by Payton Ware
It’s 7:30 a.m., and the girl awakes with an excitement that could only be attributed to childlike delight. After all, she was an all-American girl, and it was the Fourth of July; she had it all planned out. Her best pair of jeans, five clips to decorate her kinky hair, and her favorite sweater. It was a little big, but it was perfect, white with an American Flag carefully embroidered into it. Thousands of stitches, carefully placed to celebrate the country she loved so dearly. It couldn’t have been better, especially because in that moment, she had no idea that she was going to be called a dirty negro for the first time while watching fireworks explode on that hill. How could she? It was her first day in a new state after moving from up north, so it was bound to be a little different from what she was used to. However, what had confused her the most was the way those teenagers pointed at her sweater as they said it. As if to say not only was she Black, but she had also fooled herself into believing she was a real American. They were wearing a flag of red, white, and blue, too, but theirs were funny-looking. Red with a blue cross that had white stars neatly ordered in it. It seemed familiar in a way she couldn’t place. She cried a lot that night and wished her brown skin away.
It took weeks, but eventually she got used to it, the stares, the stereotypes, and those funny-looking flags. Really, it wasn’t all that bad; she still cried a lot, but she had created a set of rules to navigate her new life.
Rule 1: Avoid it, steer clear of those whose eyes fill with hate when they see skin
built for the sun.
Rule 2: Never let them see you sweat. Don’t give them the satisfaction of having made
your heart ache.
Rule 3: Silence, don’t talk back, stay quiet, stay safe, your mother’s waiting for
you at home.
That girl followed these rules to a T. She hid under hoodies, glasses, and baggy shirts. It certainly didn’t help her make friends in her new school, and she still couldn’t shake the feeling she had towards that odd flag; it was as if they had been acquainted before.
Time of course didn’t stall; months turned into years, and before she knew it, nothing fazed her. Stronger than ever, but she fortunately never presented herself as such. Being a strong black girl in South Carolina is a crime, one that is too often deemed punishable by death.
Hate is loud and love is often quiet, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there. It’s painted in the sky and in the lovely sunrises that can only be seen properly in rural states, and even then, there’s nowhere quite like South Carolina. If you look closely, you’ll notice that the sky above the fields, where black and brown hands dug holes in the earth, always seems magical. Even under the red, white, and blue of the Confederates, where her ancestors had been forced to support a cause they didn’t believe in, this state still felt like home. Perhaps the familiarity she felt towards that flag of hate was the collective experience she shared with her ancestors of defending a place that detests you, but one that you love so deeply.
South Carolina is a state with something uniquely special about it. You can see it in the vines of yellow jessamine crawling up trees, in neighbors laughing together, and little Black children who smile when they walk into a room. We can be better, nicer, and more empathetic towards one another. This can be a state in which kindness, an immensely southern value, is extended to all. I know that reality is possible because that girl stopped hiding; she met unconditionally considerate people, and she realized that her ancestors’ plight was not a burden but a motive. To live life as it should be lived: loud and unashamed. She no longer wished to get rid of her brown skin; she knew she deserved to exist just as everyone else did. Instead, she wished for a kinder state that flew a flag of unity instead of hate, because South Carolina is a beautiful place, but it could be so much lovelier.
About Payton Ware
Payton Ware is a junior at Fountain Inn High School, where her AP U.S. history teacher, Jennifer Minton, has played a pivotal role in her writing journey. The daughter of Ayanna Hawkins, Payton hopes to attend Winthrop University’s Honors College and pursue a career related to neurology or psychology. She has a passion for art, particularly drawing with graphite, and plays electric guitar and piano.