Approach. T. Toe touch. Bounce bounce. Split. Victory Jump. Final buzzer.

We
won the game. Im a cheerleader and this moment is pure bliss. It wasnt always this way.
When I first came to Central High School, I knew all my classmates from elementary and
middle school. As a freshman, I realized things had changed. I couldnt be myself. I went
to a public school in the city that had a lot of diversity, although I lived in the suburbs in
an all white neighborhood. That never seemed to matter before high school. Now, Im an
outsider, a cheerleader in the In crowd but still an outsider. I came to Central expecting
everything to stay the same. I was in for a rude awakening.
You talk like a white girl. That was my first clue. That I wasnt one of them. I
was confused. How could I talk like a white girl. Im black. When I asked what exactly
they meant they told me that it was because I talk all proper. I was immediately labeled
as an other. I was too white to hang out with the black friends I had all my life. I
questioned for the first half of my freshmen year if I was supposed to act ignorant to
prove that I was in fact black. Then I realized that I just needed to know how to blend in.
I learned that I needed to be a chameleon of sorts. When I was around certain people I
needed to use slang and be in style. Using the slang and attitude I learned from my peers
helped me gain a reputation but not the one you want. I was no longer the White-Black
girl I was a bitch. Then tragedy struck and my biological father was suddenly
incarcerated. Your father is in jail. Those five words changed my life forever. Although
my father and I hadnt lived in the same state in years, it didnt hurt any less that he
would no longer be a part of my life. Your father is in jail. He wasnt just in jail he was
in prison. My world was shattered. Id always been a daddys girl. My father hadnt had
an active role in my life since I was a little girl, but at thirteen I finally realized the
wasted time. Still, I wanted to hold on to being eight years old and having my dad hold
me and make me smile even when I was trying to be mad at the world.
A daddys girl is what I was. What do you do when daddys gone? Mentally, I
collapsed. The wind was knocked out of me. I was silent. A few tears escaped from the
corner of my eyes, regrettably so. My mother, a solider in her own right, was solid and
she held out her arms. I fell apart. She held me while I cried. I havent stopped crying.
Shes still holding me. Thats when the first one came. Little acid bubbles filled my chest.
Anxiety. It felt like the sadness I was feeling was causing my body to instantly repel the
emotion. I bit back the hurt. I pressed forward.
After that day I wasnt able to separate my reality from what I was pretending to
be. I gave up on work and school for a long period of time. Cheerleading was my life,
and I even gave up on that. I was bright. My teachers have said that since I first started
school. Akayla is a bright girl, and very outgoing. My teacher Anthony Jacobs,
probably one of the best teachers a girl could have, pushed me hard, but it was just a little
too late. I didnt care anymore. My mom didnt know what to do. I knew I had to try to
be strong to keep my mom from falling apart. She wasnt falling apart for my dads
imprisonment. She was falling apart because she couldnt bear to see her only child go
through so much pain and disappointment. Thats when my stepfather stepped in when he
didnt have to. My stepdad has been in my life since I was four years old. He has always
been my dad, but at a crucial time in my life he stepped up and became my father. He
mourned silently for the loss of his outgoing daughter. He often coddled me with gifts.
While I accepted him with open arms, it wasnt the same as having my biological father
there. At this time my stepdad became my father. Let me explain, my father (my
stepdad), has been with my mom since 2000, but in 2009, my stepdad became a father.
My biological father will always be my dad. But hes missed my teen years; those are the
years that mold a father into what he is today. As a co-parenting unit, my parents thought
that it would be best if I went to visit my father.
The little bubbles rose in my chest. Anxiety. I was nervous. I was afraid. When I
arrived at the prison, I was told my mom would be unable to accompany me inside. I
wasnt afraid of my dad. I was afraid that my faade would crack. I couldnt afford that.
My mother sat outside the prison and waited. I went through security; slowly its nothing
like it is on TV. The prison was cold and uninviting; it smelled of lost dreams and killed
hopes. When I finally got to the place where I would be seeing my dad I remember that I
was amazed, there were vending machines and there are even windows without bars. The
room where you visit inmates isnt enclosed. Its open. My dad walked out. With his
signature slow, cocky stroll. That was my father. His beard had strands of gray hair, his
hair was gone, but when he smiled, his beautiful pearly whites told me he was still my
father. He greeted me with a big hug and his loud cry of Assalamualaikum. I responded
timidly with my response of Waalaykumusalam. At that moment I broke. My dad was
there, in the flesh. I cried. I cried all my pain away. I dont remember much of the
conversation but I know that I cried for most of it. When I left he said, Youll always be
my Nubian Princess, remember to protect your chastity, and remember daddy loves you.
It broke my heart to see him incarcerated but one day, September 7

2027, he will be free
and so will I. Eventually I coped with the visit. When I got home, I was hit with another
blow. My parents said I would be going to a new school.
The move. I would now be going to North High School in the suburbs, an all
white school. I thought it would be easy to transition; after all, I was used to putting up a
front. I went to the new school with no friends; I ate lunch in the bathroom. I didnt talk
to anyone. I was alone. Then I noticed slight things that the teachers and counselors
would say to me, that I didnt belong in the Honors courses. I knew I was still that smart
and outgoing girl that I was a couple years ago. I just wasnt applying myself. I
understood what was going on in class, but I didnt participate in the group discussions. I
did homework, but it wasnt my best work. I wont deny that. I read Romeo and Juliet
that year, and I remember that the conflict between Romeo and Juliets parents was
almost like my own internal conflict that past year. I decided I would make my change. I
hoped it was for the best.
Sophomore year, still at North High School, I decided I would get involved in the
school. I made friends, and I was myself. Then I started to notice that I was dealing with
racist students and staff. I had to fight to get put back on my Honors track just because of
the color of my skin. My grades were good; there was no reason for me to be forced off
my AP track. When we had the meeting, the teachers and counselors said flat out that the
Honors track wasnt designed for black students. My mother called the Super Intendant
of the school district, and we got me into the classes. Once I was in the class, I learned
that the students were just as clueless as the staff.
In an African-American History class I remember learning about slavery and what
all happened during Abraham Lincolns term as president. I pointed out the fact that we
shouldnt praise Abraham Lincoln for freeing the slaves because 1. He had slaves and 2.
He only freed them so that he could get votes since by the time he was in office most
states were free states. My teacher yelled at me and told me that I was wrong. Then the
next day, still talking about slavery, my teacher tried to say that slaves werent always
beaten and that they deserved to be beaten. I transferred out of that class. However, things
didnt get easier. In my AP U.S. History class when we came to the section about the
Civil Rights Movement and police brutality, we watched a video about how they would
spray black people with the large water hoses, and I remember a student yelled out WET
T-SHIRT CONTEST! I was infuriated. Then I noticed that the teacher was entertaining
their ignorant comments. I was beyond embarrassed and betrayed.
Who could I turn to when even the teachers were ignorant? I began to be angry
and resent the school. I couldnt let anyone know I was angry because people thrive on
being able to say that a stereotype is correct, and if I gave them the satisfaction of seeing
me angry, I wouldnt be able to live with myself. During this time I began to read The
Life of Pi, which taught me that even if its looking like theres no hope just keep pushing
forward. My anger was still brewing under the surface. Our homecoming game was the
day my anger had reached its limit. I remember a girl made a comment about me being
loud and said I needed to leave. It probably didnt have anything to do with my being
black, but I had internalized everything that the students did. In my mind she didnt want
me in the white section (The bleachers were segregated into the white section and into the
black section that they called Lil Africa). I asked her what she had to say, and she
started screaming about how she didnt want me to beat her up. Hitting her hadnt even
been on my radar, but the fact that she assumed I would made me angrier than her trying
to get me to leave.
Luckily I had a class called Conflict Resolution to calm my nerves and made me
not do anything I would regret. In the class, I talked about my personal feelings, and how
I coped with my anger. My teacher, Mrs. Liden, taught me how to deal with the
emotions. I was still an outsider. I was too black to hang out with the white kids. Just
like how I was too white to hang out with my black friends. My days of being a
chameleon were over. I was ready to be myself. Then I heard the best news that I could
possibly hear. My mom was allowing me to go back to Central High School.
Left. Right. Kick. Jump. Split. I was back in my element. I was a cheerleader once
again. Now a junior I was ready to take back my life. I no longer cared about what people
thought. I was embracing myself. Loving myself. Sounds good right? No. Theres always
someone out to steal your shine. When I was in the midst of loving myself, everyone
found a way to force his or her opinions on me. Yes, I was confident. But my peers
misconstrued that. To them I thought I was better than them. I was. But not because of
where I stood in life. I was better because I was over being insecure and trying to fit in. I
was okay. Okay with being alone. To prove that I was a better person, I went back to
North High School to show what changes I had made. To see the friends I used to know.
That was my mistake.
A year from my last incident at homecoming, I saw the same girl that tried to kick
me out of the white section of the bleachers. I ignored her I knew she wanted to seem
like she was the big girl on campus. That worked until she sent her friends over to insult
my friends. I tried to be the bigger person, and tell her that I wasnt in the mood to argue.
I wasnt the same Akayla that she had met a year ago. She pushed my buttons. I pushed
back. It was a downward spiral and I knew it. She called me the unspeakable. Not the N-
Word but pretty darn close. She called me a black bitch. Fade to black. What happened
next I wont elaborate on. Just know it wasnt pretty. After that incident I read Hamlet.
The To Be or Not To Be speech resonated with me. I wasnt questioning life or death. I
was questioning should I return to the silent Akayla and try to conform to what society
wanted me to be or should I try to remain my confident self and not care what people
thought?
Confidence was more important. I went to school and I carried myself with the
class that I always had. When people had problems with me I addressed it. With words
not fists. I learned I was too bright to try to stoop down to someone elses level. I was no
longer going to talk down on people or feel bad about myself because of other peoples
inferiority complexes. I didnt need a crew to back me up or influence my behavior.
My grandma always says You can do bad all by yourself. I was reformed ready for
everything that was ahead of me.
Senior Year. August. Cheerleading tryouts. I was running bleachers. Then I met
him. My best friend, Devin, the tight end for our football team, offered me a Dicks
Sporting Goods coupon. Now I know it sounds cheesy but at that moment I knew I had to
change. I had to let him in. No one knew what I was going through. But something about
Devin made me open up to him. At that time I was reading The Coldest Winter Ever,
which was pretty much the story of my life. It showed me that I dont need to use my
fathers incarceration as an excuse, if anything I needed to use it as a stepping-stone to
beat the odds. Devin taught me that no matter what you go through you just have to keep
fighting. Everyone thought he was bad news he was just misunderstood. But I understood
him and he understood me.
Now aside from my love of cheering and boys, I began to look deeper into my
culture. Learning about how my history is richer beyond what I learned in the classroom.
I had a teacher, Matthew Shipman actually he wasnt my teacher senior year but I always
sought him out for help and guidance. He provided me with knowledge far beyond what I
thought a middle aged, white man should know about my culture. He brought the lesson
to me in a unique way, like he wanted to challenge me rather than feed the answers of life
to me. That brought me to how much I value my race and culture today. Well that and
The Autobiography of Malcolm X.
When I read that book I questioned all white people, and their motives towards
me. Including my best friend turned boyfriend Devin. Questioning reality turned me into
a deeper thinker. The way Mr. Shipman talked to me about my race, I knew I could trust
his perception. The way Devin was clueless to how he and I were culturally different also
meant he was safe. Between these two men, I learned that race was something invented to
keep people separated. I began to understand that I was part of the In crowd. My In
crowd consisted of: My parents, my best friend, my teachers (Jacobs and Shipman), as
well as everyone who told me I wasnt going to be able to achieve my goals. The last
group is only relevant because theyve remained my motivation to keep moving on.
Approach. T. Toe touch. Bounce bounce. Split. Victory Jump. Final buzzer. I won the
game. Akayla Galloway is who I am today.