2008 - Secondary - Honorable Mention - Colclough

It bothered me a lot, too. Every time he saw me, he would say, "Hey, Jamaican boy!" instead of my name. I told the teachers, but they didn’t do anything.

I cried.

My friend Jake would say,"Ignore him!" So I would.

It bothered me, though, because he would call me that name every day. I felt like no one understood how I felt when he called me that name.

One day my school bus was late, and Jake and I were late entering the cafeteria for breakfast. Then, Zachary shouted, "Jamaican boy is here!"

I felt as though I would explode with annoyance and anger.

Jake said, "Don’t listen to him."

The problem is I did. I got up and chased him down, around the tables of the cafeteria and out the door, and stopped only when my friend held me back. I started to cry in frustration.

My friend asked, "Why did you do that?"

"I had to," I said. "I’m tired of him calling me that name!"

He didn’t say anything. I looked up and saw anger in Jake's face. His face was red, and his hand was balled into a fist. He told me to go to class. I did. He went to.

During that day Jake, my good friend, had a fight with Zachary and almost got suspended from school. Zachary got in trouble and was suspended for a long time.

I felt good when my friend stood up for me, but sad that he almost got suspended.

At the end of all this, Zachary didn’t call me "Jamaican boy" anymore, and I felt better. Every now and then, though, when I think about that time, even now those words, "Jamaican boy" ring in my head over and over again.

What I failed to say is that my mother is Jamaican. What I failed to say is that no one should allow anyone to put down another person's history—that everyone should stand up for who they are!