A Broken High School Journey

Battle Through Public School

“What are you?” 

Not a day at Westlake High School went by without hearing that question: “What are you?” It echoed through hallways, classrooms, and even casual conversations, a seemingly innocent inquiry that carried a weight most people couldn’t understand. For those asking, it was a fleeting moment of curiosity. For me, it was a constant reminder that I was different, that I didn’t fit neatly into the categories society expected. Most people don’t realize how exhausting those words can be, how they stick with you long after they’ve been said, lingering in your mind like an unanswered question. The weight of those words was heavy, shaping the way I moved through my days and how I saw myself.

Westlake was an amazing place in many ways. It was a school alive with energy, filled with the chatter of friends, the clatter of lockers slamming shut, and the buzz of anticipation before big events. I was lucky to be surrounded by friends who shared my struggles and made high school life bearable. They were my safe haven in a world that often felt overwhelming, offering support and laughter when I needed it most. We navigated the ups and downs of teenage life, leaning on each other for strength and reassurance.

There were also moments of lightness and joy that added color to my days. Weekly crushes on boys kept things interesting, bringing a spark of excitement to the otherwise repetitive rhythm of high school. I remember blushing over small interactions or daydreaming about silly "what ifs" during class, those fleeting moments of innocence that reminded me I was still just a teenager figuring things out. The thrill of pep rallies, with their booming music and the crowd's infectious energy, always left me vibration with excitement, even if it was only temporarily. The buzz after a fight and everyone sharing the video on Instagram. And then there were the food trucks, a highlight for everyone, where the promise of something delicious after practice had me eagerly begging my mom for a few extra dollars every week. Those moments, however small, broke up the monotony and gave me something to look forward to.

The vibrancy of Westlake extended beyond just the events and the people; it was in the spirit of the school itself. From the cheers at basketball games to the shared groans during finals week, there was a sense of community that was hard to ignore. Even on the tough days, it was comforting to know that I was part of something larger, a place where so many lives intersected and stories unfolded. Despite the challenges, Westlake wasn’t just a school, it was an experience, a world of its own with its own rhythm, struggles, and joys. It was a place where I learned to find pockets of happiness amidst the chaos, and for that, I’ll always hold it close to my heart.

But there were downsides. My challenges weren’t as trivial as “I don’t know what to wear today!” They were deeper, heavier, and silently eroded my mental health. At a predominantly Black public high school, being different wasn’t easy, it was isolating. Freshman year as a transgender individual who just wanted peace felt like a waking nightmare. Fear would somehow always crawl its way to my throat when I was asked what I had in my pants. I was afraid of confrontation and terrified of being made a fool. Not just by students, either. 

Every hallway felt like a battlefield, every classroom a minefield of whispers and stares. I became hyper-aware of myself, my voice, my posture and movements, my clothes, because any slip could bring judgment. The school was alive with energy, but for me, that energy sometimes felt suffocating. I didn’t want to fit in, but it was what I need to do to survive; I needed to disappear, to blend into the background and avoid the relentless spotlight that seemed to follow me everywhere.

Being transgender at Westlake meant carrying an unspoken label that others pinned on me, a label I never asked for and couldn’t remove. It was a label that seemed to define how people saw me before they even got to know me, as though my entire existence could be reduced to a single, misunderstood word. This uninvited scrutiny turned even the most mundane parts of my day into challenges. It was exhausting to constantly defend my existence without saying a word, to plaster a smile on my face as a shield against the subtle digs, the pointed questions, and the side-eyed glances. Every interaction felt like a performance, an exhausting effort to defuse tension, avoid conflict, and reassure others that I wasn’t a threat, even though they treated me like one.

My identity wasn’t a choice; it was an intrinsic part of who I was. But surviving in that environment often felt like I had to make a choice every single day: to be myself and risk isolation, ridicule, or even physical harm, or to suppress my truth in exchange for some fleeting sense of safety. This wasn’t the kind of choice any teenager should have to face. It meant silencing myself when I wanted to speak out, pretending to laugh at jokes that hurt, and biting my tongue when I felt the sting of ignorance or malice.

Although I had refuge with the staff, I’ve been humiliated by those careless words that teachers would announce about me. Comments made without thought or understanding, things said in passing or in front of the class, became weapons, painting a target on my back for those already skeptical of me. It was as if their words validated the cruelty I faced, giving others permission to scrutinize and demean me. Slurs, physical bouts and gossip were the bane of my existence, but they were my reality. These moments of discomfort were constant reminders that my presence was a problem in their eyes. Even though I made it through freshman year, sophomore year, it would all add up.

Giving Up to Get

Throughout freshman year, I had one space where I felt like I could express myself. Not just with the people but with the environment. In marching band, I played trombone in second position, it felt like my wings in a cruel place that only wanted your feathers.  The discipline, the music, and the sense of community were the anchors that kept me steady, making school not just tolerable but sometimes even enjoyable. I fell deeply in love with it, and it became my refuge.

There’s a magic in the band that’s hard to put into words. The feeling during practice when the entire band perfects a song and my section hits a beautiful chord is unmatched—it’s like everything clicks into place, and for a moment, you’re part of something bigger than yourself.  The feelings of your first overnight trip, giggling with your friends on the bus ride there and sleeping in the crooks of their neck. The feeling of the halftime whistle blowing and sprinting on the field from the sidelines, your heart lurching and pumping from the adrenaline and excitement, and suddenly nothing else matters as you start the performance with hundreds of eyes on you. 

The experiences extended far beyond the performances. Free tickets to watch HBCU bands showed us what excellence looked like and gave us something to aspire to. The friendly rivalries with other high schools, the pre-game meals shared with friends over laughter and nerves, and the dizzying sensation of marching in parades added layers of joy and meaning to my life. Every moment, every smile, every laugh, every tear, was part of a bigger story. Band wasn’t just an activity; it was my sanctuary. It gave me purpose in a world that often felt indifferent. For that year, it felt like everything was perfect.

Sophomore year is when I started at Fulton Academy of Virtual Excellence. The overwhelming sadness and anxiety I held every day during school wasn’t worth the “traditional high school experience”. So I transferred. My only connections to Westlake were now my friends, HOSA and marching band. I was living off a tight schedule, but I made it work. FAVE was flexible, and it worked perfectly with my 504 accommodations. I was comfortable in my home, and my time at FAVE made me safe to experiment with my identity and do things I was terrified to do at Westlake.

I questioned and explored femininity without the judgement of peers, and I came into a better version of my self, realizing and embracing the flux of my identity. Not only was I thriving academically at FAVE, but I also managed to stay socially connected. At that time, I felt truly happy, like I had finally found a balance in my life. Then everything changed when my brother got into a car accident. Beyond the fear and stress that came with his recovery, I lost a reliable way to get to Westlake for my after-school activities. My family tried to make it work, relying on Uber's and Lyft's to get me to band practice, but the costs quickly added up. Worse, technical issues and delays meant I started showing up late to practices—a cardinal sin in the eyes of my band director.

I tried explaining my situation to him, hoping for some understanding, but it was like talking to a brick wall. He was as stubborn as they come, and to him, lateness was an unforgivable offense, no matter the reason. His lack of leniency made an already stressful situation feel unbearable. The pressure started building, and soon the anxiety overshadowed the joy I used to feel in band. Something I had once looked forward to with excitement began to feel like an obligation I could never fulfill.

Marching band had been my world, it was the one constant, the one place where I felt like I belonged. Losing that sense of belonging was devastating. I pushed myself to keep going, but it was clear not everyone saw my effort. My director didn’t trust me anymore, dismissing my explanations as excuses. When he banned me from the biggest overnight trip of the season, the Florida Classic trip, it felt like the final blow.

This was my breaking point because in the midst of my fading enjoyment of marching band, that trip was the only thing keeping me from quitting. Without it, I couldn’t ignore the cracks forming in my once-strong love for marching band. It was my breaking point, the moment I realized I couldn’t keep pouring my heart into something that no longer brought me happiness. After a week of contemplating and conversations with my parents, I made a difficult decision to walk away, and I did. I quit.

My Determination to Change

With the loss of marching band to occupy my time and energy, I was left lost, searching for something to fill the void. Marching band had been more than just an activity; it was a community, a creative outlet, and a source of structure in my life. Without it, I felt unsteady and unsure, and all I had left was my academics to keep me grounded. With the dream of attending New York University always in the back of my mind, I threw myself into my studies, hoping to distract myself from the heavy sense of loss. I was still attending FAVE at the time, and though I made attempts to branch out by joining various clubs and organizations like HOSA, they felt too limiting. The connections were shallow, and the opportunities didn’t feel like they aligned with what I needed to thrive.

Academically, things weren’t much better. The curriculum at FAVE was insanely easy; assignments that were meant to challenge me felt more like busywork. I breezed through most days, checking off boxes, without ever feeling intellectually stimulated. It was like treading water in a shallow pool when I wanted to dive into the deep end. Hoping to find a way to push myself further, I had a meeting with my counselor to ask about dual-enrollment or college classes, only to be told that those options weren’t available at FAVE. It was then that I realized this school couldn’t offer me the growth I was seeking. I felt stuck in a system that didn’t recognize or nurture my potential, and I knew I had to start paving my own path forward.

The overwhelming feeling of being left behind, of stagnating while everyone else seemed to be moving forward, wasn’t new to me. It was something I’d carried with me since seventh grade, this nagging sense that I should be struggling more, working harder, or learning deeper truths. Instead, everything around me felt like common sense, too easy, too routine. I watched kids my age online grow to heights I could only dream of, and I was envious. I didn’t want to just coast through school on autopilot; I wanted to be challenged, to be uncomfortable, to grow. And so, I began to take matters into my own hands.

I started planning my future with meticulous detail, staying up until 2 AM on countless nights to map out every step of my academic journey. I made multiple drafts of GPA goals and broke them down into the grades I needed on individual assignments to achieve those goals by the end of each semester. I envisioned myself thriving at NYU and analyzed the university’s admissions criteria, obsessing over how to meet and exceed their expectations. My planning didn’t stop at college. I created timelines for my career, imagining what the first three years after graduation might look like. I considered studying abroad to expand my horizons and feed my love for travel, and I spent hours researching internships with major hospitals in my area that could give me an edge in my future applications. The depth of my planning went far beyond what most people my age would even think to consider. It wasn’t just a dream, it was a blueprint.

My parents watched all of this unfold with a mixture of awe and bewilderment. They were overwhelmed by my dedication and ambition, and though they wanted to support me, they realized that much of what I needed was beyond their reach. They couldn’t always keep up with the level of planning and precision I brought to the table, and they struggled to find ways to truly challenge or guide me. In their eyes, I was already pushing myself far beyond what they could have imagined. But for me, it still didn’t feel like enough. I was hungry for more, more opportunities, more knowledge, more ways to grow and push myself. And while I appreciated their support, I knew that if I wanted to create the future I dreamed of, I would have to take full control of the journey myself. Eventually, I knew I couldn’t do it all by myself.

I felt trapped in an environment that didn’t challenge me or align with my goals. Then, one evening, my parents sat me down for a conversation that would change everything. They told me about a family friend who owned a unique, non-traditional school designed specifically for students like me, those who were mentally and academically ahead of their peers, yet unfulfilled by the repetitious education system. The idea of such a school immediately piqued my curiosity.

As they continued, they mentioned my cousin, someone I’d always admired for her ambition and accomplishments. She had graduated from high school early, spent her teenage years taking college courses, and eventually traveled to Europe to pursue her bachelor's and master’s degrees. It turned out she had attended this very school, which only added to my intrigue. The more they described it, the more it seemed like a perfect fit. It wasn’t just the promise of intellectual stimulation that excited me, it was the opportunity to graduate high school a full year early and start building my future outside of Georgia that I’d been meticulously planning. 

The school was called Black Star, a private institution unlike any I had heard of before. It wasn’t limited to traditional academics; its philosophy was rooted in learning through life experiences. Students weren’t confined to textbooks and classrooms. Instead, they were encouraged to explore their passions, engage in meaningful projects, and build real-world skills. Black Star also boasted an impressive network of connections, opening doors to internships and colleges that most students could only dream of. It was more than a school, it was a launchpad for ambitious, driven individuals who wanted to forge their own paths.

As my parents shared more details, I found myself imagining the possibilities. What if I could finally be in an environment that nurtured my curiosity and drive? What if I could connect with mentors and peers who shared my thirst for growth? The thought of breaking free from the monotony of my current school life and stepping into a world of opportunity felt exhilarating. Black Star represented more than just a chance to graduate early; it was an invitation to rediscover my passion for living and to take control of my future in ways I never thought possible.

By the end of the conversation, I wasn’t just intrigued, I was determined. I knew this was the next step I had been searching for. Black Star wasn’t just a school; it was the gateway to everything I had been working toward, and I was ready to dive in headfirst.

Starting my journey at Black Star was an exhilarating and transformative experience. The promise of engaging lessons that emphasized critical thinking and real-world applications immediately caught my attention and fueled my excitement. After just my first week, I already feel inspired and eager to see where this path will lead me, knowing it’s a step toward a brighter and more fulfilling future.

About Black Star

In my family, knowing our roots and where we came from has always been a top priority. My parents ensured that our upbringing was steeped in the rich traditions of our African heritage. Celebrating Kwanzaa, with its focus on unity, self-determination, and collective responsibility, became a cornerstone of our family’s identity. Our birthdays were not just individual milestones, but communal celebrations filled with music, storytelling, and traditional African dishes passed down through generations. These experiences shaped who I am today, grounding me in the strength, resilience, and beauty of my ancestry. I am eternally grateful for the way my parents raised me, instilling in me a deep sense of pride and purpose.

As I grew older, I became increasingly aware of how many symbols and narratives in today’s world have been whitewashed to fit America’s standard of beauty and subtle white supremacy. Images that celebrate African culture, history, and contributions are often erased, altered, or diminished, leaving us with a fragmented sense of our identity. My parents taught me from a young age that living in a white man’s world meant navigating systemic barriers and proving my worth in spaces that were not built with people like me in mind. They emphasized that to succeed, I would have to pave my own path, taking full advantage of the resources and opportunities available while standing tall in my truth. It wasn’t just about being seen as an equal; it was about honoring the legacy of my ancestors, the people who built civilizations, contributed to humanity's greatest achievements, and laid the foundations of this world. African people.

Black Star embodies these ideals and truths without shame or hesitation. The school is a bold reminder that Black children deserve spaces that celebrate their heritage, affirm their identities, and equip them with the tools to thrive in any environment. Watching my big brother attend Black Star and master African stick fighting was inspiring, as it wasn’t just about learning a skill but reconnecting with an art form deeply rooted in our history. My sister and cousin, who also attended Black Star, flourished academically and culturally, eventually gaining acceptance into their dream colleges. Their success stories became proof that this school wasn’t just an institution, it was a transformative experience that prepared them to conquer the world with confidence and pride in their roots.

Now, as I prepare to walk the same halls and take part in this non-traditional education, I feel a mix of excitement and honor. Black Star isn’t just a school; it’s a community, a safe haven, and a bridge connecting us to our past while guiding us toward our future. I am eager to embrace my culture fully, to immerse myself in lessons that prioritize critical thinking, historical truth, and self-discovery. This is my chance to grow, to learn, and to continue the legacy of resilience and excellence my family has passed down to me. Attending Black Star feels like a culmination of my parents’ teachings and my own aspirations, and I can’t wait to see how this journey shapes the person I am destined to become.