Dear Mr. Nas,
I often think about the good ole days at Kennedy-King School—jumping double Dutch in the yard, dodging the horny boys at gym and reading Chloris and the Creeps for the hundredth time.
But what stands out most is the week leading up to sixth graduation, or should I say the day you gifted my valedictory speech to my friend with incredible use of outdoor voice. You announced it to the class like it was no big deal.
It was swift a donkey kick to my heart.
It was hard to believe the same person who wrote such glowing remarks on my report card—uh, with the exception that I was so quiet you’d forget I was in the room—would underestimate me.
Crushed didn’t begin to describe the tornado of anger and jealousy swirling around in my head. All those years of being quiet, shy and playing by the good girl rules conspired to take me down.
You had my attention.
But I was too scared to disagree, speak up, or simply fight back.
I needed you to see beyond the box someone else decided to stuff me into. That even though you and my classmates saw me as The Shy Girl, that I could rock the mic on graduation day.
I guess my 12-year-old self needed That Moment to happen. Maybe it would’ve taken me much longer to find my alter ego, The Shine Girl. Maybe it would’ve taken me much, much longer to go from shy girl to shine girl.
So for that, I should say thank you.
But I won’t.
The greatest lesson you could’ve taught me wasn’t some math equation I’d soon forget or even introducing me to The Friends by Rosa Guy, rather you should’ve shared a poignant story about the importance of courage and helped me find my voice.
Thankfully, fate gave me a second chance. Do you remember when the vice principal told me I’d won the “How a Book Makes Me Feel” contest and insisted that I recite my entry at graduation?
I do.
The No. 1 Mom, who’s a social butterfly and covert perfectionist, insisted that I master the speech until it leaked out of my ears in my sleep. Make eye contact!” Ma instructed. “Speak up! I need the parents in the back row to hear you. Good. Now do it again.”
My first few attempts were horrible. I sucked. But each time, Ma coached me on how to improve.
I got a better.
I got louder.
I got sick of hearing myself.
But I didn’t stop. I repeated that speech so many time the words were etched in my brain.
On graduation day, I trotted to the podium in a white lace dress with Baby’s Breath flowers tucked into my tight curls. My palms dripped sweat as my heart pounded like a marching band in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. I prayed for a swarm of locusts to fill the auditorium, followed by an earthquake.
The only thing that calmed me was this thought: I had prepared for This Moment. I took a deep breath, glanced at the crowd, thought about you and I freakin’ slayed like a vampire devouring her first neck sandwich. Revenge tasted sweeter than I imagined.
I had to show you that I could do this, but most of all I had to show myself.
The No. 1 Mom thought it was sweet of you to apologize after ceremony.
You said and I quote: “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
I wanted to spazz out, act the fool and scream: “How could you? You never offered to help me! Never gave me a sappy, ‘C’mon, you can do this pep talk.’” But anything other than a polite thank you would’ve been disrespectful.
Deep down I always knew I was more than just The Shy Girl. I never labeled myself this way, but others did and it just kinda stuck with me. I blame myself for that. Life wasn’t all gravy after graduation. I was 12 and middle school presented new ways to branch out and hurdles to leap over and sometimes I fell down—hard. But every day after That Moment, I made an effort to be The Shine Girl until it became second nature, like it is now.
These days, friends and family beg me to use my indoor voice. But I can’t. I simply refuse to be invisible, and I always shine.
