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My eyes fly open as I stretch across my bed, sunlight filtering into my room, as it painfully dawns on me that today is the day that Ms. Wilson and Mr. Pham are orchestrating the debate.
During history class.
I run a hand through long braids, debating whether or not to peel myself off of the safe haven of my thick mattress and plush blankets.
I don’t know if I’m ready to stumble through the rest of this week. I trill my lips. Unfortunately, I’ve never had much of a choice. With that resigned resolution, I slide off of my bed and into my bathroom, brushing my teeth and rinsing off.
The putting-on of my school uniform has become a natural ritual at this point. So, it’s easy for me to smooth down the pale dress shirt, do all the buttons, button my kilt around its waist. It’s easy for me to pull on the high socks, making my way to the mirror to adjust the tie.
My eyes find mine. Brown and wide. They drift to my face. Deep, cocoa brown skin that Mom claims glows in the sun, a slightly jutting chin, a gentle slope of my nose, ink-black eyelashes that curl upwards, lips that are pulled into a full line.
Lips that might’ve used to smile more.
Pursing my lips, my reflection does the same. It was a reflection I used to want to change, scrub off. After all, going to the playground and hearing the insisting: “You can’t play with us,” or the: “You can’t be (insert tacky princess here) because you don’t look like her.”
Back then, I needed to be Cinderella, Aurora, Snow White. And I needed to play with the pink dress-clad girls who better fit the descriptions of these princesses than I ever would. So, I wandered after them, asking to play, being pushed aside.
I blink at my reflection. Exhaling, I step away from the mirror.
Either way, my appearance won’t be a factor in the hell-fest of the history debate that is bound to occur today.
The debate is supposed to be less rigid this class. Anyone and everyone can pitch in if they so choose— granted they follow the moderator’s guidance.
The tie finally takes shape, and I carefully pull it up to achieve that bougie, preppy look that irritates me and comforts me at the same time.
I’m not even ready to think about how the whole thing will play out. If Brett’s constant outbursts in history class are any indication— the whole debate is likely to be chaos.
As a member of the debate team, Mr. Pham has emphasized that we should step up as leaders of the group. We’ll see how that turns out.
With that in mind, I stumble down the stairs, grabbing some toast, smearing some butter onto it and popping it into my mouth. Then, I’m rushing out the door, hopping onto my bike and pedaling faster than I need to.
The school comes into view, and I park my bike towards the front, kicking it into a stop, and sliding down to my feet. My backpack swings behind me as I make my way into the school, sliding into the first class of the day.
History.
The first thing my eyes come in contact with is the large Mercator map plastered onto the center.
My pen rises to my lips as other students start to filter in, my eyes catching onto Ms. Wilson and Mr. Pham conversing at the front of the room.
The bell rings, startling me out of my thoughts, and Ms. Wilson claps her hands together from the front. I briefly glance around, and the room is eerily fuller than it was just moments ago.
“We’re having a historically-based debate in this class,” Ms. Wilson says with a grin, glancing over at Mr. Pham.
“Today’s debate is going to revolve around a touchier subject so all we ask of you is to show respect to your peers.” A wan smile. “According to our values here at Elkwood.”
I almost have to laugh at that. The laugh bubbles up in my throat, but I’m able to keep it down, thankfully.
Somewhere across the room, the new girl, possible candidate, and shining beacon—Laura Johnson—catches my eyes, lips twitching slightly.
I bite my bottom lip. Laura here has been at Elkwood for a whole of three seconds, and even she can already tell that “our values here at Elkwood” do not consist of any respect whatsoever. If it did at some point, those values are long gone.
“So, Mr. Pham is going to write the topic on the board.” Ms. Wilson says, nodding over to the shorter man who grabs a whiteboard marker, scribbling down a title.
Students squint, leaning from side to side in order to find a better angle. Once he steps aside, though, the title pops out of the whiteboard with smoldering intensity.
“Oh my God.” One girl says.
Once my eyes find the writing, I can’t help but find the girl’s mutter of exclamation appropriate. Because, right there, smack in the middle of the whiteboard, it reads:
Should symbols of the Confederacy be taken down?
Brett laughs. Laura lets out a nearly imperceptible snort. For different reasons, I’m guessing.
“Lately, people have been taking down monuments due to the historical backgrounds of the figures depicted. Many institutions and companies are also banning the Confederate flag from their events. So, should we be taking these statues and symbols down? Or should we keep them up, regardless of individual opinions on said monuments?” Ms. Wilson asks, glancing about the audience as Mr. Pham gives a slight nod.
“Debate team,” He says, “I’ll be expecting you to step up, get this whole thing in motion. A difficult topic, but it’ll be such an intriguing discussion to have.”
Intriguing isn’t necessarily the word I’d use.
“Okay, so,” Brett starts, rising to his feet, letting hair fall off to the side and eliciting chuckles from the other students. “We should not be taking Confederate flags and symbols down.”
I highly doubt that anyone was surprised at Brett’s stance. At all.
He’s so predictable these days, it nearly hurts.
“And why is that?” Ms. Wilson asks, slightly egging him on.
“Because it’s history.” Brett throws his hands in the air like he’s just made a ground-breaking point. “You can’t just get rid of historical symbols because you don’t like them.”
Silence. Brett smirks. It’s the usual, really. Brett makes a stupid point, and no one makes a move to challenge him. Ms. Wilson and Mr. Pham glance around the room. All mouths are shut. Nothing abnormal, really.
“Actually, ” Someone’s voice rings through the air. Everyone turns to the girl so quickly that I’m certain they get whiplash. The sound of someone else’s voice is foreign to the group. After all, everyone is used to Brett monopolizing the entire conversation.
Laura Johnson is speaking.
“What’s interesting is that you claim that people’s hatred of the Confederate flag and other symbols are due to petty reasons such as dislike. I mean, that symbol is a symbol of white supremacy.” She lets out a laugh, glancing around. “Isn’t that common knowledge?”
The class glances to Brett, whose eyebrows are raised, lips slightly quirked downwards. It’s like watching a tennis game, all our eyes bouncing back and forth between the two opposers.
“That’s ridiculous,” Brett laughs, haughtily. “Don’t believe everything you read on leftist media. The Confederate flag was about the economy and Southern pride, not white supremacy.”
“Incorrect,” Laura cuts in, a wry grin appearing on her lips, raising her laptop upwards from where it is situated on her desk. “The creator of the Confederate flag— William T. Thompson— stated this in his own words, while describing the flag.” Her eyes drop to her laptop screen, reading aloud. “‘As people, we are fighting to maintain the Heaven-ordained supremacy of the white man over the inferior or colored race.’”
Audible gasps and whispers circulate the classroom.
There’s a slight drain of color from Brett’s face. “Where’d you get that off of? CNN?” He snorts, weaving around the desks, and peering over Laura’s laptop.
“Nope. A historical document, actually. William T. Thompson. April 23, 1863.” Laura says, lips pulled into a sardonic grin. “Would you like to hear the rest?”
Brett’s eyes stay on the screen, eyes roving from left to right. “I mean,” He shuffles away, back to his seat, eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t mean you can stop people from exercising their right to freedom of speech and expression.”
Laura raises both eyebrows, then sends me a glance, as if saying: he can’t be serious.
“Uh, hello? Hate speech isn’t protected under the right of free speech. You’re kidding.” Laura Johnson is a glass of fresh water. Her eyes alone speak cosmos. Those dark irises can make anyone watching her feel more alive.
“It’s not hate speech,” Brett’s eyes narrow further, agitation creeping into his tone. “Don’t be stupid.”
Before Laura can open her mouth and effectively slam him down again— Ms. Wilson cuts in.
“Does anyone else want to pitch in?” A strained laugh. “As entertaining as this is, we can’t have the two of you dominating the entire debate. Anyone?” She asks, glancing around.
Mr. Pham scans the room. I sink further into my chair. Don’t call on me, don’t call on me—
Mr. Pham glances in my direction. He smiles.
A string of curses fly through my mind. I attempt to blend in, but being the only black kid in the entire class forces me to stand out like a beacon.
“Amina!” He cries out, grin appearing as though he’s just remembered that I’m also in the debate extracurricular.
My face goes hot, and I ponder how bad the fall will be if I make a split second decision to fling myself out of the nearest window. I’m tempted to see how it turns out.
“Amina.” He repeats.
I blink.
“Any counter-arguments? Support?” He presses, and I let out a shaky breath, ignoring the eyes burning into me.
I glance over at Brett whose smug smirk is still plastered onto his lips.
“Brett,” I start, surprising everyone in the room, myself included— “how many times have you seen the swastika showcased in Germany? On cars? Posters? License plates?”
The question causes eyes to widen and Mr. Pham to let out a low whistle.
“We’re not in Germany.” Brett replies, gaining a laugh of approval from one of the members of his group.
“And?” I ask, eyebrows scrunched together. “The swastika is a symbol of hate. It’s illegal to display Nazi symbols in Germany,” I state. “You can get thrown in jail for pulling that crap. It’s a symbol of hate, just like the Confederate flag. Hate speech shouldn’t be showcased.”
“The Confederate flag isn’t the same thing as the Swastika. They’re from two different nations and carry two different histories and connotations.” Brett says, arms folded.
Laura coughs, badly disguising a surprised exhale of amusement.
“What do you mean?” I ask, eyebrows scrunched. “Both of them are responsible for the mass murdering and abusing of innocent people. The swastika was the symbol of hate behind the Holocaust. The Confederate flag? A symbol of hate behind the mass enslavement, torture and abuse of black people.”
Slight murmurs fill the air.
“It’s not about slavery.” Brett says, argument weakening by the second. “It was about wealth, money, the economy.”
“How is it not?” I ask, a hand rising to the air. “Black people were the currency.” I glance around the room. “The Confederacy wanted to keep enslaving black people. Sure, it benefited their economy, but these were people. And under the Confederacy’s ideals, black people would remain slaves, remain sub-humans.”
“That’s not what the Confederacy wanted,” Brett states, letting out a low laugh.
“Yes it did.” I say. “That’s why the whole Civil War started. The Confederacy wanted a state in which they could protect and preserve the institution of slavery.” I pull out my laptop, pulling up the excerpt. “Alex Stephens—vice president of the Confederacy—literally stated that their new government was founded ‘upon the great truth that the Negro is not equal to the white man; that slavery subordination to the superior race is his natural and normal condition.’”
Someone swears, Brett blinks.
“And the Confederate flag? It was used by post-war racists to celebrate those who fought on the Confederate side. Generals, tacticians, you name it. Examples of them? Slave owners, abusers.”
“Yeah? Give one example.” Brett says, arms still folded.
“Easy.” I say, “Robert E. Lee. Slave-owner. Documents reveal that he actually encouraged his overseers to cruelly beat and whip his slaves. To ‘lay it on well’. He wasn’t a hero.”
And he doesn’t even scrape the surface of the malicious sea ravaged by Confederate generals and their rugged legacies.
Brett opens his mouth, closes it.
“They were also traitors to the country.” This time it’s Walt, and he stutters it out, meeting my eyes with one of those rigid shrugs of his. “I mean, they waged war against the United States, as we’ve learned in history class. By definition, that pretty much made them traitors to said country.” He adjusts his glasses, blue veins sticking out from pale skin. “Dude, they slaughtered more than one-hundred-and-ten-thousand American soldiers.”
Silence.
“And they lost,” Laura dives back into the conversation. “They caused needless deaths, wanted to preserve slavery, and turned against said nation as a whole. Yet, I’ve never seen another state more proud of losing than the confederates.”
“So, you’re saying we should pretend all this never happened? May as well throw education down the drain.” Brett shrugs, eyes cold, although he’s losing ground.
And all the ground he’s losing is ground that Laura Johnson is gaining. Ground that we’re gaining.
“These statues were made to glorify these people.” Walt replies, hands fidgeting with each other as though he doesn’t know what to do with them. “There’s a reason these symbols re-emerged under the Jim Crow era by white supremacists, lynching mobs, and the KKK.”
Laura nods slowly, eyes flicking back to Brett. “No one is saying that we shouldn't learn about these people. But we can’t glorify them. Put them in textbooks, museums. Not army bases, and not parks.” Laura finishes, arms crossed.
And they should not be preserved in the glorified statue forms that are meant to commemorate their vicious acts.
“And our great-grandparents? We’re not allowed to be proud of their sacrifices, their fights?” Max Wright pitches in, eyebrows raised.
“Proud of what?” I ask, and his eyes flick over to mine. “The Confederate fighters? Slave-owners? People who fought for that?” Abusers? Killers? White supremacists? My hands seem to be shaking, and Max tilts his head over to the side, a scowl curling onto his lips.
“Yeah, no offense,” Laura says, arms folding. “If that was the case, your great-grandparents might not exactly be your biggest flex.” Oohs passes through the classroom, as Ms. Wilson blinks, turning to Laura. “Settle down, Miss Johnson.”
“Like yours were perfect?” Max asks, leaning back in his seat.
“No one said that?” Laura knits her eyebrows together. “Although, I’m proud of my roots, proud of my heritage, proud that they weren’t Confederate terrorists.”
Max Wright rises to his feet, hands slamming the table, facing burning red. He’s lost his cool in seconds. Meanwhile, Laura Johnson is as calm as usual, eyeing him with ocean-like neutrality.
“Off topic,” Mr. Pham says, a strained grin appearing on his lips. “No need to bring anybody’s grandparents into this.” A light laugh.
“A very intense debate,” Ms. Wilson chuckles, as if we aren’t actually having an argument about why slave-owners and abusers should not be celebrated. “There were very strong points made from both sides.”
I blink repeatedly at Ms. Wilson’s last sentence.
Laura’s eyebrows practically shoot upwards, and I’m sure mine do too. Meanwhile, Brett still glares daggers at her, standing next to Max Wright, both looking equally irritated.
And an hour later, the bell rings.
No one makes a move at first, but Mr. Pham diplomatically wraps up the painful debate, insisting that it’s a difficult topic, and about how there are no straight answers to something this controversial.
They act like it’s difficult to see it for what it is. I’m certain Mr. Pham is well aware, but he has to be nice Mr. Pham, friendly Mr. Pham.
He finishes by encouraging other kids to contribute to the conversation. Once he’s done, the students start mindlessly packing their bags, making their way out of the classroom. They send Laura brief glances as she carefully shoves her things into her backpack, not taking notice of the intense eyes on her.
I follow suit, receiving a tight lipped grin from both of the teachers. Laura makes her way to the door as well. She glances up at me, as though she’s about to say something.
That is, until she’s shoved into my side.
Max Wright lets out a laugh as he and the White Bros™ shuffle through the door as one collective pack.
“Whoops.” Brett says from the front, eyeing Laura with a brief shrug, smirk snake-like on his lips.“Might want to watch where you’re going, Johnson.”
My lips part.
Laura laughs.
“Sorry about that,” I say to her, eyebrows knitting as I watch the pack of wolves shuffle through the hallway.
“Don’t be.” A smirk curves onto her lips as she casts me a determined glance.
“Why is that?” I ask, shoulders bumping as we make our way through the hallway.
Laura’s determined glance almost intensifies, a steady resolve rising to her widening smirk. “Because you’re going to help me beat him.”
