Today we are featuring Inklings Book Contest 2020 finalist, Parker Mach! Parker finished 8th grade this past school year. The story he submitted is called “Jaden.” Parker told us that the story was inspired by one of his favorite quotes: “Be the waves that crash against the rocks of injustice.”
JADEN
by Parker Mach
I breathe heavily as I walk towards the wooden door of the classroom, taking no notice of the people behind or in front of me.
Don’t attract attention to yourself, I think as I continue my trek towards my first class.
A spontaneous, gut-wrenching fear begins to crawl up my spine, and in order to keep myself from dropping to my knees and crying, I think of the words my mother said to me this morning, “Everything’s going to be okay, Jade. New school, new people, new friends.”
I can envision her skin, pale as snow, and her smile, which almost gleams in the light. Her hair is straight and has a brown tint to it, like mine.
“I know, mom, it’s just…” I began, twirling my curly hair as I looked at her with an almost pleading expression on my face.
“You’re different? Is that what you’re worried about?”
I cringe at the word as it goes through my mind.
Being different isn’t bad until other people realize it, then the oppression begins.
Remember what mom said: A new school means new people that will be your allies, who will accept your differences and defend you, I repeat this to myself as I grab the handle of the door, turn it, and pull it open. When I enter the classroom, I am met with voices, all talking about different subjects. I look to my right and find several groups scattered all over the class, clustered around a desk or two.
It appears that no one, thankfully, notices my entrance, so I briskly walk over to an empty desk on the left column of the room, set my backpack next to it, and sit down.
As soon as I feel the surprisingly soft wooden chair underneath me, I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
So far, so good, I think to myself as I open them back up.
Suddenly, I am aware of a tall figure at the front of the room. He appears to be behind the teacher’s desk and looks as if he is the guardian of the room as he gazes at its inhabitants.
As I study him further, I notice that he is a rather tall man, at least six-five, with beautiful auburn hair. His arms are so long that he could probably use them to touch both sides of the desk at once, and his legs are nearly double that length.
He is as thin as a pencil and wears spectacles that are currently at the tip of his nose. Their position makes him look stern, yet there is a broad smile on his face that is almost as inviting as the excited and happy gleam in his eyes.
He can’t be more than twenty, I think to myself as I study him further. He wears a nice, white, button-up shirt with navy blue jeans. Around his neck is a tie with flowers, all of which have every color of the rainbow on them.
His eyes catch mine and the happy gleam seems to slowly invade my mind until I am smiling a smile so wide that it hurts my cheeks. He waves at me, and this gesture makes me wonder if my mom was right about the fact that there are allies at this school.
The moment is over right after it begins, for the bell rings and the teacher diverts his attention to the rest of the class.
As some of my classmates begin to sit down, he stands up and walks to the front of the desk, which he sits on.
“Good morning everyone and welcome to your first day of eighth-grade history! I am Mr. Bianchi!” He exclaims in a cheerful voice.
A few groans emanate from the crowd, but other than this, the class is rather content.
“I will quickly be taking attendance and then we will immediately get into our first lesson. Now, let’s begin, Alexander Ayres…”
“Here!” A tall, brown-haired boy shouts as he raises his hand.
“Cleo Badami.”
“Present,” A short, olive-skinned girl says in an elegant voice.
“Artis Becker.”
They all seem so… normal, I think to myself as I study my classmates. I feel as if I am an open book, that people can tell that there’s something distinct about me that separates me from everyone else.
They don’t know anything about me, I reassure myself. They don’t know that I’m adopted, they don’t know, they can’t know! I begin to hyperventilate as a shiver goes down my spine even though the room feels nice and warm. My heart feels like it’s beating a hundred times per second as my mind is racing. They don’t know, they can’t know. Bu-bump, bu-bump, bu-bump.
“Jade Everest,” Mr. Bianchi says.
I don’t speak for a moment, knowing that if I do, my voice would sound shaky and fearful.
“Ms. Everest, are you alright?”
I clench my hands into fists in order to keep them from shaking. “I-I’m fine, and I’m also here.”
Mr. Bianchi smiles at this. “I am glad to hear that, Jade,” he says before he continues taking attendance. As he does, I begin to calm myself, taking several quavering deep breaths.
I barely notice that he’s finished attendance until he’s at the front of the room, facing the class. I quickly snap myself out of my stupor and bring my attention to him moments before he speaks.
“What do you all presume history is about?” Mr. Bianchi asks.
Several people raise their hands.
“Poppy.”
I turn around to figure out who he’s speaking to and find a boy with light brown hair drop his hand.
“It is about learning from the tragedies that have happened in the past,” Poppy says.
“You’re not wrong, but that’s not exactly the answer I was looking for.” Hands shoot up into the air as soon as he says this. “Cleo.”
“History is about trying to help people come together and cooperate in order to make peace.”
Sure, people come together, but there is never any lasting peace, I think to myself as I recall all of the atrocities people of color have endured in order to just get freedom. The sad thing is that the atrocities never seem to end for us
“You’re so close, but I’m looking for an answer that contradicts the definition that we’ve created in our heads about this subject. Alexander, let’s see what answer you have.”
“History is about dead people, that’s all there is to it.”
Everyone in the class laughs at this, including me, though Mr. Bianchi’s face has contorted into a frown. Once the laughter dies down, he begins to speak again. “It seems we have a comedian amongst us, but before he derails the class again,” Mr. Bianchi turns to Alexander and raises his eyebrow before continuing, “let me explain to you the meaning of history: difference.”
I shudder. No, no, no, no… Why do you have to bring this up now? Why can’t it wait?
“Difference is the cause of every bit of progress we, as a race, have made. Difference created the plane, the tank, the boat. Difference helped people of color and LGBTQIA+ people start groundbreaking revolutions that allowed us to change the ways we think about those different sects of humanity. Difference shaped the world into what it is today.”
I suddenly begin to feel enlightened by his words as they seep into me. What if my difference is okay? I ask myself. What if my difference can shape the world? But, as soon as this epiphany forms in my head, it vanishes as Mr. Bianchi continues his speech.
“The only drawback to difference is the fact that humans fear it, and, like master Yoda said, ”Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering.'”
Alexander raises his hand.
“Yes, Alexander?”
“Shouldn’t you be using quotes from like, I don’t know, historical figures or some educational organization?”
Mr. Bianchi’s smile broadens. “You’d be surprised how many quotes from movies, books, and TV shows can fit into our everyday lives, Mr. Ayres. I suggest you start paying a little more attention to them. Now, onto our first lesson of the year: What do you all know about the Civil Rights Movement?”
“Why aren’t we learning about Columbus first?” Cleo asks.
“I’ve decided to jazz things up a bit,” Mr. Bianchi replies.
When he says this, hands shoot up into the air, ready to answer his question.
Don’t attract attention to yourself, I repeat in my head as I watch Mr. Bianchi call on people and begin writing their answers down on the chalkboard behind his desk.
____
“Hi, Jade! How was school?” Mom asks as I walk through the door of our modest house.
“Good,” I say tiredly.
“Did anyone comment on your new outfit?”
“No,” Thankfully. I think to myself. Their comment would only mean that they knew something was amiss. That they knew, somehow, that I am trans.
“Shame, it looks really beautiful.”
“Thanks mom,” I reply as I glance down at my pink dress.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lie, knowing that she’ll see right through it.
She raises her eyebrow.
“Did someone say something about your dress?”
“No.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Nothing!”
“Who was there to protect you when Jeremiah, Sorin, and Valdese we’re pushing you around because you’re trans? Who was there to persuade the school to make them intervene? Who got you a gender-neutral bathroom at your old school so you would feel safer? Who helped you feel better after one of your classmates said that because you’re adopted, you’re not my real family?”
Tears well up in my eyes as she says this, and a quick, tiny sob escapes me. “You did, mom.”
“And don’t you forget it. If anyone else tries to knock you down, I’ll be there to pick you back up.”
“Thank you so…” I begin before the tears spill out from my eyes and onto my cheeks. I rush towards my mom, enveloping her in a tight hug.
“Never forget what I’ll go through for you.”
“I won’t, mom.”
“And remember, let your true colors shine.”
I will. I think to myself as she continues to envelop me in her embrace. I will let my true colors shine.
_____
“History often repeats itself. For example, in the first World War, the German atrocities such as the massacres of Aarschot and Andenne transferred into the second World War as the Holocaust. This is why we must learn history so that we don’t repeat it. Any questions?”
My hand shoots up.
“Yes, Jade?”
“May I use the restroom?” I ask.
“Of course.” He replies before continuing. “Cleo, what is your question?”
“How many–” I hear her voice begin before I close the door and enter the silent hallway. I begin to walk towards the two different bathrooms at the end of the corridor.
My footsteps echo through the hallway as my feet hit the tiled floor at a heightened pace. Which bathroom do I choose? Which bathroom do I choose? My heartbeat quickens as I near the doors and it feels as if there is a little rabbit inside my chest that is struggling to free itself. Which bathroom? Which bathroom? I am not even a yard from the doors. I want to make my decision quickly, but I don’t know what to do or where to go.
Then, all of a sudden, my mind makes its decision. I walk directly into the boys’ bathroom without stopping.
____
When I walk out, my pulse has slowed to a dull, thu-thump, thu-thump, and I am relatively calm. So much so that I barely even notice Alexander studying me.
“You’re a girl, right?” He asks.
I turn towards him, startled.
“Yes.”
“Then why’d you go into the boys’ bathroom?”
“Because… well… I’m trans, so…” I begin, scratching the back of my head as I try to come up with answers.
Alexander laughs. “That was a good joke! Trans! Where do you come up with this stuff Jade?”
What do you mean? I ask myself as I stare at him. I don’t say anything for a while, and the only sound in the hallway is his laughter.
When he finally stops, he looks over at me and sees that I’m not laughing. “Wait, you’re serious?”
“Yes.”
His expression changes and he suddenly looks like an angry bull about to charge me.
“Your kind shouldn’t exist. You don’t belong on this planet! Do realize what you’re doing to the world?” He pauses and glares.
I know exactly what I am doing to the world: I’m helping to change it, I think to myself.
He spits on the ground before walking past me towards the bathroom, bashing his shoulder into mine as he does so.
It seems that history is going to repeat itself, I think to myself as I walk back towards class, my head held high portraying not even an ounce of fear. It is time that I let my true colors shine brighter than ever before.
____
“Jade, may I speak with you for a moment?” Mr. Bianchi asks as he looks up from the stack of papers he’s grading for the last project of the year. Everyone else in the class had left, excited for the summer parties that they’re going to.
“Sure,” I say. Not another long speech, I groan inwardly.
“I am sorry if this year was a repeat of the previous one. I never thought Alexander would do such a thing to the kindest person in the class. I also apologize for the fact that history wasn’t written by people like you. I wish I could change that.” As he says this, his face is full of empathetic energy, which reaches his eyes.
“You have no reason to apologize, Mr. Bianchi.” It was all Alexander’s fault anyway.
He smiles for a moment before his expression returns to its original state.“I have something for you,” he says before standing up and walking towards me. In his right hand is a writing utensil that looks a lot thicker than the average pen or pencil.
“I want you to have this, for in order to show the world your true colors, you must write with every single one of them.” He puts the object in my hand, and when I bring it up to my eyes, I see that it is a shuttle pen.
It is a rather wondrous object with all its different levers and colors, and I smile, because it is unique, like me. “Thank you, Mr. Bianchi.” He really gets me, maybe there are more people in the world that are like him.
“The pen is mightier than the sword, Ms. Everest. You should get going, I wouldn’t want you to miss your whole summer.”
When he says this, I say goodbye and rush out of the classroom and begin my summer vacation.
____
Many years have passed, and I’ve grown into a beautiful young woman. I have a husband, three daughters, and a son. Their eyes shine with beautiful colors that remind me of the love I’ve received over the years.
It turns out that many people are willing to give love, and in order to see it, you need to accept who you are as a person. I will no longer hide in the shadows that have been cast upon me. I will no longer wish to be amongst the people who don’t have to choose which bathroom to go to.
I am me, and there’s nothing the world can do to take that away. I paint the world with my shuttle pen, and I wish for you to do the same.
So please, for my sake, be different.
