¨Rising, Come Outside.”  

It was my sixteenth birthday and my father, who refers to me as Rising, was in the back of the house. I got up from the brown, cat hair speckled couch, that sits in my living room, and went outside. He instructed me to get in the glistening black Honda Civic that we lease, but this time I sat in the driver's seat. I was immediately overwhelmed with a clash of exhilaration and anxiety over my new seat of power. Painstakingly, I drove down the tight, dark, tar creased alleyway I had know my whole life. As I drove slowly past my neighbors’ houses on one side and their parked cars on the other, my dad nervously yelled, “don’t hit anything!” Thankfully, we reached the end of the alley unmarred. He glady states, “that's enough for today,” and I got out of the car.

As I walked home, the humidity causing beads of sweat to appear on every inch of skin, my mind wandered off. I ponder my sister driving, trying to reach back into my memory and remember how she passed her test. “Did she have a driving instructor?” I thought to myself. “Wait, maybe it was a book.” However, I could not recall. Either way I wanted to be like her. Driving seemed to come easy and she passed both her permit and driver's licence test the first time around. Now, with a sense of the competition between us, I was more inspired than ever.

Convincing myself I was good enough at driving, I immediately informed my dad that I was ready to take the knowledge test. He responded with a simple “How?”  Pushing me to realize I know little of what it might take to get a permit. He quickly whipped out his phone, typed in the four digit password and began his research. “You will need a social security card, a physical, several forms of identification, and there is a written test  that you have to study for.” I felt as if the chances of my success were being squeezed out of me like the juice from a lemon. “I can’t give up-- I want this!” I hopefully thought.

Growing up, I had always been fascinated with my parents´ driving and now I wanted it for myself. The idea that by simply turning the wheel you could steer the large metal mechanic box excited me. The sound of the wheel sliding back through the hands of my parents as they evened out the car soothed me. What I was most enthusiastic about though, was how fast a car could take you to places, new places. I loved peering out of the foggy window, seeing grass fields, houses, farms, buildings, and lakes quickly flash by like a movie without sound. It was entrancing. “When can I drive?” I would murmur to my parents.

Before I collected all of the items I needed to take the test, we departed on a 10-hour car ride to North Carolina. Four boring hours in and I realized this was good time to study for the test. I opened the app in my phone titled, ¨PA Driver Practice” and took the test multiple times, each time getting a different variety of questions on a range of topics, from driver safety to road laws. On the way back I did the same, this time reading the questions aloud to my parents. As we rolled along the grainy highway, my dad, who was driving, pointed out different signs and had me provide an explanation for what they were for. “What does that yellow sign mean?” He bellowed, hoping to stump me. “That means there’s construction ahead,” I proudly responded. By the time the trip ended, I was constantly scoring in the high nineties, which were passing scores!

A few weeks later, my mom gathered my expired passport, my birth certificate, my school ID and the required form and we headed off to get my social security card. We walked to the Chestnut Hill Train Station and waited for the 7:35 train to center city. We boarded and 45 minutes later exited the cool train at Suburban Station. From there we walked to the tall building in which I would hopefully receive my card. We took an elevator up to the top floor and then waited in a line for security to check us. ¨You can't bring that in,” the security guard chastised the man at the front of the line, who was understandably drinking coffee. He stepped to the side to finish his coffee and the line moved on. As I dragged my feet on the carpet marked with a strange pattern of blue and green, we made eye contact with the coffee drinker and he shook his head and laughed as if to say he did not approve of the guards judgment. I giggled.

We got through security with no problem and sat on uncomfortable metal chairs, marked with holes. We were called to the window behind us to the left. “What do you want?” The woman behind the glass rudely asked. Her voice sounded as if her nose was being pinched. “I need a social security card for my son,” my mom politely responded. She gave us the number fifty six and we headed back to the uncomfortable metal chairs to wait again. When our number was finally called we approached the window to my left. This man was much more upbeat. “How can I be of your assistance?” He inquired. We handed him the form and the various forms of ID as my mother explained our purpose cheerfully. He took a moment to examine them and then proceeded to ask me questions. “What's your mom's middle name? What's your full name? What's your best friend´s name?” He asked the last question with a chuckle and I realized it was not on the form. I answered all the question correctly and he happily said, “It will arrive at your house in 7 - 10 days.” “Great, more waiting,” I exasperatedly stated to my mom and we left the fresh smelling building.

The card came as promised, but I still needed a physical. I had to get a physical for soccer so why not get one for my permit at the same time. The physical was the last thing I needed, the last obstacle between me and my permit. I was thrilled and laughed as the Doctor completed a series of strange tests on me. Bending my limbs, checking my heart rate, and testing my eyes. “Have a great day,”she said and I knew I would because the only thing stopping me from driving that shiny black car, was a test that I knew I could pass. “Why did it take so much work to get a learner's permit I wondered?” I understood that you would not want people driving who had bad eyesight or some potentially dangerous health condition, so the physical made sense. It was also clear that people had to know the rules of the road otherwise there would be chaos, not to mention a lot of accidents. Nevertheless, why was it necessary to have a Social Security card, and why did that require several forms of ID and a face-to-face interview? Slowly, it dawned on me. Until now, I had been identified as a child of my parents. My identity was tied to theirs. Even with a Passport, I could not travel anywhere unless I was accompanied by one of them. Now, I was taking the steps to be identified as an individual. A driver´s licence was the thing that would officially identify me as me. It would say that I had all the rights and privileges of an American citizen. It meant that someday I could steer that mechanical metal box to some new destination-- alone.

Yasir Thomas

Systems Essay

Growing and maintaining my hair has always been a struggle for me. Every day I would think about what I would want to do with my hair and how it would turn out later. I’ve been on a long journey with my hair. I hated it, loved it, cut it, and grew it. I’ve also been through many different styles. It’s crazy to think about how many different styles I had over the course of a few years.

I was in fourth grade when I first began growing my hair out. It was longer than it currently is. I let it grow out because my father had cancer and all of his fell out. I would grow it out for him because he asked and I thought that it would inspire him to continue with the therapy, but trying to maintain my hair was always a struggle. I was tender headed and every little thing that happened to hair, even when it wasn’t braided it was still hard to deal with. After a while, my mom would always ask me when I would get it cut.

Once I reached fifth grade, I got a haircut. I felt like a new person. I could feel the wind brushing against my head and the sun beaming down on it. It has been a while since I felt the feeling. When I walked into class, no one recognized me, and when they did, they were surprised. Being nearly bald felt amazing until I realized how much I missed my hair and the feeling of the just having something there and playing with it. I started missing my long hair and thought about growing it back.

The summer before 8th grade, I began to grow out my hair again without even realizing. I came back to school with a mini afro and once again, I looked like a new person. 8th grade was the time that I struggled the most to keep up with my hair. Everyone would say, “I love your hair! Can I touch it?” When someone asks if they could touch my hair I would usually think that they meant to feel the texture, but they would play in it, pull it, and just mess up my hair completely. I used to put a lot of effort into making my afro look good. In the middle of the school year, I decided to get braids because I tired of everyone ruining my hair. My hair was growing but it wasn’t as long as I wanted it to be.

My freshman year here I started off with braids for a week or two. Then I took my braids out every other week and had a messy afro. I would also have designed cornrows and other types of styles. One of my favorite styles that I had was a braided mohawk, I felt like it was amazing because I didn’t think that it would look right. Soon after, I wanted a haircut but not a full one. Soon after I a drop-fade (the hairstyle I currently have). Right after I got my fade, I was filled with joy since it finally happened. When I walked into school everyone was overly excited and wanted to touch my hair. I felt like a brand new person because it was new and exciting. It's easier to take care of since I have half as much hair.

Looking at the amount of hair that I have now, I regret cutting off all my hair when I was younger. It’s probably one of the biggest regrets that I have. I miss having a lot of hair and being able to do a lot of things with it. Now, I’m just experimenting with my hair seeing what things I like and what things would look good on me. The next few things that I would try doing with my hair are curls, hair dye, and another type of braids.

We were in the locker room when coach said this is the game we all been waiting for. We knew that we had to win the game because this was the world series. We wanted to play this team the whole tournament. You could instantly feel the tension with the other team as soon as we got on the field, because on the first day we were at our hotel their players kept bragging about how they were the best team. They continued to say how they were going to beat us. As we were on the field  warming up they said “ Rays, Rays, Rays “, which was the chant that they would say after every game they won. By them saying that they were implying that the game was basically over before it had even begun.

We were the home team so we were able to throw the first pitch. The first three of there batters  struck out so our energy was up and theirs were down. We put up an 3-0 lead in the first inning. Their whole team was down and our energy was through the roof like the game was over and we already won. Our pitcher was on fire, he struck out the next 6 people. So now it's the top of the 4th inning. Score was still 3-0 we started to slack we thought we had the game in the bag. They started to get hits and started to get on base, the whole game knowone from there team touched the bases into the 4th. We still stopped them from scoring but now there energy was up and it was like ours was going more down as theirs came up. The 5th inning came still 3-0 but not for long, we walked 2 batters and a passed ball caused them to advance from first and second base to second and third. The next batter hit a pop up the our left fielder and the guy on third SCORED! 3-1. 4

Our coach called time and came to the pitcher mound and had a talk with the whole infield. “ Guys come on wake up, this game is not over we have two more innings left of baseball don't let up now “.  We went back to our potions, the next batter hits a ground ball to our third basemen, he fields it cleanly but makes a bad throw home causing another run to score. Now ts 3-2 one out and a man on first and third their power hitter is up now he hits a shot over our center fielder head both men scored. 3-4 Rays are winning! Coach came back to the mound and changed pitchers. Our new pitcher struck the next two batters out. This is our last chance to come back and we were at the bottom of our lineup. Tampa put in a new pitcher and struck the last 3 of our batters out to end the game Tampa won the world series. I was s hurt because we could have crushed them but since we were up the whole game we slacked and they showed us that you play the whole game your hardest into its fully over.  

A week before my sophomore year had begun, my emotions were all over the place and not just before of first day jitters. I honestly didn’t know how to feel, but I knew something was off. My body was no longer at ease. All I knew was that I was supposed to feel something I just didn’t didn’t if it should be pain, sadness, awe, angry, or grief. I knew my mom felt something but I couldn’t interrupt what she was feeling either. I only had one specific memory that I could base my emotions off of.

The first time I met him was at a Fourth of July cookout at my brother’s house. I had to be around eight or nine and he was a year younger than me. I distinctly remember our conversation. We were talking about our zodiac sign and how we were a year thirteen days apart. Even though we were connected by blood I didn’t know him enough to feel a strong connection, but I did feel some sort of hurt because I knew this situation was not okay. What brought me the most discomfort was the fact that no one felt the need to tell me what had happened; I had to find out through Instagram. The funny thing is, if it wasn’t for my older cousin pointing it out I would’ve kept scrolling. Even though I have around 25 first cousins we still should know each other or at least be aware of each other’s existence.

My uncle has seven kids in total and I only knew about three of them existed until the Janazah (Islamic funeral), but I still didn’t meet all of them because the youngest lives in Florida with his mother and stepfather. I love my uncle to death but I felt a little anger towards, yet I was still hurt for him. I was sad because I knew my “ fun young” uncle’s light would be dimmed. As much as my family pretends that everything is okay nothing will ever be the same. There will always be a hole in my uncle’s heart that will never be filled because of the lost of his son and that’s what hurt me the most.

On August 22nd of 2018, Mu’aawiyyah Jalil Meekins was taken off life support and it felt like the world was at a standstill. It was sad that he had died but there was a slight feeling of peace. There were no more long nights or early mornings at the hospital nervously waiting for any sign of life. Since majority of my maternal side are Muslim, we had to move quickly because the burial had to place no later than three days and my uncle asked if the gathering to be at my house. I knew I wasn’t going to the viewing or the burial because I knew there was going to be a lot of people and I’m too emotional for funerals. My mom and I had a day in an half to clean the house. There had to be at least 400 people at the Janazah and at least 150 of them came back to my house. At first I was annoyed because all these people that I didn’t know were at my house and my mother constantly kept telling me “Be nice, they’re your family.”, but it honestly didn’t feel like it.

I knew eighteen out of twenty five of my first cousin and most of us were extremely uncomfortable. I’m not really a people’s person so I tend to be very distant to people I don’t know and I found myself doing and so did my mom. My cousins and I had realized that, that day wasn’t about us. We had to understand that we have to people to these that our parents call family. When I did eventually open up to “my family” I felt comfortable with them.

It was sad that we had to get together as a family because of the death of a young one but on the brightside we finally got to meet, and I can thank Mu’aawiyyah for that. He brought us together as a family and we are forever connected. Once everything was over, I realised that you never know how important something is until it is taken away from you.  

I can't fully remember the crowded airports and hours of waiting that took place when I immigrated to Philadelphia, but my family does. “Don’t worry abuelito and abuelita I will always have you in my heart” my mother those were one of the last words I said to grandfather and grandmother before I left for Philadelphia.

I have always taken pride in the fact that I was born in Ecuador, and how my family immigrated with little resources grew to where we are today. Immigrating to Philadelphia at a young age was grueling. I would be lying if I said it was all sunshine and rainbows.

There were days where I would walk home crying because the words on the board and in books were too hard for me to comprehend. I can still recall the guttural feeling shame and fear when I walked to schools some days. My mother noticed this and decided to push me into the right direction. We started to go to the Free Library of Philadelphia. I would read for hours on end every weekend. I went from reading books about fairies to reading classics like “The Giver” and biographies about every historical figure you could think of.    

I used all my confusion and channeled it into trying to learn. I learned, grew and adapted because of my background. Situations like that were what made me the person who I am today.

My story is very similar to other immigrant families. Packing up and sacrificing for a better life down the road is a common theme for most families that immigrated to different countries.

I can empathize with immigrants because I am one. Everyone no matter where they were born should be able to empathize with people's struggles and have a basic respect for all. Sadly, there are some people who are so insecure and closed minded that the thought of people who talk or look different than them is mind-boggling.

“Hola mamá, estoy casi en casa.” I had called my mother to tell her I was coming home. She proceeds to thank me for notifying her in Spanish. I responded “De nada, hasta pronto”. Just as I said that I saw a woman look at me with a face that is hard to really describe. It was a look of disgust combined with a look of superiority. As soon as our eyes met I looked away and kept walking. I wouldn't say I felt ashamed after that but I just felt confused for that woman.

There have been so many other times where people are judged for what language they speak or just their looks. Someone I know was in their apartment lobby just waiting for an elevator. As soon as an elevator opened the woman standing next to her said: “I’d really appreciate it if you went on a different elevator, I want to be with my own people.”. My friend was so in shock that she just stood there and let the woman go by herself. When my friend told me this story she had tears in her eyes. That surprised me because I barely see her. This just shows how someone's ignorance can affect people.

Actions like this don’t just happen in the United States through I've even seen this in my own home country of Ecuador. There is currently a gigantic crisis happening in Venezuela. The inflation there is unbelievable and there is little to no medical care for those that truly need it. This crisis has caused many Venezuelans to immigrate to many countries including Ecuador. Many of these people are families that only have a bag to their name and are just trying to survive.

The problem is a lot of Ecuadorians that don't want Venezuelan immigrants in their country. I saw a prime example of this in a car ride back to my grandparents. My grandfather switched the station and he stopped on a woman talking about Venezuelan immigrants.  She was literally yelling about how Venezuelans would make the country impure. She then stated word for word "We already have enough black people in this country, what would make you think we want more.". After that, I had to tell my grandfather to turn it off because I didn't want my 9-year-old sister to hear such toxic ideas.

I do believe that immigration reform is needed in Ecuador but if you just spew hate nothing gets changed. You need to make sure immigrant families are getting jobs and education to help the country in the long term. There also need to send aid and legal reform to Venezuela itself, so they can get back on their feet.

In conclusion, All of us need to be able to accept that we are all different. We must learn to acquire the basic human dignity to respect each other. Without actual empathy from all sides nothing will change.

For as long as I can remember I’ve struggled with my cultural identity. Both of my parents are Ethiopian, which ultimately makes me an Ethiopian. However, I live my life as an African American. Whether it be me not understanding a word of Amharic. Rarely attending Ethiopian gatherings. Or even my transparency about being Ethiopian. For some reason, I’ve always tried to hide who I am, up until now.

All of my Ethiopian friends can speak Amharic, except for me. The main difference between us is that I grew up in a single parent household. Which led to my mother having to constantly work in order to provide for my siblings, and not around enough to teach us Amharic. The language barrier has always held me back from getting more involved with my culture. I always felt discouraged because most of the time I had no idea what was being said, and I really wanted to know what was going on. Ethiopians always speak to me in a language I know nothing about, and that just makes me feel uncomfortable. At times, I even feel like an outsider even though it’s who I am. In addition to this, my non-fluency in Amharic has always held me back from visiting Ethiopia. I’ve always been a bit ashamed of myself when I’d see a family member, and they’d speak to me in Amharic. I could never respond to them because I had no idea what they were saying. This makes things awkward, and I’d have to put on a fake smile to try to ease the discomfort. In an effort to combat this, I always promised myself that I’d learn to speak Amharic one day.

On a normal year, I might go to two or maybe three Ethiopian gatherings. While the rest of the community goes to 12 events minimum. The get-togethers have always felt boring and lifeless to me. While everyone else is dancing and having a good time, I’m just in the back on my phone because no one is speaking English, thus I’m oblivious to almost every aspect of the party. I have no idea what the music is about or what’s being said. I feel isolated there. My head is in a different place. I’m not connected to anyone or anything around me. But at the same time, it feels like I’m running from my true self. Whether I’d like to admit it or not, I’m Ethiopian. My race is Black/African American, my nationality is American, but my ethnicity is Ethiopian. If I’m Ethiopian, then why should I not surround myself with other Ethiopians? On one hand, if I step outside of my comfort zone by visiting the country or learning the language I’ll be uncomfortable. But on the other hand, if I don’t immerse myself in the Ethiopian culture. I’m not being true to myself.

Lastly, I’m not very open about my ethnicity. All my friends have an Ethiopian flag emoji in their Instagram biographies, but not me. It seems like every Ethiopian besides me broadcasts their heritage to the world. I experienced an awakening recently. This Summer, I spent a lot of time with my cousin in Buffalo, and I spent a lot of time with her Ethiopian friends. When I went to an Ethiopian graduation party, I didn’t feel so left out. I knew who to talk to and everyone seemed so welcoming. I was no longer the outsider. I had deep conversations about my future with complete strangers. It didn’t feel forced. When I got back to Philly I began to look at things more clearly. And embrace who I am. I was intrigued to say the least by the idea of being an Ethiopian. My transparency is definitely something that will begin to change these next couple years. I want to hang an Ethiopian flag in my room, I want an Ethiopian flag in my Instagram biography, and I want to surround myself with more Ethiopians.

My cultural identity is always something that I’ve struggled with and will continue to be a struggle, but at least now I know who I am. I might not be able to speak Amharic yet. I know that I have trouble socializing with Ethiopians. But, now that I have clarity on who I am, I will work on those things and better myself as an Ethiopian.

There aren’t a lot of things that were passed down in our house, no engagement rings from Grandma, no fine china in glass cabinets or enchanting silver candlesticks. The few things we did have, a dining room table set or some clay Christmas figures, had to be sold to people who had the space in their house or had to be thrown away cause they broke into dozens of pieces. Instead, we have a single wooden chair that creaks when you sit on it and 23 sets of decorative salt and pepper shakers, none of which we actually use.

Before it came to live in my great-great grandmother's house, this chair was probably used so school children could practice sitting with their back straight because of how stupidly uncomfortable it is. If you slouch even a little bit the chair digs into your back, forcing your body back into awareness no matter how much you want to rest. When my great-great grandmother died, she had six of these chairs and one dining room table to go with it. She also, coincidentally, had 6 children. So instead of giving them her jewelry or her books or even her house, she gave each child a single chair. Who got the table, no one knows. My great grandmother hid it under piles of boxes in the basement, my grandmother put it in a corner and used it as a decorative piece, and now my mom uses it a in her office because she doesn’t know where else to put it.

Downstairs in our living room, we own is 23 sets of decorative salt and pepper shakers. It's 23 more than we need, seeing as we use an entirely separate pair of bland looking salt and pepper shakers from Target in the kitchen. They’re not decorative in the sense that you can’t use them, they just include lots of colors and are prettier than the shakers from Target. I didn’t even know they existed until she decided to put shelves up in our living room. I asked her what she was going to put on them, and she said her moms salt and pepper shakers. When I asked her where she had put them before, she just told me they were in a box for the past dozen or so moves, and left it at that. I never asked why she hand’t put them on display before, and she didn’t tell me.

We don’t really talk to my moms side of the family. Ever since she moved to the city and had me, there’s always been some kind of disconnect between the two of us and the rest of them that gets us uninvited from small reunions or get togethers. I think that’s why the few family heirlooms we had always were stuffed into attics or into dusty boxes, because she’s always wanted to keep her family hidden away. I think we’re both more at peace now that we have our few heirlooms out in the open of our house, now that we’re recognizing the family who has come before us.

Her eyes squint, subtly at me as if I were a Rubik's cube that she couldn’t figure out. She opens her mouth to speak but returns back to thinking. Her face was familiar, almost identical to the other strangers who’ve wondered the same thing before. I could hear her question before she even asks it. I dread it but I ease back and wait.

“So,” here it comes, “what are you?” my hairdresser asks.

I say almost automatically, “I’m Wasian. Half white, half Asian”. She opens her eyes in surprise and takes a closer look at my face.

“Wow, I thought you were Puerto Rican,” I want to roll my eyes to the back of my head. I have this mental file in my mind full of the different ethnicities that I’m mistaken for: Latina, “white mixed with something else”, Italian, and of course, Puerto Rican. Very rarely will people actually assume that I’m part Asian.

“Yeah, I’m half Korean on my mom’s side.” You’d think I’d be used to this question but after fifteen years it still stings to hear people mistake me for something else.

She pulls up a picture of her quarter Korean daughter and replies, “This is my daughter, she’s twenty-five percent Korean.” I examine her closely and her very prominent Asian features. “She looks more Asian than you,” that hurt. I look up quietly and force a smile.

When I was a baby, people would ask my mom, “Are you sure that’s your baby?” Sure, an Asian woman carrying around a blonde baby sounds pretty odd and I guess it was. Usually, people would just assume that she was my babysitter. I think about what she tells me and can’t help but feel as if she was being discounted as my mother.

As I grew older, I began to almost entirely ignore the rather obscure half of me. The fact that people couldn’t actually recognize my Asian made it hard to celebrate my ethnicity; I was surrounded by people who enjoyed representing their cultures but I felt differently about my own. I began to resent this side of me that has roused confusion since the beginning of my life. Since I didn’t look the part, why should I play it?

She brings out a curling iron from one of the drawers hidden in the counter filled with clips and combs varying in different sizes, plugs it in and waits for it to heat up. She sets her eyes back to me and asks, “Do you have any siblings?” I open my phone and go to my sister’s Instagram to show her a picture of my brother and sister posing together on prom night.

“This is Quinn,” I point to my sister. “And this is Emmet,”. I know what she’s thinking; they look more Asian. Anyone with a set of working eyes could see it.

“Oh,” she squints her eyes to get a clearer look at them, “I can see that they are Asian a little more, but none of you guys look fifty percent.” It’s true; although my siblings did have darker hair and more Asian features than me, none of us really looked like the traditional Wasian. And although it wasn’t her fault, the physical vagueness of my Korean side upset me. I mean, even quarter asians usually look more Asian than me.

It’s human nature to match a face with an assumption. Since he wears glasses he must be smart or she must be popular because she’s pretty. For me, people often believe that I identify with my white side since my face doesn’t have many Asian characteristics.

As she continues to curl my hair, thousands of thoughts roll through my mind. Some were thoughts of annoyance and others of grief but there was one that stood out from the others. It was different from the others that I’ve had in a situation like this. I look at myself in the wide set mirror ahead of me and think to myself. I can’t change and it won’t help thinking about someone else that I’ll never be.

I managed to release all my tension that I’ve held throughout the conversation. People have explained this to me over the years but I never really made anything of it. “You’re yourself and no one else, just accept it,” I’d hear their advice but never really listen. But for some reason this one visit at the hair salon made me realize that maybe I should’ve.

Once she finishes curling my hair, I get up from the chair and thank her. Although this encounter wasn’t very different from the others, I left the salon not feeling, but knowing that my ethnicity doesn’t define who I am.

God bless the smooth, creamy substance that binds itself to the sweet and sticky darkness alongside the inner walls of two pieces of bread.

A knife is drawn. The skilled wielder swiftly dips it into the tall jar of jelly with precise accuracy to grab the perfect amount with one swoop. The satisfying slap noise that echos in the small kitchen by the jelly hitting the bread fuels the wielders energy to slide it over the bread in a perfectly even spread. The adrenalin in his veins only increases when he goes to rinse the small amount of excess jelly on the blade, preparing himself for the second round of this ancient process. Paper towels are the key to making sure the utensil is truly prepared for the next step. One square cut towel is all you need to cleanse the blade of wetness. Once the knife is dried of all liquids another jar appears. Although this one is no simple jar, for it is a container of peanut butter! Rich, silky peanut butter that sticks to the blade with one twirl in there. This part of the procedure requires the most experience. To be able to seal the deal with the perfect ratio of peanut butter to jelly is respected across all lands.

At last. The final step in the short but enthralling journey is the best part. Slapping the two prepared pieces of bread together. It's almost as if there is an invisible audience applauding the maker of the sandwich. A satisfying thing indeed.

Who doesn’t like to travel? Being in the YPD, you get to travel to a lot of different cities, states, and even countries. The YPD stands for Young People’s Division, it is an organization for young Christian missionaries from ages 2 to 26.This organization is not just about traveling, but more importantly,  it is about learning who God is and learning more about yourself.

We have mission projects. They are basically us providing for the less fortunate. Mission projects are very important, because it is giving back. I  think of mission projects as a way of being blessed by blessing others. One of our meetings was held in Dallas, Texas. While there, we had a pajama party. In order to get into the party, we had to bring a pair of pajamas and a book. This project was to help deal with the fact that some children are never read bedtime stories and maybe don't even own a pair of pajamas. Also, we went to a nursing home and sat with the elders to talk to them and sing hymns. It was a great experience. It made me feel good inside that I got to make someone smile, especially elders that live in that  type of environment. You can tell by their faces and by the way they kept thanking us that they enjoyed us and was thankful that we came. Every year we go away, we have to bring something whether it's soap, deodorant, or toys.

In Atlanta, we went to visit Martin Luther King’s grave site. This was very informational, and I really enjoyed my time at the grave site. We also went to the Ebenezer Baptist Church which is where Martin Luther King Jr. and Sr. preached. It felt good to be in the same place MLK once was. I felt like he was right there with me when we went in the church. Lastly, we had a moment of silence as we experienced visiting the Lorraine Motel where MLK was assassinated. This experience was a scary one. Before we arrived there, I really didn't know what to expect. I actually felt like at any moment there was going to be a shoot out. As I stood where Martin Luther King Jr. was killed, I honestly didn’t know how to feel. There was so many emotions flowing through my body but overall it was a nice museum.

My favorite place of all was Bermuda. In Bermuda, it was more of a fun trip than a church trip. We had a lot of free time to go sightseeing and do a lot of activities. Our usual annual meeting is just for the weekend. Friday night is opening service, Saturday morning is workshops then we have a couple hours of free time. We have a banquet on Saturday night and then we have a social which is just like a party. We have a closing service on Sunday morning. We stayed an extra day in Bermuda to do some fun activities. We had a clear bottom boat where you could see the fish and every other animal in the ocean. Also, there was jet skiing, zip lining and parasailing. I would love to go back to Bermuda and make many more memories. I really enjoyed my time in Bermuda.

The YPD is a great organization that teaches the young people of the AME church  how to please God and others by helping those who are less fortunate. It provides us the opportunity to travel, meet new people,  and have a good time while doing the work of missions. I am so glad that I am a part of this organization, and I am excited about what the future holds.