Pride

by Ibi Zoboi

Dear Mr. Oliver Otis Howard, I wonder if when we name places after important people, we’ve made them immortal in some way. That their ghosts can linger in corners and halls and dusty dorm rooms to see me writing this letter to some dead white man who probably could never have imagined that I’d exist. Have you heard of the Dominican Republic, Mr. Howard? Or maybe you’ve heard about a slave revolt that happened in a country called Haiti? These are the places that made the people that made me. Those are places that, in 1867, girls like me would not dream of being in somewhere like your university. And this is why I want to come to your school, Mr. Howard. There is more to learn about my old, old self, and black and brown girls like me from hoods all over this country want to take over the world, but there’s something missing in our history books the public schools give us. At least that’s what my papi says, so he makes me read a lot, and that’s where I found out about the Mecca in this book called Between the World and Me and I’m thinking that I need to come here so I can gather these wisdoms found in old, dusty books written by wrinkled brown hands and gather them within the folds of my wide skirt, tuck them into the pockets of my jeans, and take them with me back home to sprinkle all over Bushwick like rain showers, Mr. Howard. Sincerely, ZZ