then picks up his salad fork and spears a radish. For him, the matter is decided.
Latham Auditorium is alive with voices as we wait for the presentations to begin. I sink deep into the admiral-blue velvet seats. Seniors from Alcott and Eldridge are unmistakable in their maroon or gray blazers, eager as we are to know the outcomes. Four awards are given, and the Jabec always comes after community service and before the essays. I can hardly breathe as the lights dim and faculty judges take the stage.
Ryan sits two rows ahead of us, watching her grandfather onstage as he waits to give an introduction. You’d never know the lie she’s holding, sitting totally collected between her parents in her Caswell uniform while the community service awards are handed out. When she keeps tucking her hair behind her ear, her mom discreetly pulls her hand away.
Mom lays her palm over my knee. The warm pressure stops my leg from jumping. She winks my way as bluesy jazz is piped in through the speakers. A self-portrait of a tanned Jabec Beard with a shaved head stares out at us, the years of his life scrawled underneath.
“Jabec Beard,” Ms. Teresi begins, “is remembered and celebrated for the stunning pieces he gifted the world.”
Some of his most famous works brighten the movie-theater-sized screen behind her with colors, angles, words, and feeling. Everyone drinks in the images, especially me.
“But he was more than just an artist; he was a seeker of truth in all things, and devoted his life to encouraging people to go after their inner truth and challenge the barriers put around them and the expectations suppressing them,” Ms. Teresi continues. “He yearned for everyone to find his or her authentic self, and that is why this year’s prize theme, Tell. Your. Truth., is so relevant for our students. These are the years where they question with open hearts, explore with abandon, and discover with amazement the courage to do so. The pieces you’ll see this evening were chosen from a talented and inspiring pool, bearing witness to what he sought to inspire.”
I can hardly draw in air as the lights go dimmer. A hush falls over the room as work from an Eldridge student demands everyone’s attention. It’s the kind of piece people sit on museum benches for hours staring at, with its deliberate brushstrokes and moody color palette of blues and grays. A scene of a lone boy in the rain. The next painting is equally as powerful—sneakers at the edge of a cliff, a lively carnival on a cloud high in the sky, fog below.
All the pieces tell an honest story.
Then I bite at my lip as Ryan’s back goes rigid. Jabec Beard’s Broken Reflections comes into focus. Ryan’s grandfather nods her way from the stage as claps sprinkle through the audience when the added work is revealed.
My work!
“In an unconventional twist, one of our students has literally used Jabec’s truth as a foundation for her own.” Ms. Teresi’s hand opens in Ryan’s direction. Her parents give a wave and nod like it is their work on display. Ryan remains motionless.
But I know she is more than cracking inside.
Then a brown face, my face, with jet-black hair pulled into a high bun, fills the screen with color ribboning all around it. Glitter cascades down the cheekbones, as I bite a gag that tries to silence me. Dad’s looking, but he’s not focused on the image. I want to scream, Look, Dad, look! Look at me! The real me.
When the slide zooms in, quiet gasps poke the air as people realize the brown of the skin is made up of dozens of sepia-toned scenes, photographs, portraits, and strips of fabric from my sketchbooks.
This collage is all of me.
As I balloon with disbelief that I created this, that everyone is seeing my true world, I can see from where I’m sitting that Ryan crumples.
When the image shifts to the teeth digging into an unmistakable hunter-green scarf patterned with little foxes, Ryan flinches, turning slightly to me. But I don’t have time to watch her sweat over the gift she once gave me as the focus turns to a drawing of a man hugging a little girl in bobby socks and puffballs. Dad leans forward, his attention caught. He straightens his already straight tie, clearing his throat, blinking as if he isn’t seeing things correctly. Then the complete piece fills the screen again. And everyone can see how the moments of my life weave together to create this determined, certain face. Mine. Dad turns to me and I expect to see anger, but a storm is not there. His eyes are soft.
He’s about to say something when Ms. Teresi adjusts the microphone. The music goes low.
“This multilayered piece was left at my door with only a few minutes to spare, but the creator, who is obvious to some of us, still failed to sign it.” Ms. Teresi searches the crowd, and then her eyes lock on mine. “It’d be a shame if this talent remained silent. And this work couldn’t officially be considered.”
Every part of me is shaking, but I know this is the moment I’ve been trying to build my courage up to for so long. I glance at my dad, whose eyes are glued to me. I nod to him. He only blinks, seeing if I’ll fight.
I stand, legs trembling, then I hold my head high and say as loud as I possibly can, “This is my story. This is my truth.”
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