1st Place Finishers
More than Hair
More than Hair by Faith Chukwuma
Western School of Technology and Environmental Science - Grade 12, Teacher Katherine Lewis
They say to embrace yourself you must accept your roots
So, I go searching, part each hair, break combs,
and chop away the damage to find my beginnings
and underneath a blanket of chemically straightened hair
I find that you were always there:
spring tight 4c coils that fill the air
but my world, convention, and even my own community by extension
Told me to “fix” my hair. That you were “no good”. “Too different”.
“Too black”.
But Black hair don’t care,
embraces humidity like warm hugs and curses the heat.
Scorched from the trauma it’s endured, but still twirls, defying gravity at whim.
So, When I was 8, I learned the dance of conformity.
The art of Perms, relaxers, texturizers, and hot combs.
It was a practice passed down to me from women
who knew to hide each coil and curl,
having the perils of bias ingrained in them
I was afraid to take up space with my features.
My Afro drawing in attention like a black hole and
somehow always the punchline of a joke that was never funny to me
I’ll never forget how formative those remarks
were in shaping my reality.
“Nappy”, “Ugly”, “Unkempt”, “Wild”.
To them, I was a spectacle.
So, I thought my only solution was to mold
my blackness into something more palatable.
To reflect attention rather than absorb it
But now I wish I could go back and hug
my younger self: just a girl wishing to straighten her roots,
to flatten, to hide. I wanted to belong.
I’d undo the damage of not having “Good hair”- a phrase I heard
growing up that said so much with so little, for us girls who dreamt
in coconut oil shea butter aloe vera perfect 3a locks -
Today, I understand the importance of occupying a space,
of being seen even admist mockery.
To normalize a diversity of cultures and features
If I could go back, Id teach her that learning to love myself
meant marching to my own beat not the conductor’s.
It meant becoming my own beacon against texturism.
A lighthouse in a storm.
Tell her that my hair was always “Just for Me” and
that it ain’t “Got 2B” anything more than itself
That I am enough
If only she knew how much history our hair holds or
that even on my darkest nights my hair is spun
into a web of stars and ancestors entangled
My roots are embedded with a unique culture
That serves as a symbol of resilience
We are Lesser
We are Lesser by Madelyn Olivia Rubin
The Park School of Baltimore - Grade 9, Teacher Lubna Najar
Am I lesser
Lesser than a race
Lesser than a man or a woman;
Because of my chocolate skin
Was he lesser?
Lynched.
Because of words from his lips,
His black lips,
Towards a white woman
She, ignorant to the experiences he faced everyday.
Was he lesser, enough to be killed?
We lose our lives
Because in your mind, we are not human;
Not worthy of equality
We are beast among the street
Who blend in with the dark
And you choose not to see the light in us,
Not to see our black excellence
So you kill us
With your so called accidents
Shoot us, till our number dwindle
Beat us and scar our children
So they lean and fall to a grave
You prepared
But;
Was she lesser,
To be shot in her bed?
Was he lesser
To be kicked in his head?
Am I lesser
Watching people like me
With my skin
And my hair
In my community
die and lose loved ones
People think we are lesser
Lesser than all the people
In this so called superior race
Who benefit from my grandparents
And my ancestors
Sweat blood, and endurance
Without our strength
this country would be nowhere
This country would be lesser
but,
we;
are not lesser
I, am not lesser
She, is not lesser
He, is not lesser
Because regardless of what is said
God made us with purpose
And unbelievable talent,
With Beautiful skin that comes in thousands of shades
We, are worth so much
Too much
To be lesser than you
Remember Jimmie Lee Jackson
Remember Jimmie Lee Jackson by Lily Anderson
Dumbarton Middle School - Grade 8, Teacher Justin DePrima
It’s been anything but bliss
The fighting, the pain,
Our peace has gone amiss,
Departing like a train
Two-hundred marching folks,
Standing side by side
Brawling against this hoax
Marching, stride by stride
Lights flickered and flashed
As we carried on
Those of Alabama were thrashed
Our time was almost gone…
Huddling in Macks Café
It was just Ma and I
We sat and prayed
That night of 1965
I couldn’t stand to look at him
Beaten and bloody
Grandpa looked so grim
My mind felt muddy
But..
This aint no time to sob
This aint no time to steer clear
Time to break free of this mob
My mob of internal fear
My very last plea,
I can never look back
And ask, “Why would you shoot me
just because I’m black?”
2nd Place Finishers
before you see me
before you see me by Chelsea Ababio
Western School of Technology and Environmental Science - Grade 11, Teacher Clarissa Higgins
sight (n)
the action of observing. to catch the initial glance of something. through the use of the oculus, it's where our perception begins, how we determine our empirical reality, how we perceive people, how we perceive the world.
but most importantly, it was incorrectly used to create the basis for bigotry
What do you see before you see me?
perhaps its my skin
a cloaking organ
that covers everything that makes us inherently the same
creating the only thing society needed to manufacture prejudice
my skin in which
writes my story
before I even get a chance to turn the page
settles a question mark at the end of my humanity
positions an exclamation point at the end of each of my transgressions
puts a period, replacing an ellipse, at the end of my alleged opportunities
emboldens my need to succeed
crosses out my benefit of the doubt
my skin, in which I was told, betrayed me from birth.
perhaps it's my adolescence
my youth
causing each one of my opinions to “lack perspective”
meaning I am dismissable
meaning my words must speak in the perfect cadence
to my elders
for me to be heard.
wishing my speech were airy and light,
airbrushing onto other’s minds like mid-century clouds of color
instead it doesn’t
and I ask myself, where in my history
did I teach my tongue to grow flowers of forced silence?
it all happened in an instant.
when I was younger,
I used to write nonsensical stories, haphazardly on loose leaf paper
after daydreaming
with eyes of pure incognizance
but now my eyes have become magnifying glasses,
microscopes, with each aspect of my being on a petri dish
constructed through subconscious comparison
manipulating the truth
of who I truly am,
reminding myself of who I will never be.
perhaps you see my gender or my ethnicity
my mother teaching me how to be an awula
which means “lady” in her native tongue
teaching me how to clean
telling me of the sacrifices she made
to get me where I am today
the pressure to be good enough
the way it plumes and covers me like a haze
her telling me kaa fo ɛdaŋ
meaning “don’t pay them any mind”
as I wait for my demise
to be realized
through the eyes
of those who promised to protect me.
None of these factors tell the true story of who I am
where I came from,
where I am going.
In the seconds it takes to see,
do I get a say in which of the following factors you choose
to dictate my validity?
Parched
Parched by Divyne Daniels
Kenwood High School - Grade 10, Teacher Angela Glenn
The dreadful sun beats on his back tearing his neck from rope.
As his body weighs down the branch, I watch as it splinters and bend as it
strains to uphold
I watch as his beaten body sways, as his neck split like the torn fabric of his clothes
Why? I can’t speak. I fear for all of my peoples life
So young, my age.
Will I ever be unshackled from the fear this country puts in me to
Combat this injustice?
Will my people ever be from under their heels?
I feel parched, I can’t speak.
The branch breaks in two.
CRACK
His body falls to the ground branch on top of him.
I flinch, I must have been here for hours.
Just watching
Just watching, cause that's all anyone can do right?
I wonder what he thought of doing after his trial, stripped from him in a blink of an eye.
I slowly back up
What can anyone do? What can I do?
At that moment I feel all I can do is run.
I feel parched, as if I’ll never be allowed to quench this thirst after what I’ve seen.
How can I drink if he and those who suffered the same fate as him can no longer.
I feel parched
I sear these moments into my brain others might forget but I won't
I contemplate as my
Throat constricts
The "Grand" Ol Flag
The "Grand" Ol Flag by Peri Jackson
Dumbarton Middle School - Grade 8, Teacher Susan Smith
“Magnificent!”, “Impressive!”, Grand.
“Tragic.” “Heinous.” “Horrific.”
Soaring high and mighty on wooden posts of the patriotic,
As the exhausted and weak stand shaking.
Waving in peace like the amber grain on acres of American soil,
As some surrender and kneel down to those of the land they created by hand.
The symbol of a country beloved by its true supporters.
A country beloved by those who wore down the worn until they were no more.
The home of the free and the brave,
While being the home of the captured and petrified.
A steadfast love flows in their hearts,
While others’ cease to beat.
We’re told about this nation through biased eyes
Instead from those in which tears pour.
May their regret be left for us to disregard,
While others’ pain are left to dwell.
Keep your eyes on this “Grand” Ol Flag.