me, I never knew a child could be depressed. I isolated myself entirely. I hated being in the same room as my mom and not because I didn’t care but because I couldn’t bear to see her in so much pain, every movement. My mom was my strength and her just not being able to be mommy to her fullest extent made me weak. I never blamed her for it but I became angry with my faith. The first and only person to ever see me instead of yelling at me to be more loud when talking or force me to go to recess was my third grade teacher, Ms. Odums. She had no idea and I can vividly remember she immediately took me to the chapel and we cried together. No one had ever held me like that other than my mom. For the first time ever, I felt like a stranger felt me. She got me, my pain was hers, those tears were real. After we had a moment, she talked to me for the whole of class time. We prayed, even when I felt like I would never be heard. Over time, Ms. Odums and I became close and her children started to call me and my sister their little siblings. I started to talk like before, done my spark again. She could never replace my mom and she never tried to, but she worked with me and even took us home some days just to stay behind a little overtime to get caught up on what I lacked. Words can’t express ways this woman saved me. Here I am, eighteen years old and confirmed to graduate in less than two months. As I reflect and think about those who invested in me and helped me get to the point when I never saw myself graduating as far as middle school, I am so grateful. My sister and I are both academically proficient now and she always tells me that she’s surprised we’ve come this far considering how much we’ve been through together. As an upcoming graduate, as a future doctor, as a committed volunteer, a daughter, an older sister, as Chessma I see everything so much more differently, especially life. Cherish those you have, reach out for help, take advantage of those who are willing to help. Six hundred words and yet I feel like I have so much more to say. But the glory belongs to him, I did it.

My parents met in the Liberian war, scared and young and still very confused as teens. Growing up as a black girl is hard, especially a foreign one. A Liberian one to be exact. I never hear the end of their story. How at so young they were forced to either die, be left behind, or flee. My country has been through so much, with poverty and corruption taking the lead in it's hardship. Mom and Dad had to sacrifice so much and even to this day, I see how it hurts them to get into the memories of how good Liberia used to be. As a child, I was always so exceptional in school, my head was always in books and I knew I wanted to be a doctor by the age of 3. It interested me so much and I vividly remember my dad being so happy to hear that I had such a big dream. I was so tiny and he picked me up and wrote it down on a sticky note, pasted it on my mirror, and told me to never lose sight of wanting to help people. I've never forgotten it and I can't believe up to this point, I've never wanted to stop being a doctor. Saving lives and even daydreaming of going back to my home in Liberia and spreading more of my medical influence. My parents have never been uneducated, my mom and dad fought to go back to school in America and did well. Both graduated from highschool in Liberia though, which left me to be the first gen over in the US. For as long as I can remember, my dad has always preached about how important education is and how far it gets you in life. Even though it has gotten annoying to hear across 18 years of living, I never doubted him. It is the way, it's the key to taking and owning your own life because you only have one. Most kids who come from my country have gotten too excited because they think America is this miracle land but we too have issues. They come with an expectation and get lost in the unlimited possibility they think is available. They lose sight of what their parents sent them here for. I've seen it one too many times from cousins, friends, strangers and so on. My ultimate goal is to make my parents beyond proud, they suffered for me and my siblings like no other. I was given the privilege of attending student-focused private learning and I won't take my blessings for granted because many do not have. Foreign parents and even parents who are not foreign deserve the ends of the earth. I will always give my parents their flowers for setting me up to succeed, to make them proud, to provide for my family, to show the people that something great can come out of a country as poor as ours. My family means everything to me and I would never jeopardize their hard work to lack what I know I'm capable of.

"You'll never amount to anything and you'll always leech because you're a worthless human being." the words still sting me to this day because they were said to me by my favorite person, my older brother. From the time I can remember, my brother has always been who I look up to. He was so smart, he had the confidence, girl magnet, a man of faith, athletic, top of his class at every school he attended, and even the president for a young gentleman program in college. Most importantly, he was a great brother. Being nine years older than me, I had no older sister so he was my rock. We were the closest and I loved being around him. I don't know where it all went wrong but I lost him. No one understands how big influence is, especially on young men and I had to watch my brother get dragged under the deadly waters of substance abuse. He became quieter, stopped doing the things he used to do, and started to hang around people I'd never seen before. I never knew he did any of that, I was just a kid, and I didn't know what any of it was. But then it started. The erratic behavior, the sudden calmness the next day like he wasn't trying to kill all of us the night before. The accusing any and every one of plotting against him, the verbal abuse, the pulling weapons out on the rest of our family and me, the disregard for those around him, and most of all.. the physical abuse. It broke me into a million pieces. Your older sibling, your brother.. putting their hands on you. I had a broken jaw and bruises. It hit me then that he was never coming back. The holes in the wall, the hammered door handle, the scratches and bruises that I still have, speak volumes. The even harder lesson was that if another man in the streets were to hit me, my blood would never do anything about it. Being told you're going to be killed, it's an unmatched feeling. He's damaged me a lot mentally and I try not to blame him because it must be hard but even therapy isn't getting me to the healing I need yet. I tell this story because drugs took my brother away from me. My best friend. He's not dead but I don't know him anymore. I try not to fear him but now that I know what he's capable of, I stay out his way. I've seen my brother close to death, he almost seized after hitting me once because of the pills he took and his heart rate almost shooting out his chest from the adrenaline. This story just has rainbows painted over it but I'm sure people know the seriousness of drug abuse and what it does to someone. I have tried to mend our relationship but I have to heal first. I forgive him because I pity him. This was to say to please keep your loved ones close and don't give up on them. We're still trying to get my brother help but we still walk on eggshells as a family. It's hard and even though I'm hurting, I don't want to lose my brother entirely to drugs. I write this from the heart even though I am not victim to substance abuse directly, I endured the backhand and effect. Rest in peace Alexander Hipple and I am so grateful to be able to tell my story and spread awareness.