Then I find myself feeling like Shakespeare, because, though I’ve been alive for a little under 18 years, in my head I’ve lived many, many lifetimes. I don’t mean to imply that I’m the reincarnation of Shakespeare if that’s what you’re thinking. I do think that it’d be a little ironic for him to be reincarnated into a Black boy’s body in the 21st century, but just not… my body.

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No, I’m nothing like Shakespeare, I’m something new, entirely. But I can’t help but wonder about him. Where is he now? What’s he doing? Is he writing plays?

I doubt it, seeing that the world has changed so greatly from when he was alive. For all we know, Shakespeare is somebody’s mom making TikToks about paying off her credit card debt, or he’s some window-shopping, kleptomaniac with hoops dreams and five kids.

His energy hasn’t left this Earth though, I’m sure. And for some reason beyond my understanding that gives me great comfort—to believe that even after death, you’ll still be here. For some, that’s terrifying. But I’d argue the point is for that terror to dissipate when you do, and then voilà—you’ll live a life anew.

The question I find myself turning over though is, when you live that new life, what carries over? What baggage do you bring? Is there anything that you remember, like innately?

When someone close to me passes on, I wonder these things. You could call it a coping mechanism, or just plain old immaturity—though I’d hate you for it. Regardless, the thought persists.

There were these state mandated therapy sessions my family had to attend after my mom passed—a new therapist, new part of the city, new emotions we didn’t know how to handle. In them we uncovered so much and I tugged on so many threads in my noggin. A new thought that was really quite old unraveled when my little sister said she thought our mom was still alive. That one day she might walk past her in the grocery store or in the mall.

At 9 years old my little sister believed in Reincarnation.

I remember when she said it, tears filled my eyes. An idea filled with so much hope, hope that a heart could live on even beyond that definite conclusion that unifies everything that came before it. She hoped that there was more to the story beyond the punctuation.

It made me wonder if hope was genetic. I remember when I was her age thinking the same thing—of course the circumstances were different. But just like her it didn’t take anyone to teach it to me, the idea of reincarnation was natural to me. The continuity of my childhood reality, the waking up, the day and night cycle, the endless activity in my mind and body, it all told me that I would never cease to exist. Every experience, person, place and thing was too real to ever truly be gone.

I thought maybe you’d come back as a tree, or a bee, or a trapeze artist with a fear of heights. A rock climber, a sloth, or a dandelion. Anything.

When someone passes I think we have the tendency to imagine that they’ll carry on. That they’ll slip into something else quietly, like changing clothes in another room we’re not allowed to enter yet. It softens the blow. It gives grief somewhere to sit that isn’t so sharp.

But what my sister said wasn’t really about philosophy. It wasn’t about religion, or science, or the mechanics of a soul. She didn’t care about any of that.

She just didn’t want our mom to be gone.

And maybe that’s where all of this begins—not with answers, but with refusal. A refusal to accept that something so full could become nothing at all. A refusal to let love end where a body does.

So we imagine.

We imagine her laughing somewhere else, in a different voice. We imagine her hands belonging to someone new. We imagine her standing in a grocery store aisle, reaching for the same things she used to buy, completely unaware that we’re still here missing her.

And maybe none of it is true.

Or maybe all of it is, in some way we don’t yet understand.

But I think what matters is this: for a moment, in that small therapy room, my little sister gave me something I didn’t know I needed.

Not certainty.

Just permission to hope.

And maybe that’s where I circle back to Shakespeare.

Because even if he’s gone—wherever “gone” really is—he isn’t, not entirely.

Every time a stage light flickers on, every time an actor steps into his words, something stirs again. A voice that hasn’t existed for centuries suddenly breathes. A grief, a love, a rage that once “ended” finds a body again. As an actor, I think about that a lot—that strange kind of resurrection. Characters die, stories end, curtains fall… and then the next night, they live again.

Maybe that’s its own kind of reincarnation.

Not of the body, but of the soul of something. Of feeling. Of story.

There’s this line from him: “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” And I think about how that doesn’t just mean we come and go—it means we return, in different forms, in different roles, over and over again.

Maybe my mom isn’t walking through a grocery store somewhere.

But maybe pieces of her—her laughter, her warmth, the way she loved—show up in us, in others, in moments we don’t expect. Maybe every time we remember her, speak about her, or even love the way she taught us to, we’re performing a part she once played.

And in that way, she never really leaves the stage.

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Never in my life have I been so overcome with sorrow that I felt like throwing up; even now, my stomach is fortified. My mind is shattered. My heart is broken. But I am beautiful. And I am me.

Why am I, of all people, going through this?

No, my life was never hard. That’s a lie. My life was never this hard, and I’ve never felt this hopeless. I close my brown eyes and play it back again.

PART ONE:

It’s the early morning, the day before I turn fifteen. Summer.

The house is quiet as I wait for the promise of life. Just the day before, I planned on celebrating with my dad, but it didn’t work out. Today is the day.

Paintball. I’ve only been once before, and it was a while ago. I plan on wearing something thick, despite the New Orleans heat.

The rush of water out of my bathroom faucet cuts the silence in half. I look around my bathroom, and everything is polished, white, and sterile. I’ve grown to love this place, this home, my haven. It’s been a little over a year since Mom, Payton—my little sister—and I moved here. After the storms dissipated, we nested in the highest of trees. We made plans, we made memories, but most importantly, we made a home.

I brush my teeth, I touch up my curls—I love my hair—and leave the bathroom. The silence returns until I make a sound, and then he responds. I hear his bark and roll my eyes.

I peek into Mom’s room, and she’s sleeping with Payton next to her. His cage isn’t in here.

I float to the kitchen where he eagerly barks in his tiny prison.

Nitro. Our new teacup Yorkie, less than a year old with enough energy to last us a lifetime. He springs out of his cage as I open the door and starts sniffing the ground.

Oh, no, you don’t.

I scoop his little black and brown body up with a single motion. He squirms helplessly as I open the front door. When I set him down, he springs off again. I sit down in front of the door and watch as he finds the perfect place to mark his little territory.

Sounds of the high school band echo through the neighborhood. The high school—my high school—is directly behind my house, a short little walk.

One or two people walk along the sidewalk. Nitro chases them, and I catch him before he can gnaw at their shoes. I reset him back to where he started, and he sat down; again, he chased. I call this little game we play: annoying. We play this game over and over and over again. But he’s just so cute, it’s hard to imagine anything he does is bad. So I justify his rambunctiousness: He’s so young, he’s so new, he’s just so cute. Surely these pedestrians don’t mind.

And they don’t, they smile down and tiptoe around Nitro as I trail behind. It’s only until the time nears for Dad to arrive that I return him to his cage and settle into the bittersweet, nervy excitement of paintball.

I leave the house as Dad pulls up on the curb, and off I go.

This is all still so new to me. Sitting next to my Dad. Listening to his music and not Mom’s. Having two parents again, though separated, is a blessing.

Two biological parents. Mom’s ex-boyfriend is excluded automatically. Excluded. Excluded and gone. Gone and excluded from being considered a parent. My parent.

We ride in unfamiliar silences, and the ride is quite long, but this is my dad, so it’s fine. Everything is fine. It’s my birthday and I’m happy. Life is looking up for me. Finally.

I plug my ears with my headphones and listen to my own music. Close my eyes, and sink into a wide-awake slumber.

The thick heat worries me as we walk up a rocky path. I’m worried. But I’m smiling as Dad talks to me about paintball. Paintball is worrying, but with my Dad, I’m brave. And because I’m with my Dad, paintball isn’t worrying in the slightest.

We suit up and I embarrass myself, and we laugh, and we shoot, and duck, and run, and laugh some more. Food for mosquitoes.

The walk back to the car is one of pure satisfaction as Dad shows me his bruised arms, and I’m unscathed but haven’t shot a single person. Next time, I think, smiling.

“You hungry?” Dad’s infamous catchphrase prompts an eager nod as I realize I haven’t eaten since yesterday. I’m ravenous as we crawl out of the car, paint splattered and unflattering. We’re at Tiny’s Sliders. I’ve never been, but Dad highly recommends it. I order what he orders, and we chow down in the parking lot.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, it’s my sister.

I answered, “Hello?”

“Jamal?” she calls out, in her eight-year-old voice.

“Yeah, Payton.”

“I can’t find Mom.”

I’m putting down my food now so I can talk. “What do you mean, is her car outside?”

“Yes, I looked out the window, it’s still outside, but she’s not in it.”

“Okay, you checked all the rooms?”

“Yes, but my room door is locked.”

“What do you mean, it’s locked?”

“It’s locked, I can’t open it. It smells like Nitro poo’ed in there,” she responds.

Suddenly, I’ve lost my appetite. Suddenly, the car’s gone quiet and we’re pulling out of the parking lot. I want this call to be over.

“Okay, I’m on the way home.” I hang up.

I tell Dad what my sister told me, and he nods. Moments pass, and he looks over at me. “You not worried, are you?”

I shake my head. Of course, I’m not worried. If I were worried, that’d mean there was something to worry over. Do I look worried? I shouldn’t, because I’m not. Nothing’s wrong. Nothing could be wrong because my birthday is tomorrow, and by then Mom will be driving me to Walmart to get a cake and singing Happy Birthdays while I smile. Nothing’s wrong. If I were worried, that’d mean something was wrong, and that’s not the case. The car is moving kind of fast. Is Dad worried? Is he speeding up? If he’s worried, should I be? No, nothing bad could happen today. It’s going to be fine. Mom hasn’t responded to my text, though. I should check on Payton.

I google “How to unlock doors with the little hole” before I get home. I have to get into my sister’s room. Where else could she be?

I probably shouldn’t panic because what’s the worst that could’ve happened? No, I probably shouldn’t think about that. It’s implausible. But Mom has been sad about the breakup, though. No, I probably shouldn’t think about that. She would never.

We pull up in the driveway, and I leave my dad with a handshake.

“Tell your sister to come outside,” He says, like he has all the other times he’s dropped me off back home. I nod and walk up to the front door and unlock it.

Nitro is barking loudly.

“Payton,” I call out, and she emerges from Mom’s room. “Daddy told me to tell you to go outside.”

Payton goes outside. I almost immediately walk to the kitchen and open the junk drawer. The junk drawer is just as the name suggests: junky. I find the smallest screwdriver I can find and start towards the back of the house, where my sister’s room is. The smell is the first thing that I notice. It’s definitely shitty, but it’s not quite dog shitty. What could he have eaten?

I try the door, but it’s surely locked. The smell is bothersome. I’m starting to worry. The door won’t open. The door isn’t opening. The screwdriver won’t open the lock. The door isn’t opening.

I grab another from the kitchen, but still the damn door won’t open. I’m beginning to sweat. Where’s Mom?

It’s definitely not dog shit I’m smelling. What happens when someone dies again? No, I probably shouldn’t think about that.

Fuck it.

I put my back against the door and raise my legs to the closet door opposite my sister’s room. I push. Mom’s gonna be pissed when I break this door and she’s not behind it. She’s gonna be pissed, right?

The wood cracks. I can just hear her yelling now: “What were you thinking, breaking the door open, jackass?” And I’ll explain the situation, and we’ll laugh about it after we sing Happy Birthday to me. Happy Birthday to me. Happy Birthday, dear Jamal. Happy Birthday to me.

The wood gives, and with a loud bang that surely startles Nitro and Payton, who are sitting in the living room on her phone after I told her not to come back here. I land, my feet on the ground, and turn to see into the room.

No. I repeat it. No. Louder each time. No! What am I seeing? NO! What have you done? A million little nerves die inside of me. And a million more activate. Surely, I am dreaming. I’m wide awake.

No…

“What!” Payton cries louder than I’d ever heard from the living room. I hear her footsteps rushing down the hallway. I hear her about to witness what is killing me.

“DON’T COME BACK HERE! STAY UP THERE! STAY. UP. THERE!”

Mom’s skin is cold on my arm as I struggle to lift her. Mom’s lips are black. Mom’s body is limp. Mom’s heavy as I lift her, so the pressure isn’t on her neck. Mom’s heavy as I use my other hand to dial 911. Mom’s hair is out now as I lay her on her back as the operator instructs. Mom’s lips are black and cold as I put mine on them and exhale into them. Mom?

Her hair is out and it’s gorgeous as I presspresspress on her chest. Air wheezes out of her. Mom, where are you?

Mom isn’t waking up. Mom, wake up. Mom. Wake up. Mom, please wake up. How am I supposed to do this without you? Mom, wake up. Mom, where will I go? How could you? Presspresspress. Mom, wake up. Mom, you’ll be okay. The police are here now. Mom, all you have to do is let them know you’ll be okay, and we’re going to be okay. You got this. Just open your eyes. Mom, they’re asking me questions.

I-I-I c-c-can’t answer th-th-them wi-without st-st-stuttering. I. Can’t. Breathe. Mommy? Please.

Payton is still crying. Where are you, Mom?

The bunk bed in Payton’s room had a unicorn print sheet hanging from it. Why was that? Where’s my mom?

No, I probably shouldn’t think about that.

Nitro is barking.

The police asked me to call my-my-my dad.

“Dad, please, please, please come back.”

“Son, what’s wrong?”

“Please, just come back, now. Please.”

“Alright, son, I’m on my way. I’m on the way. I’m on the way, Son. I’m on my way.”

Please, Mom…

They took our phones. I’m waiting for mine on the grass in front of the house. Officers walk by me, sparing me sorrowful stares. I’m so sorry, kid, glances.

One of them, a woman with a short haircut, catches me as I’m walking out of what I thought was my forever home and gives me a long hug.

I’m hollow. Not a single tear of mine has fallen. Did she feel me not being alive as she hugged me? Did she even feel like she was hugging another human? Is that what I am? Another human? Still?

I’m sitting on the grass. My legs are in my arms, and there are fire trucks and ambulances and police cars everywhere, trying to find Mom. Trying to find her and bring her home. But I know already. There’s no finding her. She’s gone.

From seeing her suspended in the air by her neck. Oh, her neck was so lovely. She looked beautiful before. She was so beautiful. Was? Oh, yes, right, was.

From seeing her blackened lips. I got my lips from her, and my smile. I got everything from her. She was my inspiration in life. So strong…

From her cold skin. She had smooth skin without imperfections. Without blemish. Brown and smooth. It’s so cold now. It was warm before…

Dad takes us to our grandparents’ house. It smells like stale memories. Slowly, the family starts to trickle in the driveway, into the back door, and into my arms. Slowly, they try to comfort me. Payton’s tears have dried, but mine have just started to fall.

Wails leave me as I shake in agony. Agonizing, this life. Horrible. Terrible. Everything is terrible. All of it is disgusting. I can’t take it. Take me from it. Take me away.

Where are you?

PART TWO:

“Welcome,” Ms. Greene says, her lipstick smile reminiscent of my grandmother’s, but my grandmother never wore makeup around me. No, this was just an older woman. Her complexion was clear, like her eyes behind her glasses. “Take a seat anywhere you like.”

We all take our seats. Dad’s by the door. Payton sits next to me on the couch. I look around at the walls. Certifications and degrees hang on them. Isn’t that neat? Probably a decade of schooling, and even more of sitting in rooms with people, hearing their issues, and helping them through, led Ms. Greene, that eccentric, old, friendly therapist, here. Sitting with my family. Minus one.

“Make yourselves comfortable, we’re going to be here a while,” she jokes cheerfully. Payton stares, Dad smiles, and I, generously, spare Ms. Greene a careful chuckle.

Payton doesn’t want to be here, and I do, and Dad’s only here for us, and that’s the reason he only has two mandatory sessions, and Payton has the most of all of us.

“You three are certainly a beautiful family,” Ms. Greene compliments. We respond with thank yous, or at least Dad does. How beautiful can we be without my mom?

I’ve never been to therapy. Mom had. I wonder why it didn’t help her. Despite the clear faultiness of this institution, I’m still willing to give it a chance. It’s been a whole month, and it doesn’t hurt as much as it did when it first happened. Surely, I’m broken.

Quickly, we dig into the reason for our visit. “So your mom is dead,” I hear. “How have you been since it happened?”

I’m taken aback by her frankness. I look at my dad, whose expression I can’t read. Huh. “Right now, I feel normal.”

“That’s good. And what about you, beautiful? How have you been?”

Payton looks like she’s thinking of the best thing to say that’ll get her out of speaking any more than she has to. “I feel good,” is what she comes up with.

Soon enough, we’re leaving this session and coming back for the next. After that one, it’s just Payton and me.

“So, I finally got you two alone. How do you two feel about that?”

I want to say that after she had thrown around the terms depression, schizophrenia, and bipolar disorder, when I opened up about liking being alone in previous sessions, I was not too excited. But I decided, “Happy to be here” was more appropriate. This made Ms. Greene happy as well.

“That makes me very happy to hear that you’re enjoying our time together,” she expresses. “Last session, I may or may not have mentioned the Empty Chair Technique, I don’t quite remember. I have a poor memory,” she laughed. I knew this already from her constantly repeating the same questions. I assumed she was trying to get me to slip up and say something different than what I had already told her, but I never did. “But anyway, the technique allows for you to talk to your mother. Now, she won’t be here physically, but she will be here in spirit, and you’ll have the chance to talk with her and ask her whatever you’ve been wanting to.”

“Okay,” I said, skeptically.

“I want to do this soon so that you two can get everything it is that you’ve been wanting to say out. Would you two be okay with that?”

We nod.

“I can’t hear you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” we respond.

I’ve switched schools, and I live with my grandparents. My hair is longer and my clothes are tighter, but I’ve lost so much weight. Or maybe I gained it? I play basketball now, but I never stopped writing poems. All of this and more I have to tell Mom, but she’ll never actually hear it. It’s because everyone’s a liar that my own therapist feels like this could actually work. After the Empty Chair, I’m sure all of her clients get asked: “So, how do you feel?” And they all respond: “I feel better.” And both, they and Ms. Greene, move on with their merry lives.

Payton’s up first while I’m still at school. I only have three more sessions, while my sister has a whopping five, so I missed this one to go to practice. I suck at basketball, but I’m tall and black at a predominantly white magnet school, so it was a no-brainer. To them, I’m an okay player. To the coach, I was good enough.

My session is on my mind after I see my sister after her’s. She’s crying. I never see her cry anymore. I doubt I’ll cry.

When it’s time, I sit down on the couch, and the empty chair is across from me. My therapist sits in her seat with her pen and clipboard. Everything is still. Two more sessions after this.

“Are you ready?” Ms. Greene asks.

I nod.

“I’ll be the voice for your mother, but first you have to give me the picture. Help me to envision her there, sitting across from you. What’s she wearing?”

“Umm,”

“Take your time. What kind of shirt does she have on?”

I flick through my memories looking for a specific shirt that Mom wore. One that’d make me think of her if I saw it drifting through the wind. All I could think of was her Post Office work shirt.

It made me angry. Riddling Mom down to a Post Office shirt instead of something more characteristic of who she was. And who was she? Was she not hardworking? Even if she was, did she deserve to be remembered by a Post Office shirt? I don’t know.

So here I am, trying to envision my dead mom in her work uniform so that I can talk to her. “Hello, Son,” my mom says with a voice that’s not hers.

“Hey, Momma,” I respond, trying my hardest to see her looking back at me.

It’s completely still in the room, the kind of stillness that’s a little restricting. The single window is curtained. I can feel my heart beatbeatbeating and I stare before me at the empty chair.

It’s strange how the imagination can draw someone into reality if you try hard enough. Or erase someone. Ms. Greene is gone, a thing of the past. I’m still here. And there she is.

My mom looks at me, a thin apparition. Blinking in and out of my reality with each beat of my heart. I feel my eyes well.

“Ms. Greene told me you had questions that you’d like to ask me,” Mom says, but Mom would never say that. Mom didn’t know Ms. Greene. Mom never asked me if I had questions. This was wrong.

I respond, “I don’t have any questions.”

“You don’t want to know where I am?”

“I guess so.”

“I’m at peace.”

“How is that?”

“It’s very nice.”

“Why did you leave?”

“I didn’t leave.”

“No, why did you commit suicide?”

“Because I’m selfish,” I heard. “I was struggling, and I didn’t want to struggle anymore.”

“What were you struggling with?”

“There was a lot that was making me sad, things I felt like I couldn’t deal with.”

“So you left us?”

“Yes.”

“What if I want to leave too?”

Mom shifted in her seat. “That would not make me happy.”

“But, you’re dead,” a tear lands on my hands, cupped together on my lap.

“You aren’t selfish like me. You still have to live.”

“You had to live for me, for us, and you left me with this… all this… pain. I’m struggling too. I deserve peace, too.”

“What happens when you die, and it’s Payton sitting where you’re sitting?”

I sob when I realize what monstrosities have crawled up my throat and out of my mouth. I raise my hand to my stomach as nausea combs over and through me.

The monstrosity sits now where Mom sat. Me, dead. Lips blackened, skin cold.

I’m drifting out into a black water sea on a single soaked log. I was never scared of drowning because I always knew how to swim. But, how do you swim when you just can’t breathe?

I. Can’t. Breathe.

“I-I-I’m s-so s-so-sorry…” I say.

“It’s all going to be okay soon,” and with that, Mom’s gone.

The next session is another Empty Chair. My nerves tingle as I sit down across from the chair. We wait for what seems like an eternity. But, deep down, I know it won’t work if I don’t want it to.

“Take your time,” Ms. Greene says.

I take a deep breath, and there she is. “Son?”

“Hey, Momma.” The words feel forgotten on my lips. “I’m okay now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I want to ask you about something.”

“What is it that you want to ask me about?”

“Am I a part of the reason you did it?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Do you remember all the fights we had? All the times you hated who I was? When you berated me, called me out of my name, said you hated what I was? The time you did it and then went into your room and cried? You took it too far. How, after, you tried so hard to make up for it? Apologizing over and over, trying to reconcile our relationship. But, every time you looked at me, it hurt. My mom. No longer my mom. How estranged we were. How, I never truly did forgive you? Is that why you left?”

Mom stared. She didn’t move. She didn’t blink out. She just stared in silence. I went to speak again, but she spoke finally. “No, son. That’s not why.”

I felt that feeling I feel when I’m trying something new. The woozy, giddy feeling. But I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t even relieved. “I forgive you, Mom. I forgive you.”

“Thank you.”

PART THREE:

I sit before my English class. The eyes of my classmates sliding off and on to me. In my hands is a single piece of paper. On it is a poem. I take a breath as if it’s my last and speak:

the tree with the pink petals

by: Jamal

Sophomore year, P.E. class, my friend told me I was ashy. When I looked down, my knees looked like I had been kneeling in chalk.

Safe to say, I was irritated. One, because I already knew I was ashy. Two, because I came to school in pants and sophomore year me figured that: if I have on pants, why do I need to put lotion on my knees? (Well, this was why.)

And three, because my friend had said something out loud in front of someone else.

I stormed off after, and looking back on it, I was doing the most. But also, no one was offering me any solution—just pointing out a flaw. That bothered me.

But, my friend’s intention wasn’t to humiliate or make fun of me. She was genuinely trying to let me know that I needed to moisturize. I didn’t talk to her for a few days after that. Completely ghosted her. (It wasn’t the first time something like this happened and back then I said everything I needed to say by saying nothing at all.)

A lot of the time, we can’t help the things we observe about one another—but it’s almost universally understood that not every observation is meant to be spoken. There are some things you just don’t say. In high school, this unwritten rule is foundational.

Long before we understand it, we start participating in a quiet agreement. Certain parts of yourself get turned up to ten; other parts stay hidden. Nobody hands you the rulebook. You just learn the rules by watching what happens to the people who break them.

The philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau once wrote that “man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.” High school is advertised to be the opposite of that. On paper, it’s a place for exploration—clubs, identities, creativity, the whole résumé-building version of freedom.

The reality of the social side of high school is often ruled by the contract—the one you signed before you read it.

Some of us think ourselves free—but the chains are still there, and they’re really hard to break.

Clique’d Up = Identity + Status + Comfort + Shared Experience + Language

Ever been in a big friend group and there’s one person you just don’t trust? Well same. Turns out they were just covertly out to get me.

It was pretty awkward because I was in the same group as them. When you’re in a friend group and you want someone else to leave, saying something will either bear fruit, or leave you on the curb.

Safe to say, I found myself kissing that curb.

The weird part came after. I couldn’t talk to anyone about it.

Every response was the same: That can’t be true. They’d never do that.

In other words—everything I said was bullshit.

So I ended up on the receiving end of what happens when you break the social contract.

I was excluded from the clique.

High school cliques run on a mix of identity, status, comfort, shared experience—and language.

Take language alone. In the past few months you’ve probably heard people throw around phrases like niche, call your uber, or chud.

But social currency moves fast here. Today’s joke becomes tomorrow’s embarrassment. Quote the wrong meme and suddenly you’ve committed a small social crime.

You can try to explain the joke, of course—but explaining a joke is the conversational equivalent of showing up late to a party and asking everyone to restart the music.

Language in high school works like a password. We use the phrases everyone recognizes so that we, in turn, are recognized. It feels like self-expression, but most of the time it’s just translation—we’re speaking the dialect required to belong.

Rousseau had a name for this pressure: the general will—the quiet force that pushes individuals to fall in line with the collective.

And I’ll admit it—I’ve felt it too.

When you walk past a group of friends and everyone laughs at the same joke, it’s almost mechanical. The group reacts like a single organism. The joke isn’t just funny because someone said it; it’s funny because the group decided it was.

But clique culture isn’t just about humor or slang. It’s also about class, though we rarely call it that.

You see it in smaller ways.

The signals are subtle, but they’re everywhere.

Before I came to high school, having more than twenty dollars for lunch wasn’t normal. Neither was bringing a carefully packed meal from home that looked like it had been prepared by Martha Stewart.

But, in all fairness, most of these kids knew each other way before they even knew what class was. It was never a crime to be comfortable in your bubble full of similar familiar faces.

We don’t even think about that kind of stuff. We don’t see money or color… Being friends with people isn’t a crime.

It’s not weird to want (to crave, even) community. There’s something about a bunch of people who have never experienced life before, making it up together as they go. It’s troublesome, scary, and really fucking cool sometimes.

But who can blame someone for feeling a little anxious walking past the huge group of generally well-off white guys who all look the same in the middle of the courtyard at lunch?

There’s probably nothing wrong with them. They’re probably great.

Right?

Flock Mentality - The Grill vs. Accountability & The Infamous N-Word

In the middle of the courtyard, at the heart of my high school, sits The Grill. A loose circle of senior white guys, ranging from committed Student Council members to the kind of guys who simply show up, go to class (sometimes), and go home. Still, you’ll catch almost all of them on a night out like anyone else.

As a fellow senior, not a day goes by without hearing something about someone from The Grill.

I’m not even sure where the name came from. Did they name themselves? Was it supposed to be a private thing? Why The Grill?

There are many questions I have about this clique—really I don’t know a lot about them. Individually they’re all practically strangers to me, save for a couple I’ve spoken to and gotten to know. As a collective though, I know more than I maybe should.

It seems like everyone knows someone who knows someone who knows someone in The Grill. It could just be the result of high school’s forced proximity and limited space.

I feel the need to mention, The Grill wasn’t always a racial monolith, and still isn’t entirely. Some kids transferred out of our school, others are still friendly with The Grill but just don’t sit with them much. A few are even core members—though those kids, one in particular, are especially exceptional when it comes to money and academics. And there is undoubtedly a correlation between the two.

If someone mapped the concentration of wealth and/or test scores at my school, The Grill would be the epicenter.

Socially, they are the standard—the reference point people are sometimes measured against. In the ecosystem of high school, they sit comfortably above the average. Love them or despise them, that fact is hard to deny.

And when a group sits comfortably at the center of the social order, something interesting happens: the rules that apply to everyone else begin to loosen.

Along the many, many channels of the grapevine runs a rumor—frequently revisited and added to—that the members of The Grill say the N-Word.

Now, I know it’s not all of them, and some of them have expressed that they don’t approve. But unlike politics, the N-Word ain’t isn’t ambiguous.

The history of the N-word is widely known—but rarely acknowledged in circles like The Grill. Acknowledging it would mean confronting centuries of oppression… Fortunately for them, their ancestors were not the ones being oppressed—and they aren’t the ones living with the consequences.

Whenever I’ve brought up the N-Word and its use to a member of the clique, I’d almost always been met with a subtle mental eye roll.

The strange thing about groups is that responsibility rarely belongs to anyone. Everyone knows who said it, but no one claims it. One of the more troubling—and disturbingly common—rumors about The Grill is that whenever one person says the N-word, the group gathers into a circle and takes turns saying it so that everyone is guilty and no one can be singled out (allegedly).

Whether the story is true or not almost doesn’t matter. The fact that people believe it says something about how groups like this are perceived—and how easily accountability disappears inside a crowd.

There aren’t any consequences socially—people who disapprove only avoid the group warily, but they are never confronted or punished. People still openly support them, sometimes even pretend they had no idea when it’s brought up. I’ve even heard people justify it!

Well, we do live in Louisiana. Well, I’m sure they don’t say it in a racist way.

Not that I really have to remind anyone of this, but there is no way to say the N-Word as a non-Black person in a way that is not racist. Period, end-of-story.

The social contract of high school includes unspoken limits about what can be said publicly. Members of The Grill avoid saying the word in front of people who would challenge them, which means they are aware and technically still follow the contract. Because of that, the behavior stays hidden and rumored rather than openly confronted. That hiddenness protects them from accountability while maintaining the appearance of social order.

At the same time, the contract protects Black students from hearing it openly. The rule still exists—but only in public spaces. Behind the privacy of the group, that rule can be broken without consequence.

But what about the members of The Grill who don’t say it? The good ones.

Well…what about them?

They don’t reprimand their peers. And that kind of bystanding says almost as much about their sense of justice as saying the word themselves.

Silence, after all, is still participation.

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The “Good People” and Ivory Towers

Aside from members of The Grill who seriously have more dirty laundry than my bedroom right now—

there’s another group that deserves attention: the “good” people.

Usually the ones who don’t say the N-Word, don’t laugh at tasteless jokes, don’t start rumors, pick fights, or sit in the middle of the courtyard like they own it. Most of the time they’re polite and respectful—truly, they are good.

But good in high school requires a certain level of aloofness. These people are masters of saying everything about nothing at all. And for good reason.

They don’t challenge the social contract because they don’t interact with it enough to feel responsible for it. This is the high school version of an ivory tower—the quiet corners filled with students who keep their eyes averted and their grades pristine. Some build their identity almost entirely through academic validation or extracurricular excellence.

It’s comfortable up there.

The thing is, high school—and more broadly, society—rewards silence. Let the bullies bully and you can reap the benefits of being everyone’s friend. If you stand for everything, you can almost always remain seated.

It’s easy to be a good person without ever doing anything good.

Because doing something good usually requires risk. Social risk—the kind that threatens the stability of the contract. Speaking up when someone says something wrong risks your place in the group. Challenging a rumor risks your reputation. Choosing to share an unpopular opinion can feel like attacking the status quo.

So the good person won’t.

Conventionality is easy. It’s safe. Confrontation is horrible. Usually, good people can intuit what is socially acceptable. Causes, which on the surface may seem bold and brave, become center pieces of identity.

Another way of saying something without saying anything.

The norms are safe places to operate. Take all the AP classes, get into the perfect relationship (or college), join the service clubs—and the most you can do to confront injustice is distance yourself from the cause of it.

High school is the place people fall in love to fall in line.

So many times I’ve heard: I don’t want to be like my parents, I want to be better.

But how much are you actually doing differently?

I know it’s tough, so I don’t blame anyone who doesn’t want to get caught up in the noise.

But, consider this:

Imagine you’re playing a game with your friends where the loser has to complete a punishment chosen by the winner. The punishment is to publicly humiliate everyone you’ve ever kissed on TikTok. When the video is reported and consequences follow, the person who posted it argues that it wasn’t even their idea—they were just carrying out the punishment they were given.

The person who suggested the punishment did face (irritatingly mild) consequences from the school. But socially, nothing really changed. There’s no proof the loser can show that the idea came from him—at least none that can be presented without someone being labeled a snitch. So the loser takes the public fall while the “winner” moves on mostly socially untouched.

What’s interesting is that no one seems to question the person who suggested the punishment in the first place. His behavior—sometimes funny or charismatic, sometimes rude or disrespectful—is usually brushed off with a shrug. People say he’s “not all bad,” or that “that’s just how he is.”

At some point, though, it becomes worth asking why certain people are excused while others are held responsible. At what point do we decide that being actually good matters more than maintaining a connection with someone who does something wrong?

Maybe it is that serious, someone was hurt. And even if you don’t care about the person who was hurt, the least you could do is acknowledge the actions of the person who did the hurting.

Both of them. It’s possible.

The truth is the system creates the behavior—not necessarily bad people.

Jean-Jacques Rousseau once wrote: “The general will is always right, but the judgment which guides it is not always enlightened.”

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Tearing Up The Contract - #ItsComplicated

I’ve taken part in drunken nights, surrounded by other kids who can’t quite hold their liquor—reverting back to their childlike forms on the verge of tears with wide smiles. So embarrassed by the idea of waking up the next morning that they cling to nothing more than the reckless abandon of the night before.

Under the cloak of nights such as these, I’ve heard promises and dreams being spoken by kids too big for their tube tops and tee shirts. Moments where I think: there is nothing more honest than the way we are now.

Throughout the myriad of high school experiences I’ve had, I maintained a performed drama that was never too much—I had my shit together. Long stretches of pleasing everyone could be followed by my most wayward behavior—and I’d still get the same reaction from my peers.

I moved from objective to objective like I was taught to do in theater while never truly having an end goal.

The through line of high school has been a sloppy improvisation—equal parts exhausting and invigorating.

Friendships have formed that might last decades. People around me have discovered parts of themselves they didn’t know existed. Someone’s found their voice, their passion, their place in the world.

The mistakes mattered.

Because high school isn’t really the finished product. It’s a rehearsal. A trial run for the much larger, much messier societies we’ll eventually enter. The contracts out there are bigger. The consequences are heavier. The stakes are real. But the dynamics aren’t that different.

For a long time I thought tearing up the contract meant refusing to play along. Speaking up. Standing apart.

But high school isn’t a stage you can just walk off. If you go off script, they’ll just dim the lights and suddenly you’re just yelling into the void.

People can still hear you, but they won’t see you.

If high school runs on a social contract, the obvious question is whether it can be broken. In theory, the answer is yes. In practice, it’s a little more complicated than that.

Stepping out of line is usually met by people eager to push you back into it.

I’m not brave. Not like this one girl who slapped the shit out of her best friend’s ex-boyfriend for being weird to her on Amelia Street during Mardi Gras.

I don’t want to lose friends, risk how people see me, be viewed as “difficult,” or do irreparable to my reputation. And I don’t think that makes me a coward.

I think it means I’m human.

At some point, everyone thinks about tearing up the contract.

Not dramatically. Not in some movie moment where someone stands on a table and announces that the system is broken.

“No, I’m Radio Rebel!”

Most of the time, thankfully, it’s quieter than that.

Breaking the contract isn’t just about rebellion—it’s about risk.

High school runs on a delicate balance of belonging. The moment you challenge the group, even gently, you threaten that balance. And people protect balance the way organisms protect homeostasis: automatically.

Push too hard and suddenly you’re the problem.

It’s the effects of community.

Even the philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau understood this tension. The general will might guide society, but that doesn’t mean it’s always right—or fair—or kind.

The system keeps moving either way.

Which leaves people like us with an uncomfortable question: If everyone knows the rules are flawed, then why the hell is no one rewriting them?

Where We Land

By the time high school ends, most of us understand the contract pretty well.

We know which jokes will land.

Which opinions are safe to share.

Which people to avoid.

Which people everyone quietly orbits.

We learn the language. We learn the boundaries. We learn how to move through the system without setting off alarms.

But like Rue said, “I know it all seems sad, but guess what? I didn’t build this system, nor did I fuck it up.”

In other words, we have to adapt.

And maybe that’s not entirely a bad thing.

There’s something strange and fascinating about high school: thousands of teenagers, all half-formed, building a miniature society together. The rules are inconsistent, the power structures are shaky, and the leadership changes every year.

Groups still form.

Silence still protects people.

Responsibility still gets lost in the crowd.

And somewhere in the background, Rousseau’s observation still lingers:

People are born free.

But the chains never really disappear.

We just get better at pretending we don’t feel them.

- jam 🐈‍⬛

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Recently, a friend told me I was such a Carrie. Of course, I had only the vaguest idea of what that meant and still do. All I had to go off of was the various clips I’d seen of Carrie Bradshaw in the most precarious and publicly vulnerable situations humanly possible. And all I could think was: yeah—that makes sense.

Sure, I’m not dropping bibles off balconies during church,  or showing up to someone’s home in various different costumes, or fighting with anyone outside of McDonalds, but there’ve been moments where I feared so much the repercussion of my actions that I’d ended up doing nothing at all. And that, I think, is far worse than embarrassment: to feel everything so deeply and still walk away with nothing to show for it.

This article, unfortunately, isn’t really about Carrie Bradshaw.

There’s a creator on TikTok who walks around the streets of Paris asking people a question almost everyone has heard: Is it better to speak or to die? A query originating from the 16th-century French story collection Heptaméron by Marguerite de Navarre—which was popularized by the film Call Me By Your Name.

I saw the film a few months ago with a friend, and it confirmed for me what my answer to that question would be. The question serves as a meditation on love, fear of rejection, and emotional vulnerability. Elio’s love is unrelenting, but fearful. He is afraid of what may not be there, but chooses to speak because he can’t stand the silence. Though his story ends in a profound heartbreak, Elio does love again.

I would always choose to die.

Though rooted in obvious, certainly obnoxious, pessimism—my answer is not meant to be one of surrender. Instead, it’s born of the desire to survive. After all, the body shrinks from annihilation, and what is more crushing than the embarrassment of rejection?

The irony isn’t lost on me. One dying because one does not want to die is silly, yes. But I say: why challenge the inevitable if only to prove to yourself you’re alive? No, it wouldn’t do for me, simply because my hurt feelings hurt enough unspoken. Instead of pushing that boulder uphill in silence, I would rather let the feeling die inside my heart. Speaking might only let the boulder roll back down and crush me.

But the older I get, the less convinced I am by my own answer.

There is something suspicious about choosing silence in the name of survival. Silence, after all, is rarely neutral. It preserves the self, yes—but it also preserves the fear that made the silence necessary in the first place. And fear, when left unchallenged, grows teeth.

Embarrassment, on the other hand, is curiously honest. It is the body’s way of announcing that something real has happened—that you have wanted something badly enough to risk being seen wanting it. In that sense, embarrassment is almost noble. It is the evidence of a life lived without perfect control.

If you asked Carrie, I’m sure she’d say: it’s better to speak and just never stop.

From what I’ve seen, those who speak die just the same as those who never do. But the difference was never to be found in death, but instead in life.

Life is embarrassing because it calls for you to participate. It asks for you to risk being foolish, sentimental, misunderstood. To feel too much, say too much, care too openly.

My friend, Brooklyn, tells me now that she’s learning there are some things she simply isn’t meant to try for anymore. Why waste words, she says, when people never listen to her anyway? Disappointed by the way in which the world keeps walking past even when you call out for its attention.

I hope she knows that every word she has “wasted” on me I still hold on to. And I’m sure everyone else does too.

People don’t forget. They remember the things you say to them—the advice you give, the concern you show, the truths you risk telling. Even if they get in their own way too often to acknowledge it at the time, the words remain somewhere with them.

That is why the very people my friend talks about eventually come around, repeating back to her the message she once tried to give them.

Those people trust her more now, because they know she cared enough to tell them the truth before they understood it themselves. That is how trust is built. If she had hesitated—if she had held her tongue because she feared the embarrassment of being ignored or contradicted—then that trust might never have formed.

But she didn’t hesitate. She spoke.

And because she spoke, when she gives advice now, there are ears ready to listen.

I’ve seen friendships, relationships, and acquaintances killed by the words shared between two people. I’ve watched mighty fall for sharing too much with the wrong people. But within all of it were just people talking, trying to make sense of themselves and the world around them.

You cannot be embarrassed by the things you never dared to do—but you also cannot be changed by them.

Unlike death, silence actually isn’t permanent—nor is embarrassment.

I think I should take my own advice. There are people I love so madly who haven’t the slightest idea.It’s difficult—so much so that I recoil when I hear Bad Religion by Frank Ocean and bury myself in my thoughts whenever a love song hits too close to home. My silence can no longer be a testament to my love, just like a dream cannot live without its dreamer to chase it. Something must be done.

And though, like Carrie, I’m not very subtle, unless I speak I’ll always yearn. Not because I am not loud about my feelings, but because they are so obviously there—just beneath the surface, threatening to spill out at any moment, begging for acknowledgment. Like Carrie, I should let them. She sends the text. She asks the question. She shows up in the wrong outfit, at the wrong place, at the wrong time.

She is, in other words, embarrassingly alive—perhaps the truest way to be.

And for those who are embarrassed and looking for a way out—live in it. Know that you are braver and more honest than those who look at you and judge. I can’t promise you’ll be rewarded, but I do know you’ll breathe easier without those heavy what-ifs on your shoulders.

Human nature shows that we resent what exists beyond our understanding. We do not understand the why of beauty. Why is one thing more beautiful than another? Why is she prettier? Why is he more handsome? Because we cannot explain it, we begin to resent it. In myself and in others, I’ve seen this resentment become jealousy, envy, sorrow, anger, and most unfortunately—fear.

Being seen is uncomfortable. Being perceived is threatening. The body’s permanence—its undeniable existence—can feel like betrayal. Cameras are cold and unforgiving; to be shot by one can be fatal.

It’s obvious why the feeling of being unsatisfactory is so excruciating for nearly everyone. The surveillance and documentation of life have become signs of stability and normality. We are the cat inside the box, except we are only dead unless we are seen. In a world that seems not to exist unless it is recorded, invisibility feels like erasure.

And why wouldn’t it?

When I walk the halls of my high school, past the faces I’ve seen for years, sometimes all it takes to make me smile is a simple wave in my direction. And when you can be acknowledged instantly by hundreds of people who may not wave but still see you through social media, why wouldn’t you want to look your best when it happens? And wouldn’t it be natural to feel scorned when your acknowledgment—measured against someone else’s—doesn’t quite measure up?

So as time passes us by, we grow more vapid. Validation loses its value when it comes only in the shape of a digital heart—one that doesn’t beat, and doesn’t mean anything more than: I see you. I hope you see me.

But through the screen I see less and less of myself.

Filtered through the machine meant to erase what’s there, I begin to feel relief as the things that hurt to look at disappear. It feels good to hold up the mirror and see someone besides myself looking back. All it takes is a dull trick—a simple magic of the mind—to believe that it’s still me.

In the dim light of a screen, with skin smoother than skin, the bruises on my ego are blurred away. For a moment I see the person I wish I were.

But when I put the phone down and return to the world behind the screen, the magic fades. I return to my place to hide away. I go back to the blur, rolling tired eyes away from the vibrancy of people who seem beautiful in real life.

But so what? I’m not the first person to be jealous. I won’t be the last. Everyone is insecure.

It’s the same insecurity that makes us call love—when it is stronger or safer than our own—a sin. The same instinct that makes us ridicule ourselves quietly and others loudly. We laugh at what is considered ugly because it’s funny to be ridiculous—even when just trying to stay alive for another person might mean not matching what we deem beautiful.

I don’t know why we do it—could be some biological survival tactic. Only the gorgeous survive. Even though the real victor is, and will always be, the one who defines what “gorgeous” means.

They decide who gets the most digital hearts, or who gets waved at in the hallway. They decide who the camera loves and who gets cropped out. And it’s strange that it could be that every insecurity inside of me now is the result of a decision someone else made.

Why is one thing more beautiful than the other? A better question may be, why did whoever decided that make that decision? And why are we all still okay with it?

Even so, it’s difficult to choose not to find beauty in what you already find beautiful. The way you are wired is probably the way you will remain. And that becomes nobody else’s problem but our own.

After all, the problem itself is only a matter of opinion—one that might never exist at all if it stayed unspoken.

Because for one thing to be beautiful there has to be the other that isn’t. It doesn’t feel good to be made the other. To be threatened with cameras meant to make your skin not look like skin. Or to be told a thing is funny when you’re standing in proximity to the joke. You get tired of laughing at yourself; and at some point the laughter starts to hurt.

Before you know it, you’ve “good sport-ed” your way into gridlock. To say something about the injustice would make you seem sensitive—a thing deemed negative in the context of comedy. To remain silent is the only rule you’re meant to follow, with the one exception being that you’re allowed to laugh along with everyone else.

I’ve kept my eyes closed and my smile wide, laughing along so that everyone else can remain polite—and dishonest—about how they really feel. Maybe the tears are part of the reason the world is a little blurry. Or maybe it’s because I’ve been seeing the world through eyes that aren’t my own, left with misplaced anger and envy that slowly eats away at whatever is left of me.

I find it was never that I couldn’t see, but that I’d been taught to look at the world in a way that was never meant for me.