Category: Junior Literary

as every basic white girl stock character goes, my playlists are… mostly separated into seasons from fall of 2018 to fall of 2020, 2 years worth of seasonal playlists. the others, however, are oddly specific and poorly named

nyk: a playlist of songs i like that are in my best friend’s playlists – made for the sole purpose of playing when we hang out (so we both like the music). this playlist includes…

out of my league – fitz and the tantrums
needs – verzache
you’re somebody else – flora cash

truck: same idea as nyk, just with a different person.

slow dancing in the dark – joji
lalala – y2k
candy paint – post malone

adventure: hands down one of my favorite playlists, contains songs that make me want to travel the world and meet new people.

portland – bowling shoes
18 – anarbor
roman holiday – halsey

mellow vibes: sometimes a girly just needs to cry, and that’s okay

LA is lonely – ricky manning
back to december – taylor swift
would have loved her – chris bandi

hopeless romantic: what can i say? i’m a simp.

ophelia – the lumineers
coffee breath – sophia mills
wild love – james bay

hype: songs to just vibe to, super upbeat and chill.

tongue tied – grouplove
weather – freddie dredd
pretty girls – iann dior

   What does it mean to be an activist? I’m not gonna tell you how Webster Dictionary defines it, because this isn’t a research paper for seventh-grade English nor is it the introduction to a corny Wattpad novel. I personally think of an activist as someone who openly advocates for an idea that will positively change the lives of marginalized groups, whether that idea involves a social, political, or economic shift. When you read those first few sentences, you probably had the immediate thought of those who are protesting police brutality in our country. Although Black Lives Matter was founded in 2013, it is in the past year that we have seen an unprecedented amount of nonblack people showing support for the movement and advocating for social change. Being an ally to those who do not have the same amount of privilege as you is essential for movements like BLM; black people have been fighting for this change for their entire lives, but nobody listened until nonblack people in power (politicians, celebrities, content creators, etc.) acknowledged the fact that they were fighting anything at all. It shouldn’t be like this, but until it isn’t, as people in a systemic position of privilege, we have to understand the impact of our allyship and make sure we are using the platforms we have, no matter how small they may be, responsibly.

   I assume you know at least one person in your personal life who has shared information about Black Lives Matter on social media, whether they expressed general support for the movement, provided links to petitions, shared educational posts and resources, etc. Chances are, you know a lot of people who have done this…and you’ve probably noticed that many of those people only shared those things during the summer months. We are witnessing an alarming amount of what is known as performative activists, which is a term used to describe those who partake in surface-level activism in an attempt to increase their social status, or simply put, nonblack people who do not show support for black lives outside of online spaces. It is the person who reposts things on their Instagram stories but claims they “don’t want to get political” when presented with real-life discussions about issues surrounding race. It is the person who leaves supportive comments on black activists’ posts but says nothing when their friend uses the n-slur. It is the person who responds to your posts about BLM in private messages, claiming to agree with you but won’t share the resources themselves.

   These people want the attention they receive from claiming to be “woke” about social issues, but are not actually willing to defend black people. They do it to feel good about themselves, because hey, they shared that story and that makes them a better person, right? Wrong. If you are choosing to be friends with someone who believes in All Lives Matter and is unwilling to educate themselves, you are not an ally to black people. If you sit by while your classmates make racist comments, you are not an ally. If you speak on behalf of black people instead of bringing attention to the feelings and experiences thousands of them have expressed on social media, you are not an ally. If you are following influencers who have been radio silent about the BLM movement and refuse to call them out for that silence, you are not an ally. If you can just “agree to disagree” with your racist friends, you are not an ally. You are not an ally. You are not an ally. Stop calling yourself that.

   One major thing that I think is fueling performative activists is the way our society praises white people for doing absolutely anything. That YouTuber you like retweets a single link after months of silence? God, he is such a good person! Your favorite actress says in a livestream that of course, she does not think black people deserve to be discriminated against. Saint Mary, is that you? A band whose account you follow on Instagram liked a comment that said “Like this if you support BLM!” We truly do not deserve the wonderful light they put into the world. This. Is. Ridiculous. Why are nonblack people receiving praise for doing the bare minimum to show support for the movement? Why are nonblack people being praised for their activism at all? It is not a good skill or quality we have; it is us being decent people, so why are we being thanked? Why are some of us acting like we’re doing black people a favor when we express that we respect that basic idea that they are human beings who deserve to not live their lives in constant fear? Why are some of us acting like we are giving black people something by advocating for them? Why?

   If you are reading this blog and you feel that sinking embarrassment rising from your stomach in your chest because you know you’re a performative activist, good. Be uncomfortable. Sit in it. Soak it up. Absorb it. Don’t keep scrolling and act like you never saw this; take accountability for the fact that you have spent all of this time pretending to care and it has done absolutely nothing to aid black people in their fight for justice and change, educate yourself on how to be an effective ally, and do better. Do better not because you want that feeling to go away, but because you understand that it is your obligation as a person to help your fellow human when they are being treated unfairly.

If you were born in the early 2000s, you’ve probably played Minecraft at least once. Maybe you were the kid who was obsessed with it and had all the survival guides and three editions of the same game, or maybe you were the one who was tired of hearing about it all the time and cringed at any cube shaped object for the next few years. I, no surprise here, was the former. One of my favorite times of the day was arriving home from school and hopping on my Xbox 360 to greet my virtual dogs and cats inside my poorly built spruce treehouse. Times were simpler when my only worries were if I could find my way out of a cave before nightfall and forgetting to grab enough sand for my windows. 

Now it’s 2020, and I’m almost seventeen years old. It’s so surreal to type that out or even just say it. It still doesn’t feel quite real. I miss being that little girl on the playground with her iPad mini playing pocket edition with my friends over the school wifi. I miss being that little girl blowing out the 12 candles on her grass block birthday cake. I miss being that little girl huddled around her friends telling their made-up encounters with Herobrine. I just wish I had cherished those moments more and stopped worrying about what people thought of me. If I could go back and tell my younger self something, it would probably be along the lines of “there is no such thing as being ‘cool’ in elementary school; just have fun and make the most of it.” 

What brought all of this back was a single track that came on Spotify while I was doing my history homework.

Maybe it’s a tad pathetic that I started to cry over this, but I’ve reached the point in my life where I’m not ashamed to say I was brought to tears by the OST of a kids’ game. It brought a great big goofy smile to my face, and I couldn’t help but reminisce over hunting for the ingredients for cake and trying to calculate the time before my online friends would come home from school so we could ‘eat’ it together. Finding diamonds by lava pools, showing off to my friends how I could make a nether portal without even picking up an obsidian block, building beacons of dirt into the sky so I wouldn’t lose my house, and even fighting the ender dragon for the first time—they’re all great memories to look back on. It makes me think of that one Winnie the Pooh quote I had as my phone background for a while.

“We didn’t realize we were making memories, we just knew we were having fun.”

Maybe I’ll take a late grade for my class and pop on Minecraft for a bit. I wonder if my dogs are still waiting for me.

When the sky’s full of clouds

There’s nothing to see

The crickets are loud

And there’s no one but me


When the rivers fall quite 

And the wind seems to roar

When nothing is light

And life is a chore


Go to the woods

The middle of here

Just breathe in the good 

And let out your fear 


Then the night ends in peace

And all starts to cease

This is a poem I wrote when I was looking for some peace in my life. I actually wrote it while I was out on a walk through the 30- acres that my family used to own. the sky had already turned dark and the stars were just coming out, but I couldn’t get any sleep. So I grabbed my phone, a sweatshirt, slipped on my converse, and decided to go walking in the dark – through the woods, to the open clearing, at night, with only my phone to right the way. well, it was a full moon, that night so I didn’t actually need to use my phone flashlight. 

So I was walking along this path, in the dark, with the moon being bright enough to see. The crickets were the loudest thing around and the only sound I could hear. It hadn’t rained for a while, so the path was pretty dry and covered in a mix of small rocks, dead crunchy leaves, and dead brown pine straw.  Plus it’s Mississippi, so most of the trees were super tall evergreen pine trees looming over my path, mixed with other kinds of trees that I don’t know the names of.  

After walking for a couple of minutes, I arrive at the clearing to the back of our 30- acres of land. The stars are fully out by this point and I was able to pinpoint where the little and big dippers were in the dark, hazy sky. And so I just stood in the clearing, letting the calm of the woods wash away my worry. 

Eventually, it got super cold, (plus there were coyotes howling a little ways off and I was alone in the dead of night. it got freaky fast.) and my plan had worked. I felt very much relieved as I walked back to my house. Walking in the woods at night can be very peaceful. 

This is the piece I read for the October Open Mic Event, which was themed, “Woodland Dreams”… 

“I remember it clear as day.” his old raspy voice floated through the cab of our old beat up truck while we drove around before the sun come up. He said, “I was ten years old. It was a mornin’ like this one. The sun was miles from comin’ up, so I thought I’d get a head start on my daily huntin’ trip.”

We slowly came around the bend that if I had to guess was as tall as a house. It had rained so much the roads were like the mud had been made with baby oil instead of rain. I’d already hit my head once on the door, making me dizzy. I don’t even like hunting, but I’d been busy and wanted to spend some time with him, before it was too late.

When we got to a better part of the road, he continued his story, “Anyway, I had my rifle in my hands and my pack on my back. I’d been calling a turkey for about half an hour and he was about forty yards in front of me. About from you to that big oak tree with a twisted branch.” He pointed to a tree I must’ve seen a million times. “I was decked head to toe in camo, movin’ as quiet as I could.  I almost pulled the trigger when I heard a noise I’ll never forget.

It was faint. I stayed there listenin’ for a minute.” His voice got real quiet when he said this. He doesn’t ever get this quiet unless it’s something truly heartbreaking. “Daddy, you don’t have to tell me.” He shook his head, lookin’ at the clearings around us, “No. I want to.”

We got out of the truck and started walking. He started talkin’ again, real low so he didn’t disturb the woods. “I’d walked for about a mile to the east and I came to a clearing with an old beat-up shack that was the color of grey mud. You could tell that it had been abandoned for a while. Your great-granddaddy used to tell me stories about the people who used it as a huntin’ shack.”

We’d stopped at a little house just like the one he described. I’d seen this house many times in my life. It’s not three miles from my house. It sunk in quickly, “Daddy…is this…?” He kept lookin around, as if the intensity of his stare would part the trees and present the subject of his gaze to him. I knew for certain in that moment, that I’d been correct in my assumption.

He looked as if he were swallowing a golf ball. “I heard the animal again and my heart dropped to my toes. I knew that animal. That was my horse, Betsy. She was a gift from my pawpaw, your great-granddaddy, when I was six years old. She was the last thing he gave me before he died.”

His voice started cracking, “Her appaloosa colored coat was matted with blood. She was layin’ in the rusty leaves, unable to move. She kept jerkin’ her head around. I crept slowly toward her callin’ her name as I do every mornin’. After gazing into her big doe eyes and whisperin’ to her, she calmed down a bit.”

He had sat on an old chair that had been worn from recent use. We caught our breath for a minute. “Her back was broken and she’d been attacked by somethin”. After a few moments, I said my goodbyes to her. I…picked up my rifle, aimed it between her beautiful eyes, and pulled the trigger slowly…” H

e went quiet for a while. I wrapped my arm around his torso, and we sat there. Just me comforting him like he’s done for me my entire life. 

The land is vast and stretches for miles. And it all belongs to me. I am no queen or empress with a vault to my riches. But, I am rich. I am rich in love and harmony. Not love for a person, but love for myself and the nature that surrounds me. The sounds of nature soothe me. The steady stream of a whirling river is behind me and behind it stands a lush forest with the greenest of greens. The wild flowers that grace the land below it are grand in size, profound in color. The colors vary from wild fire orange, to ruby red, to mustard yellow and the palest of pinks. Any royals would envy me if they saw the beauty in the world around it. Nothing belonging to nature is trimmed down and made domestic. I stay in nature and nature stays in me. 

I have no reason to take a home from the honeybees. For this is the honeybees’ home and they have found it in their buzzing hearts to let me stay.

The neighbors call me crazy and never by my name.

Maybe because it is as enchanted as the stories I speak. Before I was here, I was neither here nor there, but everywhere at once. Because I am nature and nature is me. I follow the course of the whirling river right above the smooth rocks below. The fish gurgle at me as I pass and the beavers are thankful for the breeze. Hard at work until sundown thankful for nature as it provides for me. The sky above me remains blue with stray white clouds looking lost and searching. My meal for the day is made solely of greens and the tea I drink fresh from the trees. Because I am thankful to nature as it provides for me. 

In a dungeon of Hell

i sit in the corner, dark and cold,  
questioning why i do as i’m told.
wondering bout this room of mine,
asking why the sun won’t shine. 

the door unlocks and gets flung open,
and there stands Hades, so outspoken.
He throws my scythe and hands my robe,
telling me “Go fetch a soul!”

i wonder out, but where to go?
when suddenly i sense a soul.
the soul is old but newly dead,
i’m wondering if he was wed.

i hold my scythe, and aim to swing.  
Oh why does this keep happening?
i smile sadly, poised to strike.
and think ‘don’t work’ with all my might. 

Hades calls me back i can’t evade.
he bids me back into my cage.
left no comp’ny but the dark,
till the next time i depart.

so here i’m tapped inside this room 
where not even flowers choose to bloom
and here i’m stuck with hades my keeper
even though, i am, the Grim Reaper. 

I wrote this poem based on an assignment I was given in class. The goal was to write from the Antagonist (aka the villain) point of view. To make the reader feel for and relate to the ‘bad guy’ in the story. I choose to do the Grim Reaper. He might seem like a bad guy to most, but I think our generation has turned him into something softer. And a little more kind. In my poem, Death (whose job title is Grim Reaper) is sorta being held prisoner by Hades. Hades needs somebody to go and collect souls, doesn’t he? I mean, it’s not like he could go out onto the world and get those souls himself, right? But Hades prefers to just do the paperwork. So he has Death go do it instead. 

Now, Death is being kept locked away for a reason. It’s his punishment. See Death is Death, but he is not in charge of when or where people die. That’s The Fate’s job. He just collects the souls. And remember, this was before he has put under Hade’s guardianship. This story happens during the time he is still allowed to roam the earth freely.

Death would come and give collect souls of all sorts. He did his job well and kept track of the souls he gathered. Then he would send them to Hades using a shadow dog he conjured up as the messenger. But one day, when he was collecting a fairly old woman’s soul, the soul asked if he would look out for her young grandchild. For the sake of helping the soul find peace, he agreed. 

Later when his shadow dogs came back from a delivery to Hades, Death noticed that one of them had a note tied to its collar. Death unrolled the piece of paper to find that Hades was telling him to keep his promise. And so Death began to take care of the little girl.

He showed up at the house the old woman had lived in to find the little girl trying to wake her grandmother. The little girl had tears streaming down her cheeks, so Death asked one of his hounds to lick her face to try to cheer her up.  But after receiving a giant slobbery kiss from the Shadow dog, she was gifted with Special Sight and was now able to see Death and his dogs. The little girl, who been crying at her cold grandmother’s side since the night before, threw herself at Death, wrapping her tiny arms as best she could around his waist and clutching his robe tightly in her itty-bitty hands. Death tried to comfort her as best he could, but he was Death and had little experience dealing with emotions like grief. 

And that is where I will stop this story for this blog post. If you want to know what happens next, comment below and let me know!