when you see me, a girl with tan skin but her parents are black and white, what do you think?
do you instantly assume that my dad wasn't there? if you do, you'd be correct. do you think about whether or not i've witnessed violence? in and outside of the home? if you do, you'd be correct. do you think that i had to help with the bills because my single mother couldn't scavenge enough money to pay them by herself and no one would help her? if you do, you'd be correct.
truth is, i've never even considered being the definition of a stereotype. ever. people have always called me a "half-breed", a "*******", and infamously a "******" even though the hard r wasn't always pronounced. i've never been offended by their words though, my mom has taught me to have tougher skin than that.
i've always been a stereotype, though. i guess in some people's eyes that's all i am. a young girl living up to her background.
but the thing is, i know that i'm worth more than their insults, assumptions, thoughts, and doubts. i'm going to be more than a stereotype one day. mark my words.
This is a story about a lovely young girl who's in the woods dancing with the snow flakes. Her arms are up in the air moving along with breeze. She’s bare foot in her favorite blue dress, but she not cold, she’s peaceful lite with her thoughts. Suddenly a gust of wind changes the young girl's mood bring a frost to her breath that chokes her with fear. A ere black figure brings a darkest filling the woods, and it had its eyes on the young girl. Tears run down her rosy cheeks, and she starts to run towards the trees that are as tall as the sky. The black figure covers its face, and leads with its hands with sharp long disguising nails. She can't seem to out run the scary black figure that it eventually brings a sense of hopelessness to the young girl fueling the monster’s black figure even more. Hopelessness won; as the black figure screams it pierces the young girl’s ears. It lunges its sharp long disgusting nails towards the girl ripping through the young girl's favorite blue dress, and flesh with such hatred for it is jealous of the young girl's innocence . The young girl is trying to cover her face screaming for her life, but no one can hear them. It’s hopeless the young girl is laying in the woods alone with the black figure; blood is dripping down her chest turning this once white snow red. The black figure has done its job, it waits for the young girl's soul to slowly leave her body, and into the palms of the hands of the black figure. As she lays there she takes her mind back to her dancing in the snow, and how peaceful she felt. Blood fills her lungs she tries to cough it all out, as she takes in her last breathe. The young girl body dies, but a patch of white flowers grow every year where the young girl body once laid. Warning us to watch out for the black figured monster it may just rip your soul out.
she was a young girl in this cruel cold world all she ever dreamed about was diamonds and pearls, She met a man he was great just for a week then when she was comfortable he put her on the street, told her to make his money so both of em could eat, she was scared so she did it hoping he would see that a girl like her didn't belong on the street's. She was wife material she had all these big dreams, sooner or later her dreams would fade, after all those nights of being on the street she was sick she was tired she was lost she was beat. Hurting inside but nobody could see she faked a smile but her pain ran deep, she was done with the streets she was ready to leave but he put his 40 to her face and told her if she leave he'd pull the trigger and watch her bleed....................
Seventh Grade. I wrote a poem about a solider who couldn't unsee all the damage wrought on his friends and brothers. My mother cried. Asked, “what have I done? For you to write such despairing things?”
Eighth Grade. My English teacher tried to “Harness” my talent, in the raw. Pushed me into competitions Of which I had no interest.
Freshman Year. I got accused of plagiarism. After all, What could I possibly know of the world's tragedies, after a mere 14 years spent here? I was told to “stick to something a 14-year-old girl would right. So it isn't obvious.”
Sophomore Year. I wrote about the boy who held my heart. Because that's what 15-year-old girls write about. Or so I've been told.