this i believe 2010

Being Content with MyselfKamaal Majeed - Waltham, Massachusetts As heard on NPR’s All Things Considered, May 7, 2007

“Why don’t you ‘act black’?”

Since my middle school years, I’ve been asked this question more than any other. It seems to me that too many people have let society program into their brains what should be expected of me, a black person, before ever interacting with me. But I believe in being who I am, not who others want me to be.

On my first day of high school, going into math class, Two of my classmates pointed and laughed at me. I initially thought my fly was open, or that something was stuck in my teeth. But as I took my seat, I heard one of the students whisper, “Why is a black person taking Honors?” So my fly wasn’t open. An honors level class had simply been joined by a student whose skin was an unsettling shade of brown.

Many people think my clothes should be big enough for me to live in. or expect me to listen exclusively to “black music.” In seventh grade, a group of my peers fixed their cold stares on my outfit: cargo shorts and a plain, fitting t-shirt. They called out to me, “Go get some ‘gangsta’ clothes, white boy.”

In one of my Spanish classes, as part of a review exercise, the teacher asked me, “¿Te gusta más la música de rap o rock?” “Do you like rap music or rock music more?” I replied, “La música de rock.” The look of shock on my classmates’ faces made me feel profoundly alienated.

I am now in my junior year of high school. I still take all Honors courses. My wardrobe still consists solely of clothes that are appropriate to my proportions. My music library spans from rock to pop to techno, and almost everything in between. When it comes to choosing my friends, I am still colorblind. I continue to do my best work in school in order to reach my goals; and yet, when I look in the mirror, I still see skin of that same shade of brown.

My skin color has done nothing to change my personality, and my personality has done nothing to change my skin color.

I believe in being myself. I believe that I – not any stereotype – should define who I am and what actions I take in life. In high school, popularity often depends on your willingness to follow trends. And I’ve been told that it doesn’t get much easier going into adulthood. But the only other option is to sacrifice my individuality for the satisfaction and approval of others. Sure, this can be appealing, since choosing to keep my self-respect intact has made me unpopular and disliked at times, with no end to that in sight. Others’ being content with me, though, is not nearly as important as my being content with myself.

Kamaal Majeed is a high school student in Waltham, Mass. In addition to his studies, he works part-time at the local public library, and enjoys studying foreign languages and writing a personal journal. Majeed hopes to pursue a career in journalism.

Independently produced for NPR by Jay Allison and Dan Gediman with John Gregory and Viki Merrick.

We’re All Different in

Our Own WaysJoshua Yuchasz - Milford, Michigan As heard on NPR’s All Things Considered, October 16, 2006

What if everyone in the world was exactly alike? What if everyone talked the same, acted the same, listened to the same music, and watched the same T.V. programs?

The world would be extremely dull! I believe it’s important to accept people for who they are.

Differences are important and they should be respected. For example, many important people throughout history were considered different, such as Thomas Edison, Albert Einstein, Harriet Tubman, Peter Tchaikovsky, and Abraham Lincoln. They did great things, but some people thought they were weird, because they had strong feelings about something. I can relate to these people, because I’ve been in that situation before, many times.

It all started in elementary school when I realized that I wasn’t like everyone else. My mom says that I have a tendency of obsessing on certain subjects. Unfortunately, these subjects don’t interest other kids my age and they really don’t interest my teachers. In fact, my kindergarten teacher said she would scream if I mentioned snakes or lizards one more time, while she was teaching the days of the week. I would get in trouble for not paying attention, and the teasing began.

In third grade, my teacher informed me that I have Asperger’s Syndrome, and I said, “So what? Do you know that Godzilla’s suit weighs 188 lbs.?:

Later, I asked my mom, “What is Asperger’s Syndrome? Am I gonna die?” She said that it’s like having blinders on, and that I can only see one thing at a time, and that it’s hard to focus on other things. Like, I would tell anyone and everyone that would listen about Godzilla, because my big obsession was, and still is, Godzilla — not a real popular subject with the middle school crowd, and so the teasing continues.

I might be different, because I have different interests than other teenagers, but that doesn’t give them the right to be so mean and cruel to me. Kids at Oak Valley make fun of me for liking what I like the most.

People also make fun of me for knowing facts about volcanoes, whales, tornadoes, and many other scientific things. My mom says that she has been able to answer many questions on Jeopardy just by listening to what I have to say, but I’ve even been ridiculed for being smart.

Maybe someday, I’ll become a gene engineer and create the real Godzilla. I can dream, can’t I?

Sometimes I wish I were like everyone else…but not really. Because I believe people should be respected for being different. Because we’re all different in our own ways.

Fourteen-year-old Joshua Yuchasz is a high school freshman in Milford, Michigan. He plays in his school’s concert band and on its football team. In addition to Godzilla, Yuchasz likes other reptiles including Bubba, his pet red-tailed boa constrictor.


America’s Beauty Is

In Its DiversityAlaa El-Saad - Austin, Texas As heard on NPR’s Tell Me More, January 29, 2009

America is built on the idea of freedom, and there is no exception for Muslim women. I believe in the freedom of religion and speech. But mostly, I believe it’s OK to be different, and to stand up for who and what you are. So I believe in wearing the hijab.

The hijab is a religious head covering, like a scarf. I am Muslim and keeping my head covered is a sign of maturity and respect toward my religion and to Allah’s will. To be honest, I also like to wear it to be different. I don’t usually like to do what everyone else is doing. I want to be an individual, not just part of the crowd. But when I first wore it, I was also afraid of the reaction that I’d get at school.

I decided on my own that sixth grade was the time I should start wearing the hijab. I was scared about what the kids would say or even do to me. I thought they might make fun of me, or even be scared of me and pull off my headscarf. Kids at that age usually like to be all the same, and there’s little or no acceptance for being different.

On the first day of school, I put all those negative thoughts behind my back and walked in with my head held high. I was holding my breath a little, but inside I was also proud to be a Muslim, proud to be wearing the hijab, proud to be different.

I was wrong about everything I thought the kids would say or even do to me. I actually met a lot of people because of wearing my head covering. Most of the kids would come and ask me questions—respectfully—about the hijab, and why I wore it.

I did hear some kid was making fun of me, but there was one girl—she wasn’t even in my class, we never really talked much—and she stood up for me, and I wasn’t even there! I made a lot of new friends that year, friends that I still have until this very day, five years later.

Yes, I’m different, but everyone is different here, in one way or another. This is the beauty of America.

I believe in what America is built on: all different religions, races and beliefs. Different everything.

Fifteen-year-old Alaa El-Saad is a student at John B. Connally High School in Austin, Texas. She hopes to study medicine and become a pediatrician. El-Saad says she wants help children learn to embrace their differences and accept who they are.


A Duty to Family, Heritage and CountryYing Ying Yu - Princeton Junction, New Jersey As heard on NPR’s Morning Edition, July 17, 2006

I am a good child, obedient. I grew up in China, a country where education is the center of every child’s life and a grade less than 85 percent is considered a failure. Grades mean more to us than a mother’s smile, more than the murmur of a wish lingering on birthday candles. I had homework during lunch, math and language classes two times a day. There were punishments for not paying attention. I was beaten with a ruler. I learned to do anything to get a good grade.

I believe in duty, but that belief comes with sacrifice. The achievements I make come with a cost.

I remember first grade, the red scarf flapping tantalizingly in the wind, wanting more than anything to be the first one to wear it, that, the symbol of responsibility, excellence and loyalty. The first thing that flashed to mind when I put it on was how glad my family would be, how proud the motherland would be of the child it had borne and how my accomplishments would look on a college application.

All my pride, love, self-esteem — they merge into duty. There have been times I wanted to throw away everything, but duty and obligation were always there to haunt me and to keep me strong. I would think: My parents and grandparents brought me up, my country gave me shelter, my teachers spent so much time building my foundations just to have me throw it all away? No, I can’t do that! I must repay all that they have done. “I must,” “I should,” “I have to,” all those little phrases govern my life and the lives of many of my classmates. We struggle on because duty reminds us that the awaiting success is not just for us. It’s for our families, our heritage and our country.

I used to want to be a gardener. I liked working outdoors and the gritty feel of dirt was much more tangible than a bunch of flimsy words strung together. But I can never grow up to be a gardener. Everything I have done so far points to the direction of becoming a lawyer. That’s a job my family wholeheartedly supports.

There is no other choice for someone who’s been brought up by such a strict system, someone who has ambition. Here in America, there is almost a pressure to follow your dreams. I don’t want any more dreams — dreams are illusions. And it’s too late for me to work toward another future, to let the foundations I have built go to ruins.

I believe in the power of duty to impel. Only duty will offer me something true, something worthy of my effort and the support of my family and country. Duty can bring me to an achievement that is greater than I am.

Ying Ying Yu was 13 years old when her social studies class was assigned to write This I Believe essays. Yu and her parents immigrated to the United States in 2001. She starts high school this fall in Princeton, New Jersey.


The Bird Who Broke Through the WindowDylan - San Anselmo, California Entered on September 7, 2006

My whole life I have viewed myself as a spectator. Telling myself I’m not someone who can make a difference. I wished I could be. I thought that maybe, someday, possibly, hopefully, I could inspire a change… But I need to finish my homework first. Or I need to wait until I have the time. I left the work up to someone else. Someone else who is powerful, inspiring, and creative, all of these characteristics that I would never use to describe myself. I lived by the mantra “not me”.

This summer I looked at my life. At my identity. I asked myself who I really am. What I really believe in. What I want and what is keeping me from getting it. During this inquiry, I saw how I was my only obstacle. I was the only person who said I can’t change the world. I was confined in my own version of reality masquerading as the truth. A reality that I had created and had told myself I couldn’t change.

At a conference that I attended this summer, I heard Craig Kielburger, the founder of Free the Children; speak about his life and work as a political activist. My initial thoughts when I saw him were, Good for him, but I could never do that. I’m horrible at public speaking. Nobody would ever listen to me. I’m not like him… Within the fist couple minutes of his speech I had already limited my own potential, I had already told myself “not me”. At the end of Kielburger’s speech, he looked toward the audience and said, “Every single person in here can make a difference to better the world”. It was the same line I had seen on posters and heard over and over again, but for some reason this time I was moved by his words. In my seat, I took out a crumpled piece of paper and a pen and wrote: I will make a difference. After I set down my pen, I looked at that piece of paper for a long while, realizing its implications, feeling the weight of the commitment I had just made. The words began to overwhelm me and my self doubts resurfaced. I quickly scratched out what I wrote.

I cried in my room that night at my own defeat. I saw how trapped I felt and how afraid I was of my own power. I felt like a bird stuck in a house. I could see the outside through the window, but each time I tried to fly out, I flew smack into the glass. I then realized that I, myself, had constructed the glass. I had created my own fear, and if I was willing to be brave, I could break through it. I had never been more scared and yet so inspired in my life. I took out another piece of paper and wrote the words again: I will make a difference. That night I chose to live by those words. I changed my mantra to “Yes me”.

This I believe, and this is what I live by: every single person can make a difference. It’s a scary and seemingly impossible responsibility. But it’s simply a question of whether you’re willing to acknowledge your own power. There are no limitations except the ones we place on ourselves. However, if we replace those limitations with possibilities, imagine what’s capable of the world and humanity. I submit this essay with the commitment to inspire other people like myself, who doubt they can be the difference, because I know that any and every person can if they choose to. In addition, I ask a simple question that has been the basis of my own life’s transformation: Who do you want to be and what is keeping you from being that person?

This I BelieveNaomi - El Paso, Texas Entered on December 1, 2005

When we think of a revolutionary, we envision Gandhi, Che, and even Mother Theresa. We think of documented battles of sacrifice, death, blood, and tears. However, we never stop to think of this term as something associated to our own community; our own personal liberators. We do nothing more but take and regurgitate what is handed to us, including the very meaning of words. Although words have long been established, their conventional definitions leave us with meanings decomposed and never restored. We then go on in life never truly being aware of our surrounding revolutionaries; such as those who exist in our own personal lives.

To me a revolutionary is one who stirs my emotions. They give people joy in witnessing the human spirit, through their innovation, transformation, or action. They make differences and are often withered but surviving, enriching but misunderstood.

Living on the border, I have met a great deal of humble people with silenced efforts. From my grandma, the immigrant who fought for a change in eleven children’s lives to see a world of education, to my neighbor, the displaced maquila worker, who transformed the border economy with her very hands, to even my flamenco teacher who invokes youth to make art with both body and soul; I have been blessed with an endless amount of friends that influenced a revolution within both my community and myself.

These everyday people are truly products of a struggle or idea worth fighting for. After battles won and lost, they continue to free those with no voice through their talent, ability, and love.

I believe, from the deepest pulses of my heart and the fastest flowing blood in my veins, that these people are the true revolutionaries. Without us ever truly realizing, they wake up each day and strive for a change in ways of thinking and behaving. They revolutionize situations through innovation, transformation, underground activity, correction, and action. They are the students the teachers, the farmers, the immigrants, the soldiers, the fathers, mothers and children. They are the women, displaced workers, activists, politicians, and artists. They are the first and the last. The beginning and the end. They are the you and the me.

The taste of a worker’s salty sweat, the composition of desert sand beneath our feet, and the sweet sound of a mixed language from the border voice, are all here for something. They will be music to our ears, and change our human emotions. They are here to learn from and we can all connect to their personal struggles and hope.

When we think of a revolutionary, sure–we envision the Gandhi, Che, and even Mother Theresa. But when I hear the word–I see a raised consciousness of the meaning. Why not transform the word to fit the friend, and the grandma, and the teacher? Why not use the power of the word to connect our personal saviors to existent battles.

The raw life, the beauty of our community, is after all– a revolution in itself.

I wish I had spent more time with my sister

1st place $50

By Bellen Avelar, Clark Magnet HS (La Crescenta)

I have always heard people say, “Don’t have any regrets.” For some reason I believed it was true. Why regret something if there is nothing you can do to change the past? On January 14, 2007 I realized that I did have one regret—not spending more time with Quira, my sister. Quira was a loving and caring person, someone who could make you smile. She had cerebral palsy and on January 14, 2007 she passed away.

I remember the day as if it were yesterday. The day before, my mom, Quira and I went to a birthday party. We got home late and woke up late the next morning. I had to run an errand and my mom went to the kitchen to make breakfast. I was with my sister Elsy’s husband when he got a phone call. He told me to run to his car. I was scared not knowing what was going on. It felt like the longest car ride of my life. When we were about five minutes away from my house he told me that maybe my sister had passed away. I could not move. I could not cry. My body went cold. When I got home I saw the ambulance and my family around my house. I ran and saw my mom and Elsy crying and I knew it was true, Quira was dead. I have never felt so much pain in my life. I started to cry and hugged Elsy.

For the next few days my life was a blur. I would go to school and forget Quira was dead and feel that she was still alive, but when I would get home, the day of her death replayed. It was a recurring nightmare.

As time went by I started to think of all the things Quira and I had not done together, all the things she missed in life. I regret not doing more for her. I regret not telling her thank you for all the things she did for me. I regret not saying sorry for making her feel bad or for upsetting her. I regret not making an effort to help her when she needed my help. I regret not being there to defend her when people made fun of her. I regret not accompanying her when she had doctor appointments. I have many regrets when it comes to all of the things I could’ve done and did not do.

Now that she is dead I realize how much I didn’t do for her. If I could go back in time and be a better sister I would do it without thinking. I would change my attitude and help much more. I would stop being so selfish. I know death is a part of life, but that doesn’t stop death from hurting.

It has been almost three years since Quira passed away and I still feel terrible. When I heard about this contest I knew it was the perfect opportunity for me to let go of all the pain I feel. I want people to know to never go to sleep mad at someone or without telling the person “I love you” because you never know if they will wake up.

I want people to learn from my mistake and appreciate their loved ones. Now that I have written this I feel a lot better and hopefully I will no longer hold on to all these regrets. My sister passed away and holding on to regrets will not bring her back to life. Instead of thinking of all my regrets, I should focus on the beautiful moments we had together.

Photo by Jean Park, 16,Harvard-Westlake School (North Hollywood)

Bellen wears a jacket and pins that belonged to her sister Quira, who died almost three years ago.

this i believe 2010

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