The Junk— a type of Chinese sailing ship used by both merchants and pirates in Ancient China— is my favorite ship. As we studied China in AP World History my sophomore year, I was captivated by the artistry of the sails and their striking red. I rushed to fourth period everyday, eager to explore the economic and cultural effects of the Silk Road or examine the societal structure of the Incan empire. My teacher engaged us with Socratic discussion— where I got to act as Ghana during the Cold War and negotiate terms post-independence— and group projects. Best of all, we explored art alongside history. She presented us with the architectural design that created Machu Picchu and dazzled me with the artistic conflict that accompanied the Protestant Reformation. By the end of first semester, I determined that my dream was to work in a museum and surround myself with ancient art. One of the largest projects we completed was re-designing the Royal Museum of Central Africa in Belgium, after learning about the horrors of colonization in the Belgian Congo, which resulted in the deaths of over ten million people. Although the project was a competition for the best re-design, that assignment was close to my heart as an African. I presented my group with the idea of a museum within a museum—- Central Africa through the colonizer’s perspective, but within the heart of the museum lay the real one, which exhibited Belgian atrocities and life in Central Africa prior to colonization. Photography, at the time, was revolutionary because it allowed the world to see what colonization truly was— from scarred Congolese people slaving away harvesting rubber, to a father sitting next to the amputated limbs of his children. Together, my friends and I workshopped a sketch of the map until it reflected our vision. Although it wasn’t our goal, we won the competition with a perfect score. Our finished project reflected the hard work and thought that had nurtured it. While I am incredibly proud of it, that project did much more than give me a nice grade— it opened my eyes to my true dream. I brought my love of art history to the newspaper as I researched for an article on Black art history, which only introduced me to more artforms I love. Simultaneously, as I improved journalistically, my dream transformed from art history to activism; my articles became less about art and literature, and more about racial conflict and international politics. Once the newspaper dissolved, I created a blog where I could write articles, uninhibited, on topics such as the modern revolution in Iran and the conflict behind Atlanta’s “Cop City” facility. Art history is my first love, but journalism is my life. That World History project was my first step into amplifying the unheard side of the story. I want to use my journalism like reporters of the past used photography— to give a voice to the voiceless.

In the back of the church, the other kids and I shake the gourds off-beat to the music and giggle amongst ourselves. My toddler cousin sits in my lap, clapping enthusiastically and failing to grab the calabash from my hands. Even though no one here is blood related to me except for my sister, mother, and grandmother, these kids are my “cousins” and their parents are all my aunts and uncles. At the front of the church, before the stage, the pastor prays over my aunt as she is overcome with the spirit of the Holy Ghost. In between sermons, I slip to the front pew to sit with my grandma and eat Mentos from her purse. Once church ends, one of the women of the church sets up a stall outside where she sells meat pie and rice pudding for a dollar. My sister and I ask our mother and grandma independently, so we have two dollars to share two snacks. Every Sunday will continue like this, for years. My family is Christian, and that is all. My mother cannot specify a denomination. My grandpa was raised Catholic, but that has had no effect on my own religious upbringing. Every night before we sleep, my mom, sister, and I meet in her room to pray. My grandma smears oil over my brow in a cross whenever I share a grievance, and we pray over illnesses. Despite it, however, I have never felt God as strongly as my family does. In Sunday school, when my mother told us how the Devil will attempt to whisper temptation into our ears, I closed my eyes and listened. When no whispers came, a deep pit of confusion yawned in me. When I was told God watches over all of us and listens, I tried offering him a peanut. When it didn’t immediately disappear from my hand, I grew suspicious. School only deepened my confusion. If the world was created in seven days and God was the only truth, why did my classmates believe other things? Why did some of them wear head scarfs or stars or red dots on their foreheads? Why were we different? Learning religion in social studies did little to sate my curiosity. Christianity was just one of several Abrahamic religions, but that idea still unsettled me. Both Islam and Judaism seemed older, more right. Even Catholicism, with their rosaries and votives, felt more religious than my new church— where we danced nonstop to Protestant Rock and watched a man in flannel teach of Bible stories on a white board. I hated it. I realized that what my religious experience was missing was the feeling of routine. Muslims pray five times a day, Jews have specific histories and holidays they can trace back, Hindus build shrines. My spiritualuity was lacking a feeling of history. I missed sitting in the back of the church as my aunt shook on the floor, speaking in tongues, and my pastor prayed over her in Twi. I missed the culture. As we continued listening to Protestant Rock and dancing and listening to lectures, I dreaded the possibility of never finding the spark that others seemed to find within religion, so I searched desperately for it. I read a book on Jewish history, I acquired two Quarans, I read up on Sikhism, I became engrossed in certain Hindu gods and traditions. My religious friends found solace in their spirituality, something I desperately wished to find to. Wandering aimlessly, looking for a religion to latch onto so I could feel whole the way my grandma— listening to Bible stories in her sleep— or my mother— highlighting her Bible even as her glasses slipped down her nose— did. I admit, I haven’t found it. I doubt I ever will. I feared atheism like it was a plague, a eternal damnation to that emptiness. Although I have yet to find a connection with any religion, exploring them outside of my own sphere has given me an insight into the beauty of each one. I congratulate my friends on Eid-al-Fitr and celebrate the arrival of Yom Kippur. When the Hindu temple lights fireworks for Diwali, I send out texts to friends to videotape the lightshow for me. Even if I’m not able to find any sort of solace in religion, I love the way others engage and love themselves and their spirituality.