I was 11 years old when I found out I was black. Well, maybe I'm exaggerating a bit. As a child, my mother prided herself in putting me in schools that would grow my curious mind, and as a single mother, her aspirations shined through me to become the greatest form of “black excellence” I could be. As a result, when we moved from New York City to Georgia, she still made sure I would attend the best middle school possible. But, in the South, that meant it was very white. I didn’t factor that in as a child. Even in New York, the private elementary school I attended had a couple of white kids, but this was different. I could count how many black kids were in our school. I noticed that all the black kids I knew were also my friends, and it wasn’t by consequence. But this couldn't be racism, right? I had always been told I was bright, and I truly enjoyed education and being educated. I was pretty sociable at times, much like any other child, but I noticed the reaction teachers would give me was much harsher than my white counterparts. When I talked, I was labeled as ‘disruptive,’ ‘noisy,’ and ‘disrespectful,’ never ceasing to try to get my mother involved with my disciplinary actions. But, when my white friends talked, they were simply told to be quieter and listen. When I argued with one of my teachers that I was only talking as much as they were, she claimed I was “louder.” But this isn't racism, is it? I truly began to recognize my blackness when teachers didn’t believe in me. In literature class, we were tasked with writing an essay on a historical topic of our choice, so I wrote about the Black Panther Party, of which my family had even been a part. Right after submitting the paper, I was called to speak to my literature teacher. I thought it must be due to how well-written it was, but instead, she questioned if I honestly wrote it. She reasoned that it was “too academic.” But this couldn't be racism, right? Then COVID happens right before the end of my middle school career, and George Floyd is killed by police. Then, Breonna Taylor, Sandra Bland, Trayvon Martin, and so many more that the names fade into faces, and into gravestones. I look at people who look just like me, crying in the streets for justice. I look at people speaking on all of the ways black people are oppressed, overlooked, unappreciated, killed. I look at my own experience. All of the things I thought were simply unfair treatment, that I was too loud, rude, and incapable of academic success. And I became angry, I was black, and this was racism. I am black, and it comes with all of the hatred and lack of faith, but it also comes with resilience, community, and a history too rich to be erased. I know now not to let anyone tell me who I am and what I am capable of, and my success is not despite my blackness but due to it. If I had allowed those peoples preconceived notions about who i was dictate what i could achieve, i would have never strived for honor roll, or applied to the international baccalaureate program. And to all of the black children in white spaces, carve your own path, they cannot tell you what you cannot do, what type of person you are, and what dreams are too big.

I was 11 years old when I found out I was black. As a child, my mother prided herself in putting me in schools that would grow my curious mind, and as a single mother, her aspirations shined through me to become the greatest form of “black excellence” I could be. As a result, when we moved from the bustling melting-pot state of New York City to small-town Georgia, she still made sure I would attend the best middle school possible. But, in the South, that meant it was very white. I didn’t factor that in as a child. Even in New York, the private elementary school I attended had a couple of white kids, but this was different. I could count how many black kids were in our school. I noticed that all the black kids I knew were also my friends, and it wasn’t by consequence. But this couldn't be racism, right? I had always been told I was bright, and I truly enjoyed education and being educated. I was pretty sociable at times, much like any other child, but I noticed the reaction teachers would give me was much harsher than my white counterparts. When I talked, I was labeled as ‘disruptive,’ ‘noisy,’ and ‘disrespectful,’ never ceasing to try to get my mother involved with my disciplinary actions. But, when my white friends talked, they were simply told to be quieter and listen. When I argued with one of my teachers that I was only talking as much as they were, she claimed I was “louder.” But this isn't racism, is it? I truly began to recognize my blackness when teachers didn’t believe in me. In literature class, we were tasked with writing an essay on a historical topic of our choice, so I wrote about the Black Panther Party, of which my family had even been a part. Right after submitting the paper, I was called to speak to my literature teacher. I thought it must be due to how well-written it was, but instead, she questioned if I honestly wrote it. She reasoned that it was “too academic.” But this couldn't be racism, right? As the year ended, the staff had us come together and create a speech about what we want to be when we grow up. Then COVID happens right before the end of my middle school career, and George Floyd is killed by police. I look at it with my mother, his screams of fear, yelling for his mother. Then, Breonna Taylor, Sandra Bland, Trayvon Martin, and so many more that the names fade into faces, and into gravestones. I look at people who look just like me, crying in the streets for justice. I look at people speaking on all of the ways black people are oppressed, overlooked, unappreciated, killed. I look at all of the things I thought were simply unfair treatment: that I was too loud, rude, and incapable of academic success, and I became angry, I was black, and this was racism. I am black, and it comes with all of the hatred and lack of faith, but it also comes with resilience, community, and a history too rich to be erased. I know now not to let anyone tell me who I am and what I am capable of, and my success is not despite my blackness but due to it. And to all of the black children in white spaces, carve your own path, they cannot tell you what you cannot do, what type of person you are, and what dreams are too big.

I was 11 years old when I found out I was black. Well, maybe I’m exaggerating a bit. I knew I was black, but I didn’t realize being “black” meant different, and it certainly surprised me that it meant “worse.” As a child, my mother prided herself in putting me in schools that would grow my curious mind, and as a single mother, her aspirations shined through me to become the most excellent form of “black excellence” I could be. As a result, when we moved from New York City to Georgia, she still ensured I would attend the best middle school possible. But, in the South, that meant it was very white. I didn’t factor that in as a child. Even in New York, the private elementary school I attended had white kids, but this was different. I could count how many black kids were in our school. I noticed that all the black kids I knew were also my friends, and it wasn’t by consequence. I had always been told I was bright, and I truly enjoyed education and being educated. I was pretty sociable at times, much like any other child, but I noticed the reaction teachers would give me was much harsher than my white counterparts. When I talked, I was labeled as ‘disruptive,’ ‘noisy,’ and ‘disrespectful,’ never ceasing to try to get my mother involved with my disciplinary actions. But, when my white friends talked, they were told to be quieter and listen. When I argued with one of my teachers that I was only talking as much as they were, she claimed I was “louder.” But this isn’t racism. In literature class, we were tasked with writing an essay on a historical topic of our choice, so I wrote about the Black Panther Party. Right after submitting the paper, I was called to speak to my literature teacher. I thought it must be due to how well-written it was, but instead, she questioned if I honestly wrote it. She reasoned that it was “too academic.” But this couldn’t be racism, right? As the year ended, the staff had us come together and create a speech about what we want to be when we grow up. One of my friends, a young black boy, went first. He exclaimed proudly that he dreams of becoming a basketball player, and I heard the staff chuckle. “Haven’t they enough of those?” one of my teachers said to another. Then COVID, right before the end of my middle school career, and George Floyd is killed by police. Then, Breonna Taylor, Sandra Bland, Trayvon Martin, and so many more that the names fade into gravestones. I look at people who look just like me, crying in the streets for justice. I look at people speaking about the ways black people are oppressed, overlooked, unappreciated, and killed. I look at my own experience. I am black, and this was racism. All of the things I thought were unfair treatment, such as being too loud, rude, and incapable of academic success. I know now not to let anyone tell me who I am and what I am capable of, and my success is not despite my blackness but due to it. And to all black children in white spaces, carve your path; you will never find a better version if you limit yourself. I am black, and it comes with all of the hatred and lack of faith, but it also comes with resilience, community, and a history too rich to be erased.

A movie that changed my life for the better was "Joy Luck Club." In middle school, we were tasked with reading the original novel by Amy Tan. Although immaturely, I did not give the story the patience and attention it deserved. When the movie came across my social media one day, it jolted my memory of the book, and I decided to try it. The original novel follows the stories of 4 Chinese- American women and their mothers who have all grown up together. Unfortunately, at the start of the novel, one of the women, June, loses her mother to cancer. As June is trying to grapple with the grief, her mother's friends invite her to the Joy Luck Club, and through each other's story intertwined with their children's, we see the hardship, strength, and pain that mothers pass on to their daughters. The movie explores the complexities of cultural identity, particularly the tensions between the traditional Chinese values of the mothers and the American values embraced by their daughters. It examines the struggles of assimilation and the preservation of heritage. Amy Tan's portrayal of culture, loss, generational trauma, and healing brought tears to my eyes and sticks with me today. They were seeing each woman go through their inner struggles and try to understand their mother's culture while being forced to assimilate to their own hit home for me as a woman of color. The dilemma of embracing your culture and sometimes being embarrassed by it is a problem many films and novels don't often explore. This is also the perspective of these first-generation mothers, who still have vivid memories of their pasts that they buried to make their daughters more Westernized. It also explores how it feels to lack the connection to your culture, whether by choice or force when parents do not want to speak of their pasts. This all begins to come to light in June's life when she discovers that in China, her mother was forced to leave her two twin daughters, which she never told June. Now, she must go and tell them the news of their mother's passing. But June doesn't know what to say to them because she feels she never even knew her mother. As the movie begins to come to a close, it brings a heartwarming and bittersweet message of everything a mother sacrifices for their daughters, as each mother tells their story of escape from China and their traumas. But, it also shows the other side of this pain, which is the pain that they inflicted on their daughters as they forced them to be all of the things they couldn't. As the movie comes to a close, everything is not fixed between these mothers and daughters. Instead, a mutual understanding and recognition of each other's pain are found. Through her mother's close friends' stories and newfound information about her mother's life, she finally knows what to tell her twin sisters when she meets them in China.

I was in elementary when I first thought of ending my own life. It wasn't a thought that hit me like a brick or shocked me to my core. Instead, it washed over me like a wave, something I had always felt coming but never had the words to answer. My mother and I lived in New York alone in a little apartment, our lives were quaint but happy. I went to a private elementary school less than a walk away from my home, and everyone I knew loved me as much as I loved them. When I moved away to Georgia at nine, I felt a sadness overcome me as I thought of the friends I knew I’d never see again. I knew my life would change forever, but I never thought it would the way it did. It took less than a month at my new public school for me to become the victim of bullying; on the bus to school, in the classroom, the playground, nowhere was a haven for the abuse I went through. I was small and naive and a perfect target for teasing and prodding. I couldn't comprehend what I did wrong to those who hurt me. I tried to wrap my brain around it, maybe it was my looks, height, or intelligence. But, all I knew was I wanted it to end, being pushed, slapped in the face, thrown into mud, and laughed at in class. When I finally worked up the nerve to tell my teacher, who had witnessed the whole thing, I was ignored completely and said that it was simply children being a bit mean-spirited and I should ignore it. It felt like no one was on my side, as if I were utterly alone. When the thought popped into my mind, I didn't even question it; I accepted it as a truth I should have known the whole time. I found comfort in the fact that it would bring me silence, peace, and happiness, that it would end all the pain I was going through. It even felt like I would make others happy by doing it, as the world would grow from the end of my suffering. I even felt happiness in the revenge I would get by showing those girls the consequences of their actions, like my death would be a catalyst to push them to be better. But I woke up, and I saw the pain in my mother's eyes, her only daughter nearly died at 10 years old. Looking back now, I couldn't say that if I went back to that little girl's pain, I could suppress those thoughts. And I can't say that pain doesn't linger now. Things dont always get better, but they do get easier. I am worthy of love because I experience it every day, and even in our darkest moments if we allow pain to take over, we will never see the brighter day. That little girl who wished that her suicide had worked is the same one now who goes out with friends who love her, who does art, who is getting awards for academics, who laughs, who cries. I wish I could say to everyone who achieved that dark thought that they mattered and were worth so much more than their bad experience and to those who have these thoughts that if it feels like you are alone, you aren't. I wanted to die, but I learned to live, and every day gets a little easier; it will be for you, too, but you have to live it.

I've loved reading since I was a young girl, and finding a community through TikTok only furthered my journey of exploring new and engaging stories. If I could describe my ideal bookshelf, it may be more cynical than most others. As a black girl in America, I try my best to interact with black POC authors, so a book that would be on my shelf is "Beloved" by Tori Morrison. This heartwrenching novel on the trauma that still lingers on the souls of freed enslaved people after escape, especially women, truly brought to life the bitter truth of the lives of black people in the South. This book was a painful must-read for me, and I'd recommend it to anyone, despite their race. My second book would be the beautifully heartwarming story of Amy Tan's Joy Luck Club. This book was one I rediscovered through #BookTok, which I had pretended to read in middle school but never truly retained. The novel explores the complexities of cultural identity, particularly the tensions between the traditional Chinese values of the mothers and the American values embraced by their daughters. It examines the struggles of assimilation and the preservation of heritage. This novel's portrayal of culture, loss, generational trauma, and healing truly brought tears to my eyes and sticks with me today. A quote I often think about that An-mei says in the novel is, "Because sometimes that is the only way to remember what is in your bones. You must peel off your skin, and that of your mother, and her mother. Until there is nothing. No scar, no skin, no flesh.” Another book that will never leave my heart and is truly a novel that has changed me in a way I never thought a novel could. The book "A Thousand Splendid Suns" by Khalid Hosseini. This novel entails the lives of Mariam and Laila, two young girls living in Afghanistan during the war. Their lives become intertwined through a forced marriage to an abusive man, and through hardship and strength, they learn to love, grow, and eventually escape their husband, but only one survives the voyage. This novel is a sickeningly realistic perspective of women's lives in Afghanistan. As this novel neared its bittersweet end, Mariam and Laila transformed from the women they once were. The struggle and compassion they learned through each other taught them that it is never too late to experience a genuine relationship with another. As Mariam neared her untimely death from the murder of her husband Rasheed, she did not look back on her life with regret. Through her newfound love for Laila and her children, she states in her mind, “ And yet, she was leaving the world as a woman who had loved and been loved back. She was leaving it as a friend, a companion, a guardian. A mother. A person of consequences at last."(Hosseini 370). It brings to life the hardship and trauma so many women suffered and continue to suffer in Afghanistan, and that despite this, women still overcome. Although there are so many more amazing authors that I would put in my collection, these three would be my first on my shelves, and I would lend them to anyone who would like to see what they entailed. For me, books are not just stories; they are doors into the minds, hearts, and souls of people who may not exist but whose hardships and successes touch us despite that, and nothing can replace that feeling.

I was in elementary when I first thought of ending my own life. It wasn't a thought that hit me like a brick or shocked me to my core. It washed over me like a wave, something I had always felt coming but never had the words to answer. When I moved away to Georgia at nine, I felt a sadness overcome me as I thought of the friends I knew I’d never see again. I knew my life would change forever, but I never thought it would the way it did. It took less than a month at my new public school for me to become the victim of bullying; on the bus to school, in the classroom, the playground, nowhere was a haven for the abuse I went through. I was small and naive and a perfect target for teasing and prodding. I couldn't comprehend what I did wrong to hurt these people who tried their best to hurt me. I tried to wrap my brain around it, maybe it was my looks or my height or intelligence. But, all I knew was I wanted it to end, being pushed, slapped in the face, thrown into mud, and laughed at in class. When I finally worked up the nerve to tell my teacher, who had witnessed the whole thing, I was ignored completely and said that it was simply children being a bit mean-spirited and I should ignore it. It felt like no one was on my side, as if I were utterly alone. When the thought popped into my mind, I didn't even question it; I accepted it as a truth I should have known the whole time. I found comfort in the fact that it would bring me silence, peace, and happiness, that it would end all the pain I was going through. It even felt like I would make others happy by doing it, as the world would grow from the end of my suffering. I even felt happiness in the revenge I would get by showing those girls the consequences of their actions, like my death would be a catalyst to push them to be better. But I woke up. I had failed the one thing I thought I could win, and I saw the pain in my mother's eyes, her only daughter nearly died at 10 years old. And finally, I cried, I told the truth of all of the pain I was experiencing. Looking back on it now, I still couldn't say that if I went back to that little girl's pain, I could suppress those thoughts. And I can't say that pain doesn't linger now. Things dont always get better, but they do get easier. I know I am worthy of love because I experience it every day, and even in our darkest moments if we allow pain to take over, we will never see the brighter day. That little girl who wished that her suicide had worked is the same one now who goes out with friends who love her, who does art, who is getting awards for academics, who laughs, who cries. I wish I could tell everyone who achieved that dark thought that they mattered and were worth much more than their bad experience. And to those with these thoughts, you aren't alone, even if it feels like you are. I wanted to die, but I learned to live, and every day gets a little easier; it will be for you, too, but you have to live it. Sincerely, that little girl who lived.