Letter to the Editor: Black Ball
By Contributor / February 25, 2021The story of Black students at Ball State is one of perseverance — it is a story of the Black students’ tenacity and faith in themselves, each other and the university.
The story of Black students at Ball State is one of perseverance — it is a story of the Black students’ tenacity and faith in themselves, each other and the university.
Imagine this: You’re the shy girl sitting in the back of the classroom — silently doodling in the margins of your notebook. No one has ever noticed you, and they never will. That is, not until those chunky glasses come off.
So, you’ve signed up little Robert for tee ball, and before long, you realize your child is good. Not just good — this kid is going to be the next Derek Jeter. So, naturally, you take the next step and install a full baseball infield in your basement, spend every weekend at the batting cages and travel all over the country competing in prestigious Little League tournaments. After all, you want to give your little champion the best chance at getting that college scholarship and set them up for a beautiful, storied career in the MLB, right?
I was raised with the belief that once you are brought into this world, you have a purpose and are deserving of life. The morals that have been instilled in me since birth tell me laws like the death penalty should cease to exist, but morality can’t necessarily be backed up by fact.
A click of the remote brought the booming voices of reporters from the television right to my living room. Slowly, members of my family made their way to the television too — a flash of stone cold reality we were usually able to escape from in our isolated Indiana home. Wide-eyed and almost mesmerized by what was happening, we stood in awe as Americans congregated and broke into the United States Capitol building with weapons, waved flags, intimidated police officers, sat in representatives’ seats and treated the sacred building as if it were their territory to destroy.
Before I stepped onto campus as a sophomore this fall, I knew it was going to be nothing like my freshman year. Classes were online, fall break was canceled and students moved home for the semester right before Thanksgiving. At the time, I couldn’t tell if the lack of rest fall break and Labor Day provided would even make a difference in the semester.
When I tell you I’m speechless, when I tell you I feel betrayed, when I tell you it took less than a moment for the light to leave my eyes, I say that with my whole chest. I wanted to avoid controversy and keep the peace, but an anger which has long remained stagnant within me has been reignited. At the risk of rambling, I’ll just say it — Raisin Bran should be illegal.
The winter has always made me feel nostalgic. Waking up to cold air makes me feel like a 16-year-old boy, scrambling to get my jammers and goggles for swim practice, slamming back coffee and sprinting out the door. Now, with the end of the fall 2020 semester so close and that fabled finish line in sight, I’ll have more to remember waking up in the winter.
My freshman year, this column was titled “Demi’s Diems.” I tried to play on the saying “Carpe Diem” or “Seize the day,” therefore making my column name “Demi’s Days.” It was an easy decision when I found out I could change my column title sophomore year — I mean, come on, “Demi’s Diems” was pretty terrible. So, I chose the column name “Unspoken.”
If you’re someone who has a “unique” name, you probably know the mortal embarrassment of roll call on the first day of school. I grew up memorizing my place in the roll call list, and the moment the teacher would falter, I knew my time had come.
It is nothing new to say that this is the most important election in history. We have seen record-breaking results from mail-in ballots this year due to the pandemic, and we have citizens who call other countries home sitting on the edge of their seats in anticipation for the results of the election.
Growing up I heard stories of black cats running under ladders and breaking mirrors causing bad luck. The person who let me in on the secret witchcraft of black cats also threw salt over their shoulder if a grain of it spilled on any surface but their plate. It is a pretty common superstition to think black cats are a bad omen, but thinking it could cause misfortune or death has led to the substantial decrease in appeal for the furry creatures. Because of this, and several other factors, black cats struggle to get adopted.
As I am writing this, it is my birthday — Oct. 26 — my favorite day of the entire year. When the calendar hits October, I look at this day in anticipation. Every year, everyone I know gives me their best wishes, I put on my best outfit and strut myself all the way to a high-quality fast food restaurant because I deserve it. I allow myself to have a little too much ice cream, sleep in later than necessary and not do a single thing on my to-do list all day.
“Fake news” is a term many Americans have come to know all too well. The term is meant to represent false information but has been morphed into a political tool to disavow legitimate journalism as a whole. I became familiar with the term during the 2016 election. My interest in politics and journalism grew together. To me, this November’s election is almost a matter of life and death. If you can vote, please take the time to do so. It will be worth the outcome.
For the past several months, the 2020 U.S. election has been taking over our lives. Between social media ads, campus campaigns and countless news articles, we can’t escape it. As a first-time voter, it is starting to feel overwhelming.
College students my age are usually thinking about parties, hanging out with friends or planning their future dream life — I am the complete opposite. I’d rather stay in at night with my husband and dog and drink a warm mug of tea. My life has been full of ups and downs, but one thing remains constant: my desire to be happy. Marrying young filled that desire.
I’m standing at the podium. The bright light shining down on my face to illuminate the stage feels comparable to a criminal interrogation. I can’t see the town hall members, but I can feel their eyes judging me. They sit in their seats, waiting impatiently for the opportunity to blaze me with their concerns, fears and judgements about who I am and the life ahead of me. I am vulnerable — like the feeling in your gut when you answer a question wrong in class or when a person in your friend group gives you that look of judgment after you say something personal. I am standing up at that podium like I am naked, have forgotten to shave all of my body hair and am the only one without clothes on. That kind of vulnerability.
Host Zahria Hart talks about the Breonna Taylor case
As November steadily approaches, so does the 2020 presidential election. This year has been fraught with fear and uncertainty for the future. It has also highlighted some of the major racial issues still present in the United States.
How much does the fate of a country weigh? The only person who could tell you was a frail yet omnivalent 5-foot-1-inch woman named Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and she died Sept. 18.
