A personal essay about my (epic) rebellion

I’m normally the picture of calm and in control of my emotions. However, one day, strangely and completely, I wasn’t.

I just lost it. I lost my shit.

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BEEEEEEEEP. My school’s bell screamed at 3:30 and I, as usual, took forever packing up as I was chatting to the Mr. Farr about the interesting take on my research paper that I developed late last night. My friends and I catch the bus together and we often had the most interesting conversations on the way home so I rushed down to them, skipping the last two stairs with my shiny black shoes and went to them and-

“Can’t go today, sorry”

“I’ve got an appointment, I forgot to text you!”

Disappointed, I made my way down the limestone stairs out of the property and headed to the Middle Road bus stop alone when I would normally be with friends.

That proved to be my first mistake.

As I walked down the hill, the sweltering sun made me take off my sweater. The little shade that was left in the mid April season seemed to be almost fleeting. It was my junior year (year 12 as we call it) and I was gearing up to apply to college so tensions were running high but I was glad for these hours spent at home before doing it all over again. I was busy oiling up my college app scores and extra-curricular profile, greasing and polishing it till it was as good as I could get it. There’s a different teacher on duty to watch over the students everyday and as soon as I saw that it was Mr. Smith, I sighed. Given the way he coldly treated me in class that week, I began to think he was already probably mad from the week before, when I got on the bus when he was talking to me because I had my Airpods in and didn’t hear him.

I turned out to be right.

He started by probing me, “What class did you just have last?” “How did you get to the front of the line?”, “Why are you standing there instead of in line?” The matte pink and blue bus normally bustles in around 2 to 20 minutes from now courtesy of our subpar bus system. My eyes flitted around looking for any signs that the bus was coming. Nothing. I was going to have to stick it out for the long haul on this one. “As upper year students, we’ve been allowed to stand here to wait for the bus,” “ Since when?” “I’ve seen several year 13s do it and us year 12s do it too,” “Oh, really?”.

My cheek twitched. My bottom lip curved downwards in distaste.

“Yes.” I hoped that my curt answer would cut the conversation short.

“You should go to the back of the line. It’s easier that way since that rule isn’t in the student handbook”. The cars were still going and the trees were still blowing in the wind but everything seemed to still to me as I looked at him from under the shelter. My right foot tapped twice. My tight lips unclenched and my shoulders slumped. I may have been willing to let him have his way.

“No, we really are allowed to be here.” This was getting childish and my pride surprised me as I defended my stance instead of listening to authority. I noticed his eyes widen and his mouth open in a clear “o”. I could have laughed then. Maybe he knew that.

Behind him, with wide eyes and gaped mouths, the primary and middle schoolers who looked up to me as the Deputy Head Boy of the School watched on, unable to utter a single thing. The blood rushed cheeks of his were from anger but mine were from the one thing more powerful: embarrassment. That was what got my blood to boil and the temperature of the bus stop seemed to skyrocket as I ditched the voice who gave me moderation. Like an ape who had been provoked, I decided to put this white man in his place. Woah, you may think I jumped to conclusions or over-reacted by adding the ‘white’ but that was what I felt in my surge of anger at Mr. Smith trying to tell me - a black boy - to get to the back of the line at a primarily white private school in a primarily black country I call home. The moments of hazily recognized uncomfortableness in school abruptly resurfaced and steamed as I felt my pulse quicken and head pound as I unconsciously prepared to act completely out of character. While I don’t recall the date of this incident, flashes of December 1st, 1955 came to mind and I felt empowered to speak my mind. In the same fashion that Rosa Parks felt empowered to stand, I felt a sudden burst of courage to do the same. One could now hear my voice from the back of the line as I firmly refused to move and Mr. Smith became more and more undone. Halfway through this blur, a quote came to mind that my grandma used to say: what’s done is done. Since I already got angry and spoke my mind, I thought that I may as well be confident in what I did and all thoughts of consequences that are usually rampant in my mind ceased in one peaceful moment, contrastingly, as everything around me went to chaos.

Time slowed, I looked down, and the smooth, thin, brown docksiders stared back at me in my wide, polished, black shoes. Looking behind him, the lines of pairs of docksiders seemed to glare back at me, and that was when it clicked. Those pristine docksiders seemed to grow feral and foreign, morphing and revealing their true darker colors, as if hissing and screaming:

you. are. different.

The fundamental distinction between us - black and white - were reflected even down to our shoes. Retrospectively, I was so mad because no matter how good I tried to be and driven to always follow the rules, even when no one else would, the one time I slip up and be imperfect, it seemed like I would always be berated. I realized that my recent isolation in classes and struggle with identity as a minority in my school were linked. I had to actively fight back against those who oppressively acted off of the privilege that they were born with. No matter who it was.

I took a step forward, and another. Surprisingly, he took a step back. “Mr. Smith, I’m going to need you to calm down and don’t talk to me like that. I may be a student but that doesn’t mean I’m your friend. Have some respect. Respect is earned and you lost it. So step back and don’t bother me. The fact that you really held onto your anger for a whole week makes me want to laugh right in your shocked face, but I won’t. I’ll keep paying your salary for the next few months until you leave this damn school so leave me alone.” “Just because I pay attention and do well in class doesn’t mean that I’m a pushover so get it straight and don’t ever talk to me like that again.” I finished screaming at him, my face flushed with the thrill and excitement of finally standing up for myself and my rights and being honest with myself.

He stuttered and sputtered and yelled and screamed to write an apology letter, but all that went in one ear and out the other. I was shaking, ready to call my mom and tell her that I wanted an apology letter and Mr. Smith better give it.

*names changed for privacy