I never imagined my precalculus class would teach me a political topic until we learned about gerrymandering and the mathematics behind it. Gerrymandering is the act of drawing boundaries of voting districts in a way that benefits politicians. It is described as “packing” - putting more opposition voters into fewer districts or “cracking” - spreading opposition voters over many districts to avoid gaining a majority vote in any one district. The problem is voting districts are drawn by political representatives who choose their voters, instead of voters choosing their representatives. In precalculus, I learned not only how the Polsby Popper index is used to calculate how gerrymandered a district is, but also how mathematical processes are used to carry out gerrymandering itself. In fact, recent years have shown an explosion in gerrymandering software using GPS and personal data. During my own research, I learned African American communities are often “packed and cracked” to minimize their votes. I needed to know whether the voices of African Americans in my community were also being silenced. This curiosity inspired me to join forces with the Ithaca Youth Bureau, other students, staff, and community leaders to form an anti-racism group, I-RISE, elevating the voices of under-represented individuals. Several members of I-RISE, including myself, shared our experiences as black students in Ithaca City School District and our hopes for the future through the form of video testimonials. One thing I discussed was how After being given access to the English book list at my school, I discovered only 7% of all the books in the curriculum were written by people of color, and even less specifically by black authors. What little black history we did learn was of slavery and oppression. These topics are important to learn, but not all black history is. We are more than the atrocities committed against our ancestors. I mentioned how I wanted to see us celebrate the many things African Americans contributed to the USA as well. After I brought up this issue, several English teachers expressed their support to me, and how they had started to work towards diversifying the English curriculum after watching my video testimonial. Furthermore, as part of “Black Lives Matter in our Schools Week,” the video testimonials were shown and analyzed in every English class at Ithaca High School to spark discussion and push for anti-racist change to the curriculum. Additionally, myself and other members of I-RISE were asked to give our input on an “African American Studies” class that is currently being developed and offered for the following year. With one other member of I-RISE, I was also a panelist at the New York State School Boards Association Convention, sharing my experiences as a Black student with superintendents across the state in an effort to make school districts more inclusive. Though my local community is close to my heart, I did not want to stop there. Marginalized voices are silenced nationwide. To combat this, I launched a group with my friends called “Students for Solutions.” Together, we registered student voters (including many first-time voters), wrote to senators urging them to pass the John Lewis Voting Rights Advancement Act, and texted voters in swing states leading up to the 2020 presidential election. My passion to elevate the voices of others will remain at the forefront of my focus, whether it is serving as Senior Class Vice President, working with student organizations, preparing for a career involving political and computer science, or wherever else the future may take me.

“Tu as l’air mon pudding au chocolat,” said my host mother’s little grandson with a grin. “You look like my chocolate pudding.” I laughed. When the rest of the host family heard him, they shushed him, as if mentioning skin color were taboo. I assured them it was okay. He was curious. I agreed that yes, I was the color of his chocolate pudding and that made me “super cool”. ... The immersion trip I had done in France, including the story about chocolate pudding, was something I considered writing about for my college essay. I discussed it with my English teacher, who had agreed to help me brainstorm ideas. In Montpellier, France, I stayed with a host family. One’s background was something of great importance to them, so I showed them pictures of my parents. My mother, I explained, is Ethiopian and my father is American. Perhaps, when I say “American” a white person comes to mind. For my host family, the combination of my father’s nationality and ethnicity (black) did not add up. In Montpellier, there is a significant population of black residents, but most of them are either immigrants or children of immigrants. Perhaps this was the reason my host family asked where my father’s parents were from. I said America. They asked about his grandparents. I said they were American. I had to explain that I did not know exactly where my paternal side of the family came from before living in America. I did know, however, that they had been here for over three hundred years. But that was not the whole story. I struggled to describe how the names of slaves, my ancestors, had been stripped away and replaced with those of their slave masters, hence my last name, Weatherspoon, which is of British and Scottish origin. I weaved in and out of English and French (which was not great at the time) to search for the words to describe how my ancestors were systematically raped by their masters and birthed more children who were forced to know even less of their origins. It was only after that explanation that my host family understood that I am, indeed, American. Similar conversations would come up with people I met. I would continuously have to justify my nationality because of the chocolate color of my skin. People would even ask why the backsides of my hands are dark, whereas my palms are lighter in color. I shrugged. How does one explain their existence and justify the way they are? It got to the point where I would just say that I am Ethiopian-American, which is partially true, but completely neglects the other part of my identity in which I have immense pride. ... My English teacher said that my experience in France would be interesting to write about. I agreed, but in the back of my mind, I was conflicted. Did the color of my skin restrict me to writing about the color of my skin? Did my identity as African-American force me to write about slavery? Was that the default for all African-American students? I, for one, did not want to be limited to writing solely about slavery. I am more than the atrocities committed against my ancestors. There is so much more to me - and to all other African-Americans. In the end, in my dilemma of choosing to write about slavery, I did. It was necessary. I am not confined to writing about such, but I choose to use this platform of college essay to create a space where these questions are raised. I have decided that talking openly about “chocolate pudding” is better than pretending it’s not there at all. As for everyone in the world, regardless of identity, in deciding whether to use our platforms to spark dialogue about our various backgrounds, the choice is ultimately up to each of us.

“Tu as l’air mon pudding au chocolat,” said my host mother’s little grandson with a grin. “You look like my chocolate pudding.” I laughed. When the rest of the host family heard him, they shushed him, as if mentioning skin color were taboo. I assured them it was okay. He was curious. I agreed that yes, I was the color of his chocolate pudding and that made me “super cool”. ... The immersion trip I had done in France, including the story about chocolate pudding, was something I considered writing about for my college essay. I discussed it with my English teacher, who had agreed to help me brainstorm ideas. In Montpellier, France, I stayed with a host family. One’s background was something of great importance to them, so I showed them pictures of my parents. My mother, I explained, is Ethiopian and my father is American. Perhaps, when I say “American” a white person comes to mind. For my host family, the combination of my father’s nationality and ethnicity (black) did not add up. In Montpellier, there is a significant population of black residents, but most of them are either immigrants or children of immigrants. Perhaps this was the reason my host family asked where my father’s parents were from. I said America. They asked about his grandparents. I said they were American. I had to explain that I did not know exactly where my paternal side of the family came from before living in America. I did know, however, that they had been here for over three hundred years. But that was not the whole story. I struggled to describe how the names of slaves, my ancestors, had been stripped away and replaced with those of their slave masters, hence my last name, Weatherspoon, which is of British and Scottish origin. I weaved in and out of English and French (which was not great at the time) to search for the words to describe how my ancestors were systematically raped by their masters and birthed more children who were forced to know even less of their origins. It was only after that explanation that my host family understood that I am, indeed, American. Similar conversations would come up with people I met. I would continuously have to justify my nationality because of the chocolate color of my skin. People would even ask why the backsides of my hands are dark, whereas my palms are lighter in color. I shrugged. How does one explain their existence and justify the way they are? It got to the point where I would just say that I am Ethiopian-American, which is partially true, but completely neglects the other part of my identity in which I have immense pride. ... My English teacher said that my experience in France would be interesting to write about. I agreed, but in the back of my mind, I was conflicted. Did the color of my skin restrict me to writing about the color of my skin? Did my identity as African-American force me to write about slavery? Was that the default for all African-American students? I, for one, did not want to be limited to writing solely about slavery. I am more than the atrocities committed against my ancestors. There is so much more to me - and to all other African-Americans. In the end, in my dilemma of choosing to write about slavery, I did. It was necessary. I am not confined to writing about such, but I choose to use this platform of college essay to create a space where these questions are raised. I have decided that talking openly about “chocolate pudding” is better than pretending it’s not there at all. As for everyone in the world, regardless of identity, in deciding whether to use our platforms to spark dialogue about our various backgrounds, the choice is ultimately up to each of us.