2007 HONORABLE MENTION

WHAT ABOUT PEACE?
Selem Kibrom
16 years old, California

My skin was freezing and the rubber boots momma got me on my ninth birthday were tearin'. "Just because I'm still in Miss Jay's class don't mean you don't have to listen to me." I begged him to let it (the awkward situation) go. Momma taught me to say that to him whenever the little vein in his neck started jumpin'.

."Daddy…this man's no good. Momma's bout done with suppa. Let it go!"

Before I could continue my naggin', an outstretched hand landed firmly across my face. I was about to jump on my tippy toes and scream when I understood. Daddy's hand was soaked with sweat. I never forgot the moment I realized my daddy wasn't superman cuz he was afraid. Nor did I forget the sound of a bullet pierce his heart, or the even louder sound of hate steal my daddy.

My hat was causin' a ruckus atop my head. I rubbed my head furiously beggin' grandmammy to do something bout the lice in my hat. She didn't believe me and threatened to really give me somethin' to rub if I didn't shut it. 1944 was a freezing' year, but I felt it most standin' in the woods early that mornin'. There was no coffin. Only a couple of daddy's favorite sheets.

The next day, the tall white man from Tuskegee told mama she couldn't get burial payments because it was a voluntary death; the guidelines of his contract didn't allow it.

"Tell me," Granmammy screamed, "how is getting'hisself shot by a white drunk who was threatenin' to do unholy things to my granbaby voluntary!"

"Please…pl-pl-PLEASE!"

"Don't…I know exactly what you doin' up there! You doin' experiments on those men! There's no medicine in those needles you was shootin' up my baby's bck--given him all sorts o' headaches! I knew it was no good, but he always said you gotta trust somebody!"

Granmammy was always the brightest women I ever knew. Momma always said it comes with age.

At church Sunday mornin' Father Harris read a speech daddy wrote before he died:

I know many of you are restless during these tryin' times. But hear me now when I'm pleadin' to you. Do not hate your white neighbor, or despise your white police officer, or wish unholy things upon the shopkeeper who paints WHITES ONLY on his window. What about Peace? What about the peace you feel whisperin' the Lord's Prayer? What about the peace that takes over your body when you singin' in that Sunday choir? What about peace? --Martin Malcolm Washington.

Granmammy carved What About Peace on a large rock next to his grave. In the sixties I took his picture to every march and every protest. I wasn't gonna let him miss meetin' Dr. King.

The tape recorder clicked off and the reporter packed his things.

"Thank you again Ms. Washington; many will appreciate your story." He strolled out the door deep in admiration while catching a quick glimpse of What About Peace scrawled above a portrait of a true hero.