Black Enough. Группа авторов

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.”