There is a person I have seen in many faces. The kind who was born to make you feel invisible. This person is given power socially, institutionally, and structurally. If you don’t have the same power, meaning you are a woman, you are colored or you are disabled, then you are no longer human to them. They make sure you are aware you are not equal to them, and that you never will be.

As a child, I never knew what it felt like to be different, because I wasn’t. I grew up moving between India and Fremont, California, where I was surrounded by people who had the same lineage, language and culture as me. Race was never an identification for my life. I knew I was Indian, but I was a kid first. That rapidly changed in 2019 when I moved to Montgomery County. I underwent a transition from majority to minority, and I wasn’t aware how much my personal identity would change.

My first experience of racism in a school setting was in the hallways of North Bethesda Middle School. My first friend was an African American girl, Taylor, who I spent most of my year with. I recall in our 8th grade PE class someone shamelessly called her the N-word. Appalled at this behavior, she and I wound up at the office to report it. Unfortunately, this became a weekly-or daily occurrence. I remember being called a “bomber” or having people yell “Allahu Akbar” at me (I am not even Muslim, just brown). We heard “cotton picker” thrown around, rape jokes and slurs alongside other hate speech. It became a part of our everyday life, and the shock factor slowly faded away.

Racism aside, the horrific event that all NBMS graduates remember was pride day. When LGBTQ+ students came to school wearing their flags to celebrate their identity, they were met with kids pretending to read verses from imaginary Bibles, telling them they were “going to hell”. Pride flags were ripped off of their backs in a tornado of chaos and I wondered, how can this ever be a safe place for anyone? Taylor and I filled out around 30 reports in the entire year, not one ever making us feel safer at school. This question lingered in my mind: How come certain kids are allowed to create an unsafe environment for their peers?

Younger me was an advocate, and I remember having a conversation with an administrator about hate speech in school. I asked her why these people aren’t facing proper consequences, and I vividly remember her telling me that “things are happening behind closed doors.” This frustrated me, because it made me feel like I, and people I love like Taylor, were not a priority. It made me feel as if school systems, which are supposed to make us feel supported, focus on rehabilitating those who are disrespectful or ill mannered, but never think of us, the people who are affected.

Looking back at my freshman year, I regret how much I have assimilated. I am now conditioned to present myself a certain way in order to shield myself from people’s harsh words, and in doing so I feel a part of me has been lost. I am still the same person, but I dress less vibrantly and talk less expressively to reduce the risk of feeling the way I did in middle school. High school was the same, the same people continued as the aggressors, the same people the victims and I became tired of the cycle.

I stopped trying endlessly to fight prejudice and started to try and uplift people like me. I don’t want to be silenced and it makes me sad I have to be, but it is no longer worth the struggle. I’ve moved on to trying to teach people about diversity rather than fighting to see consequences for people who are ignorant and don’t want to change.

As a dancer, I’ve performed multiple cultural dances for Walter Johnson, many met with blank, bored stares from the crowd. It is hard to feel confident about myself when the vast majority doesn’t offer me the proper respect I deserve. I had an experience at MSP, a program to celebrate diversity, which changed my perspective. They held a retreat a few weeks back and our Step Team performed an African American percussive dance for the attendees. My team was met with loud enthusiasm for our performance, creating an atmosphere of understanding and appreciation. I realized this is what I want school to feel like.

Kids like Taylor and I deserve to be celebrated. I want to be celebrated and I want to celebrate others. I want children like me to feel protected by the school system, not neglected. Most of all, I want us as a community to move away from isolation and create a future where we can all be celebrated.