Black History Month Reflection Essay

From walking seven blocks, to an hour drive to Coney Island, to a train ride into Manhattan was a growing voice that began in the auditorium of my elementary school.
“Stand at the back of the auditorium, now scream your name,” my guidance counselor commanded. Taking a deep breath , I attempted a scream , the result :soundless air. During this session I couldn’t even utter my name, but in my head the words echoed. Throughout elementary school I was known as the silent one and kids would whisper , “She can’t talk.” From then on always boggled my mind as to why I had to create a voice for others to hear. When I did, digging deep into my throat to cough one up, still there was none on the other end. Similar to a pay phone running out of minutes, I was never able to reach the quarters in time.
Now, the front of my classroom was my stage. As if in a new surrounding , I scanned my class, noted the blackboard, Ms. Rowe, the clutter of papers on her desk, and the ticking clock behind my head. While my paper on Jamestown remained in my sweaty palm for my presentation, my body turned into a strange painting , a Mona Lisa , whose eyes only moved. I imagined my classmates’ eyes
Rowe gave our class a surprise, a mural project to paint the wall of the auditorium for Black History Month. The mural would represent African Americans who brought change starting with Frederick Douglas and ending with Barack Obama. Each student received a historical figure to paint and I was given the honor to paint Barack Obama and the White House. It may have been my first time painting but I was in my element. Using limited colors (blue, yellow, black, red and purple) in wavelike motions my hands painted his face with broad brush strokes to form a purple oval shape. Thin lines of small black circles trailed up the blue suit as buttons. After three weeks, I placed my glasses on to see the mural from afar, the details of the face, clothing and buildings were as clear to me as it was up