Seeing Color by Reena

Seeing Color by Reena - May 2026 Scholarship Essay

The first time I witnessed racism was the first week of freshman year.

It was a sunny day, the weather warm enough for my school’s Black, Indigenous, People of Color club (BIPOC) to host their first meeting in the science courtyard. On posters, the morning announcements, all over social media, the school promised a safe space filled with students with diverse backgrounds and diverse cultures, with a salivating potluck celebrating our mutual differences.

Nothing could have prepared my friend being told to leave due to her skin color.

At my school, various creative designs of “all are welcome” are firmly attached on nearly every window. We dedicate a day to honoring the legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., the Black Student Union’s presentation of his historical impact presented four times in the auditorium, once for each grade level.

The same Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. who famously dreamed of a nation where all “will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character."

But today, students of color guarded the doors to the courtyard, blocking the entrance for all students who have white skin.

My friends and I, inseparable since elementary school, immediately segregated by skin color, the moment we stepped foot into a school priding ourselves on acceptance and inclusion. It didn’t matter to them that my White (or more specifically, German) friend Abigail and I have spent most of our lives together, or the fact that Abby was more knowledgeable about my heritage than most people who share my looks. It definitely didn’t matter to them that Abby was trilingual, her love for other cultures distinct in her fluency of two Asian languages.

That didn't matter to them. They only wanted to see one thing: her skin color.

I was a coward then. I held my tongue, falling silent under the crowd of scrutinizing eyes. We simply left the gathering and vowed never to return, a promise we all kept for the last three years.

I broke this promise near the end of my senior year.

It was February, the week before the festival I held closest to heart—the Chinese Lunar New Year celebration. "Join us for a Lunar New Year Feast!" was the message proudly displayed on posters throughout our school. Our previous interaction temporarily forgotten, I asked my friends to attend with me. They agreed, albeit reluctantly.

And with the first step into the classroom, their reluctance was immediately justified. The teacher’s voice rang from the other side.

“No- sorry, BIPOC students only!”

I remember blood rushing to my face, fear and embarrassment as the world’s eyes were on us once more. But something was different this time, because those emotions were overpowered by the explosive, all-encompassing anger that flooded my body. Before I knew it, my voice had already swept across the classroom, accusing the teacher of racism.

And following immediately, dead silence.

As I looked around me, faces of disgust and shock looked back. Regret bubbled to the surface then. Why did I just do that? Just as I shriveled under the pressure, Abigail tapped me softly, thanking me quietly with her head down, and exited the room.

Her ashamed expression burned into my mind. Why should she feel ashamed to exist?

I let my indignation mix with fear, and learned what it felt like to be courageous by standing my ground.

The teacher’s voice interrupted the silence. She replied that there was no racism here, only the maintenance of a “safe space.”

But what is a “safe space?” I asked. For whom is it safe? Who is protected when we push each other away without exchanging so much of a word, solely based on the color of our skin? Who on this earth will benefit from defining ourselves by their race?

History has begged us to consider this very question countless times, with tens of millions of souls lost to mindless prejudice when we gave the wrong answer.

If we refuse to share our differences, how can we ever even begin to understand them, let alone respect them?

In the end, I decided to go to our school’s office and speak with our principal directly, and while I’m not sure if it was because the club was actively violating state law, federal law, and school policy, he supported my protest.

The club is temporarily paused now, and despite accusations against me of racism and threats of reeducation anti-racism programs, I know I would have suffered more under the regret of never speaking up. After allowing myself to struggle in the discomfort of disobeying the status quo, it is easier now, standing up for others.

Because when my friend wished me 新年快乐, trading her family’s homemade Knödel with my Baozi while thanking me for saying something for her—

I knew I would do it all over again.