Counting down and looking back
(04/15/15 8:50am)
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When I was eight, my dad—baba—gave me a mini plow.
My hero is not just one person. Rather, my hero is a mosaic of people. My hero is deceased and alive, woman and man, old and young. My hero is close by in Perkins library, and my hero is also oceans away.
I stand motionless. I do not jump. I do not move. Breathing is even questionable in this moment. I suspend my arms in the air and await the fate of the ball as it approaches the hoop. The ball doesn’t go in, and I drop my arms and let out a large "awwwwwww." A fleeting moment of grief takes over the student section. Seconds later, Duke steals the ball back and we are finally in the lead. I jump. And yell. And embrace friends nearby. I don’t know the girl to my left, but I embrace her, too. There’s nothing but happiness that fills the student section now.
I have a question.
Though I’m genuinely grateful for my education shaping me into a thoughtful individual, I find myself asking a crucial question—has my ability to critique shrouded my ability to love?
I want to clearly make one point—every human life is of equal value.
What’s on my wish list for 2015? I want us to have a happier world. A healthier world. A less hungry world. A less violent world. A less apathetic world. A less quiet world to speak against the loudly unjust. I want us to have a better world. I want us to build a better forever. As trite as that may sound.
I thank God my brain is a private place.
Recently, I encountered an epistemological rupture as I started to listen to the messages I thought no longer existed in my Blue Devil community. You can call it ‘lending my ears’ to public conversations.
Mississippi houses the most talked about battle in the country, and for once, it’s not one that makes you shudder. Football has brought Mississippi together in ways powers like religion and politics cannot.
I hate birthdays. Turning six meant I had to leave my comfortable life at home with mom and enter a school that at the time was a foreign language to me. At 10, the double-digit life hinted I was encroaching on adulthood. No more children’s menu at my favorite restaurants. At 16, I exchanged my gifts for tears, as attending boarding school meant it would be my first birthday without family. I never felt more alone. My 18th birthday reminded me of the consequences of clashing cultures. I wanted to break away from the reigns of childhood, but my parents quickly reminded me that childhood has no age limit.
It’s happened again. The world has been plagued with another outbreak. No, not Ebola. Well, yeah, Ebola. But there’s another disease that has poisoned our discussions—ISIS.
If there’s one thing Duke has taught me, it's that beauty is only skin-deep. And if you really want to turn heads, you shouldn’t let it get too deep.
Silence is knowing something is morally unjust but lowering your head and walking the other way. Silence is discrimination, violence and war. Silence is comfort. Silence is the privilege of thinking our world is acceptable just the way it is. Silence is pervasive all around us.
12—the number of days I haven’t been able to eat anything solid.
The first time I went to West as a Duke student.
Imagine yourself on a flight’s standby list. You're stuck in a liminal period that is predetermined by some higher power—“some” being the key word, because you really have no idea who this higher power may be. This feeling of betwixt and between leaves you plunging for any opportunity that will lead you to the front of the line. And even then, it's not guaranteed that you'll get a seat.
Man down.
At 10 years old, I was powerful. And brave. But mostly powerful. Because at 10 years old, I was able to bring an audience of 700 or so people to their feet, and, 10 years later, I can’t think of a prouder moment.