Grade 11-12 Winners

HONOURABLE MENTION (GRADE 11-12)
Kendra Maynard
The Content of My Character

Martin Luther King Jr. once said “I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the colour of their skin, but by the content of their character.” That was over fifty years ago. Since then we have come a long way, yet in this day and age; why do we still face racism? Why is it that I am only seen as my colour instead of my character?

The first time I ever faced racism was before I'd even left the womb. My pregnant mother was almost run down by a vicious racist driver as she and my father walked home one night. Sadly, it wasn't long before I was once again targeted. My early years in school were somewhat plagued by segregation. It wasn't long before I came to understand that I was very different from the other pupils in terms of looks as well as treatment. I have been both physically and mentally assaulted by my own teachers. Ignorant classmates have singled me out for my tanned skin or my “poofy hair”. I came to terms with the fact that people could touch my hair without my permission just because they were curious. Their curiosity came before my comfort and right to be respected as a human being. Ignorance can be very belittling: “You are pretty for a black girl,” “No offense, but you're black,” “Your hair feels so weird! Is it real?” Why pretty “for a black girl”? Why can't I just be pretty for who I am, not what I am? Why should I take offense to being called black? It is nothing to be ashamed of. My hair is not weird, It is unique and beautiful in its own way. All of these things made me feel tiny and insignificant for a very long time.

Being treated differently from the get-go takes its toll, and at a very young age. By the time I was five I already wished to have pale skin, blue eyes, and blonde hair. Once I reached twelve I loathed every part of who I was. All I wanted was to fit in, to be beautiful, because all society had ever told me was that if I was black I could never be beautiful. I tried to hide my ethnicity through the clothes I wore and the people I befriended; I even straightened my beautiful curls to look more Caucasian. No matter how hard I tried to conceal who I am, I was still treated differently than my friends in many ways. It is especially difficult for mulatto girls like me. We don't quite fit in to the white community, and we are labeled as “whitewashed” in the black community. I feel so much sorrow for all the gorgeous little coloured girls going through the same thing. I want to make each and every one know that they they are enough, that they are beautiful, intelligent, and able to make it in this world. I want my little sisters to look up to me and see a woman who is proud to be who she is so that they may grow up loving themselves. It breaks my heart to see them already going through the same external and internal struggles that I faced.

Today, even though I still face racism, I love myself inside and out. The black and white blood that runs through my veins represents a unity between people, which is incredible. I have come to accept that maybe ignorance will never die, but that my worth does not come from other people's approval. Some things from my past have scarred me and a lot of the time I have to wonder if I am paranoid or if something I just faced was really racism. I am afraid of the police. I fear the difficulty of attaining a job due to my appearance being inadequate for business. Through all of this I wish to live as normally as I can and to encourage other black people everywhere to do the same. Every human being has a right to feel equal and loved.
Martin Luther King Jr. and I share a dream, though we may be over fifty years apart. We have come a long way, and have farther yet to go. I have a dream to be seen as a human, and nothing less. I have a dream to be treated as an equal and to be seen as who, not what, I am. I have a dream that people, no matter what skin colour, will never stop fighting for what is right.

WINNER (GRADE 11-12)
Phoebe Knight
Hurricane Zinfadel

My mom, despite her refusal to accept the fact, is invariably her mother’s daughter. Because of this, the first dozen Christmas dinners I was alive for were held at my house. Truthfully, I think my mother reveled in the high energy, backseat driving by my grandmother and ultimate compliments to the chef, or at least felt like she was supposed to, but god forbid something as small as a lost turkey baster decide to come up, the whole night would, in her eyes (as well as my grandmothers’), be a failure.

My fifth Christmas proved to be a particularly memorable one, indeed. My grandparents; mom’s parents, were staying with us to add a little more pressure. My mom had gotten up before anyone in the house which, if you’ve ever spent Christmas with two kids under ten, is a difficult feat indeed. All day long the house was filled with the distinctly Christmas scents of crispy turkey skin and pine needles that my dad would sweep under the carpet to avoid having to pull the offensively large vacuum out from the basement.

The rest of the family began showing up around 6 pm. In through our big oak door trekked my other set of grandparents *(this grandma’s mink fur coat and claw like nails a stark contrast to the pink turtle neck splashed in turkey juice my other one wore)*, my aunts, Liv and Di, and the boyfriends they had picked up while backpacking in Costa Rica (Julian and Oscar, respectively), and my uncle Cam and his wife, Gill.

Once everyone had arrived and every last side dish had come out of the oven successfully, thank god, it was time for dinner. I sat across the table from Cam in an Ikea wooden fold‐up chair that always gave me deep red imprints on the backs of my legs, and on which I would always worry that if I sat too far back, it would fold back together and snap me in half like a mouse trap. My grandpa, who we call Sir, said grace, something to the effect of “Thanks for the grub, Big Guy”, and we all were seated. My mom then made one fatal mistake, one that would lead to several casualties that night, including the tablecloth, my brand new white velvet dress and more or less every single dish she had slaved over all day.

“Cheers!”

I clinked my glass with my two aunts and reached across the table to extend the gesture to poor Cam. The subsequent event was one of National Lampoon proportions. I thrust my plastic cup of juice into Cam’s glass, full of red wine, with all of the jubilance and idiocy of the town drunkard, and before I could register anything that had happened, I , along with all of our guests, were doused in Hurricane Zinfandel.

The glass had shattered in Cam’s hand but thankfully he wasn’t bleeding, though with the amount of red wine staining everything within a 10‐foot radius, it wouldn’t have been too surprising if a massacre had gone on that day. If you recall what I said earlier about my mom’s strings getting pulled a little too tight around Christmas time, her reaction was very predictable. Within seconds of the shower, I was snatched up and promptly placed inside the kitchen pantry where there was nothing my (now pink) velvet dress could transfer on to. I could hear my whole family erupting in deafening amounts of laughter with the exception, of course, of my poor mom who was working busily to fix my mess, muttering profanities like she needed them to breathe.

We had ordered pizza that Christmas as my little accident had made it difficult to tell whether the turkey was actually pink and red inside because of the wine (which my mother insisted was the case), or because it was raw. Truthfully I don’t think anyone was complaining about the new menu. Does anyone actually like roasted parsnipsand mince pies anyway?

I’m sure if you were to ask anyone who was there that day they’d recount it with laughter and probably tell you how much of a relief the pizza was at the end of the night. Except for my mom, of course, who, despite the nightmare the night was, has continued to insist on hosting Christmas dinner every year since.