Amina Davis is used to lurking behind the shadows but when she's thrust into the toxic political world of Elkwood Academy's high school, she is forced to navigate through her small hyper-conservative town, let her voice be heard, and step out of the shadows for the first time with radical new girl Laura Johnson by her side.
Amina Davis is used to lurking behind the shadows but when she's thrust into the toxic political world of Elkwood Academy's high school, she is forced to navigate through her small hyper-conservative town, let her voice be heard, and step out of the shadows for the first time with radical new girl Laura Johnson by her side.
Okay, so remember that school you used to go to?Ā
You know, that nice one. Modern looking, maybe a smidge traditional. Relatively large, spacious classrooms, nice uniforms and a strict dress code. Yeah, thatās the one; pretty Christian, pretty private, pretty white. And in all honesty, that last fact in itself isnāt the problem.
No, the problem is the fact that youāre in this sea of white, and youāre the one black speck.
On top of that, the one thing that Iām sure might resonate oh-so-deeply with you is that moment when the teacher would decide to talk about racism or slavery.Ā
And every single eye would be on you.
Thatās me right now. And when I say āevery single eye,ā I mean every single eye: from the kids who could normally give less than a crap about history class, to the other top tier nerds in front who barely interact with me if they can help it.Ā
Theyāre not even subtle about it, and pale eyes are burning into my skin, which is practically on fire, by the way.Ā
Meanwhile, we have Ms. Wilson in front, short, dirty blond hair tucked precariously behind her ear, as she goes on about the Atlantic slave trade, and how my ancestors were whipped and tortured and abused.
Fun.
Her eyes flicker to me for almost a tenth of a second before they go back to blatantly avoiding me.
I hear a sound from behind me, a scoff or snicker of some kind. Iām thinking some strange mix of the two.
My eyes drift in the direction the sound came from as subtly as they can.Ā
Messy hair, a consistently arrogant grin stretched onto his lips, his entire aura dripping in pure future fratboy.
Brett. Brett McSomething. McKelly? McClain? Iāll never remember.Ā Ā
Heās positioned with his eyes on the teacher, a pencil lazily positioned between his thumb and forefinger, and the shadow of a smirk on his lips. Move up a bit and youāll see his pale blue eyes and brushed brown hair that heās certain makes him the most attractive being in the space.
Brett is the one your parents shouldāve warned you about: a never-dropping cold expression, a cool demeanor that commands the universe, a scathing glance that drags all attention to him in seconds. When the universe fears you, youāre indomitable.
With Brett, thereās no semblance of calm, no thoughtfulness, no understanding of the fact that he isnāt the sun, or that the rest of us donāt in fact orbit around him like serf-esque planets.Ā
However, itās far too early and I havenāt had any coffee, so I donāt dwell on the thought.
Instead, I will my gaze back to the front to Ms. Wilson who is emphatically talking about how everyone was negatively impacted by the slave trade, or how it gave descendants of slaves better opportunities than their African counterparts, or something equally as scary and staggeringly inaccurate.
Even so, Iām planning on saying exactly nothing.
After all, thatās my role in the school. The black girl that does not utter a word unless mandatory. Someone who stays quiet through every untruth told during history class; an aid to help the majority feel comfortable.Ā Ā Ā
As a āminorityā, in this country and in this class, Iām the one student whose ancestors actually lived through the hell that Ms. Wilson is trying so hard to downplay.Ā
Minority. Strange how the word slips from peopleās lips in such an othering way.
As in, one of those things is not like the other.
Brett raises a hand as Ms. Wilson is speaking and I internally exhale an exhausted gust of air.
āYes, Brett?ā she asks, dropping whatever she was saying to let him speak.Ā
My mind flickers back to the few times that Iāve raised my hand in this class, Ms. Wilsonās response usually being a āhold your thought, Amina, Iāll get back to you in a minute.āĀ
Sheās never actually gotten back to me, but I digress.
āIām wondering why all this focus on black slavery is necessary,ā he starts, and other students physically recoil at the dreaded word, and the unapologetic audacity he possesses to ask that bold a question smack in the middle of class, āseeing as tons of other races were enslaved.ā He finishes it with a glance in my direction as though heās waiting for me to say something.Ā
I say nothing.
āThatās a good question, Brett,ā Ms. Wilson lies through her teeth. Although, maybe she genuinely believes it. Iām not sure which is worse. āItās because as good citizens and students, itās important to look back on history and understand the mistakes that have been made in order to improve.ā She nods emphatically, grey eyes wide and passionate.
My mind tosses that thought over in my mind; whether slavery should be classified as a āmistakeā. After all, the word āmistakeā is for when you drop a fruit in the grocery aisle. A mistake is when someone jostles another person at the airport. A mistake is when you forget your math homework at home the day itās due.
Capturing and enslaving an entire race for over four centuries? I trill my lips. Not sure if mistake is the word sheās looking for.
That being said, Iām sure the answer is supposed to satisfy Brett, but heās not done. āInteresting point, Ms. Wilson,ā he nods, speaking in the charismatic way he always has, ābut I feel like itās become a bit of a crutch for the black community and is starting to do more harm than good.ā
A blonde girl to my left makes a small gasp at the somewhat alienating label of āthe black communityā and my eyebrows fly upwards at the word ācrutchā.
Thereās some value in talking about how you snatched people from their land, shipped them halfway across the world, tortured, abused and assaulted them, hung them, set them on fire, and benefited off their enslavement for centuries. I bring my bottom lip beneath my teeth. History canāt be erased. Brett knows this.
Of course, Iām better off not voicing that statement.
Ms. Wilson visibly fumbles for words and Brett raises an arrogant eyebrow, waiting for the lady to formulate a coherent sentence. āI donāt know if thatās particularly appropriate, Brett.ā Her eyes dart to me, āI think itās still important to talk about since itās quite a significant part of global history andā¦ ā she chuckles nervously, āthis is history class, after all.ā
Her words are feathers, barely grazing the surface.Ā
There's more to the Triangle Trade that separates it from other types of enslavement.Ā
Thatās what I want to say.Ā
No other slavery was based on race. Thatās what I would add. After all, if thereās anything Iāve learned from Debate with Mr. Pham, context in an argument is everything.Ā
I tilt my head to the side.Ā
If I had a voice, I would tell the class that the belief that people were inferior due to their race was what gave slave owners the liberty to do whatever the hell they wanted to their slaves.Ā
Shaking my head, I click my pen. Once, twice.Ā
If I had a voice, I would state that racism was created to justify it. Slavery. What I should say to the class is that racism was the game changer; something unseen in other types of slavery.Ā
Also happened to be the first and only large-scale slavery operation that history had ever seen.Ā
Tilting my head to the side, I hold my pen to my bottom lip in thought.Ā
Comparison, analysis. Always emphasized in an argument.
Whoever was the descendant of a Roman slave some two thousand years ago? Not exactly distinguishable from a descendant of a Roman emperor in this day and age.Ā
Ergo, they canāt be treated differently.
In another world, I wouldāve told Brett that Roman slaves were literate, were allowed to read, had slaves of their own. Meanwhile, black slaves were lynched or tied to train tracks for even attempting to read.
I exhale a silent laugh. Thereās a reason that the word āslaveryā is associated with the Atlantic slave trade. My lips quirk upwards. It was one of a kind.
However, in this world, I donāt utter a word to Brett. This world is far too big for me to fit into. In this world, Iām miniscule and silent and non-existent, and my words are not meant to rise to the atmosphere.
āWell, I thinkāā Brett starts, ready to continue grilling Ms. Wilson, but the bell rings, saving us from the rest of the painfully uncomfortable conversation.
Practically jumping to my feet, I shuffle my supplies, more than ready to be done with that conversation, and the other teenagers around me seem just as eager to head out.Ā
Eyes flicker about uncomfortably, eyes that were not-so-subtly burning into my skin moments ago.Ā
āWeāll continue this discussion next class,ā Ms. Wilson forces a pretentious smile onto her lips and Brett rolls his eyes once her gaze is off him.
I tuck my stuff into my backpack as Ms. Wilson lets us know about the homework for today, and Iām out the door a few moments later, behind the swarm of kids that are leaving the classroom.
I raise a hand to the side of my face. Still burning hot. Then Iām shaking my head, heading over to my locker and making sure to avoid brushing past anyone.Ā
Iāve always seen history class as a living, walking nightmare. Stu-Co elections are fast arriving and all competition is hashed out in classrooms.Ā
That being said, Brett McWhatever doesnāt necessarily have competition. Not anywhere else, and certainly not in the classroom.Ā
A feathery grin curves onto my lips.Ā
Typical.Ā
The world needs this book. Period.
This novel is an embodiment of the term 'microaggression,' but it is so much more than that. I will never have the experience of being a young black woman, but maybe through books like this one, I will understand my own privilege (but really, it's not about me). Maybe being the odd one out isn't always like this, but maybe it is. Amina and her family live in a small and predominantly white town as one of the few black families. Amina goes to the local Academy for high school as one of two black students - she is the only black female. When she describes the stereotypical high school lunch room cliques, she doesn't have a group. Amina has lived as different since it was pointed out to her at six years old. Six! I can't imagine being othered from such an early age and yet Daodu puts me right there into Amina's shoes. And Amina is a very self-aware teenager. Painfully self aware. Every single slight - micro or macro - she expresses to the reader so that you can start to understand what it's really like to be her and what it means to be a minority within a prejudiced and racist world.
This book made me so angry and I'm intensely impressed with the author for the way she wrote this story and the way she created a complex character like Amina. I raged at the bad and cheered for the good. I felt so much for Amina's struggles and despite the world pressing down on her, she is still a hopeful and positive person. At times I could feel Amina's anxiety coming alive from the pages and I could identify with that emotion.
A lot of story happens within this fast paced novel. The ending packs a punch and is intensely satisfying though I was still a bit saddened by the twist it took to get there. Saddened by the prejudice, saddened by the ridiculous othering, saddened by the power some people have over others, and saddened by my own unrealistic expectations showing how little I might understand about others. Read this book and others like it and you too can experience some empathy. I even had an 'aha' moment when Amina and her family experienced the n-word in two completely different settings and how they reacted to it and what it really meant to them.Ā
If you like well-written books about identity and high school drama, you will definitely enjoy this novel.