Tell A Tale in 500 Words

Cursed, not gifted By Calvin Nifah

I live in Manhattan, New York. The date is October 23rd 1965. Today I should be celebrating. Ten years ago the Supreme Court said that racial segregation in schools shall end. Instead, I am powered with a strange blend of hate, depression and anger, as exactly one year ago… my little brother committed suicide.

I have decided to write this book to make sure this never happens again, to make justice (one of my favourite quotes is "for evil to succeed it is only necessary for good men to do nothing” as said by the great Edmund Burke) be exacted on evil people... I am writing this so that everyone knows that my favourite teacher killed my baby brother; because he was a smart black boy.

I live with my Dad. Around 7 years ago, when I was only 3, my mum left, taking half of the family savings with her. Sometimes I do wonder if she really loved me and if so; why she left. My dad always reassured me that it wasn’t that she didn’t love me it’s that... well it’s that there had been problems. I have always felt inclined to ask, what kind of loving mother leaves her 3 year old son and 2 week old baby.

I digress, you are not reading this to pity me, or if so, you have most definitely found yourself the wrong type of book. So it began about a year ago, when I was around nine. My little brother (Marcus was his name)  was only 7 but was likely smarter than me. He had skipped a year, which you may consider a bonus but is actually very frowned upon by the other pupils. As expected, he was the subject of bullying, mainly being called “black ass”. You may not think that this wasn’t a big deal but it wasn’t just the pupils who were calling him this. It… it was the teachers as well.

Now I shall introduce Miss Rose, my English teacher. She always seemed so kind and nice especially to those less intellectually gifted, me being one. My brother was also taught by her at the time. I guess she had had some type of traumatic experience in school with something to do with clever black people.

It was more psychological than physical I guess.  She had been fine with him; or so it seemed. I read that 66% of people tend not to share any psychological pain, unless excessively forced. I do not wish to offend anyone, so I will phrase this carefully. For 3 months, Miss Rose had forced Marcus (my baby brother) to stay late so she could point out how he was a vain and mentally disabled idiot.This monster of a person forced him to write pages of why he was an inferior black freak and how no black person deserved to be intellectually gifted. She broke him. Around a day after we found out, by an unexpected mental breakdown, Rose had resigned and Marcus had hung himself.

A short story by Calvin Nifah.

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