I awoke at 4:45 AM sharp to the triumphant refrain of “Hail to the Chief.” Thursday, May 16, 2024. “Carpe diem,” I thought as I slipped out of bed. I made my way to the bathroom, thoughts rushing through my head about how the crowd–the whole high school–would react. This wasn't my first Student Council speech, nor would it be my last. Following a decisive victory in the previous election, I became my grade's Student Council President. A year later, it was time for yet another contest for continuity. However, this one was different, as my victory earlier in the year was so dumbfounding that I did not have an opponent. It was still eminent to consider that a lack of opposition did not diminish the challenges ahead. I washed up, cleaned my teeth, and fawned over my appearance, making sure not a hair was out of place. I crept down the hallway, taking care to not wake my family. I noticed the TV was on. Whether inadvertently left on by another inhabitant of the household or indicative of someone else being awake I cannot say, but the polarizing headline displayed was irrefutable:“President Joe Biden and Former President Donald Trump Agree to Two Debates in June and September.” Sipping on my tea, I contemplated future debates of my own. By then, I had committed to pursuing the presidency of the United States of America. This may seem like a naïve notion, but I had actually put extensive forethought into it. During childhood, many of my forebears reminisced about returning to “the good old days,” a sentiment deepened by the pandemic and subsequent years. I questioned why it was impossible to return to those fondly remembered times. Through later education and searching, I realized it was not. This discovery influenced my choices, including my actions on that day. After finishing my tea, I quickly returned to my room to dress. I donned a crisp navy suit paired with a bold magenta tie–an idiosyncratic choice to command attention. Before long, the household was awake, and we departed for school. In the car, I meticulously reviewed my speech. Upon arrival, I bid my family farewell and entered the school–the room where it happens. Walking through the halls, I received positive remarks about my attire. From a simple “I like your tie” to overt admiration, the positive remarks were apparent. The 8AM bell marked the start of Geometry class, which seemed to drag on amidst a mental cacophony of anticipation and nerves, making it difficult to concentrate on final exam preparations. Upon being freed from my mathematical prison, I made my way to the auditorium for the morning assembly, speech snug in my pocket, and butterflies resolutely in my stomach. As others gave their addresses, I pulled out my own combing every sentence, word, and syllable until finally, it was time.“For sophomore president, Mr. Mason Bibby.” “Showtime.” As I climbed the stage, the audience awaited in silence.“Alright, Mason,” I thought,"Either they REALLY wanna hear what you have to say, or you have something stuck on your face." I hoped it profusely it was not the latter. Notwithstanding this, I orated with conviction, and spoke from the heart, something that I noticed was not present in modern politics. It is simple to sway voters with mendacity or false bravado, but engendering hope is the mark of a true leader."I stand here as a testament," I declared firmly, my words resonating throughout the auditorium.“To the integrity and character that this community—this family—displays.”I observed a shift in the sea of faces. I spoke a spirit of unity into these students; no easy task on account of their general indifference. I urged the crowd to remember those who leave a lasting impact, including myself. “Remember the one who listens. Remember the one who leads. Remember Mason Bibby for Sophomore Student Council President.”Departing amidst thunderous applause, I felt a swell of pride. Adjusting my jacket one last time, I stepped aside for the next speaker. Throughout the day, I received myriad commendations for my speech, from students and faculty alike. Finally, around 3 PM, I returned home. I took a moment to unwind, removing my jacket and draping it over the desk chair. I stepped outside, listening to the melodic chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves as a gentle breeze swayed my tie. Admiring the expansive landscape surrounding my home, I reflected on my achievements. Essay contests. Meetings with influential figures. And my student council career. I considered future milestones: college, military service, law school, and a potential career in politics. Thoughts raced through my mind, prompting a smile—I smiled for what I was. What I am. And what I am yet to be. Back inside, I rolled up my sleeves and powered on my computer. Entering a new tab, I searched for “leadership opportunities for high schoolers,” eager to discover avenues through which I could inspire the most crucial value for anyone–hope. Because a president's job–my job–is never done.

I am flying solo. I am walking the streets of Kadıköy all alone. My ferry ride: alone. My Sunday brunch: alone. I am taking the bus on a cold and snowy day: all alone. My music, my thoughts and baggy pants: that is all I have now. I walk past people with loved ones, I walk past happy children playing, I walk past old married couples, I walk past everything and they don't notice… And I am finally back at my bleak shelter that I call a dorm. My solitude. I am not alone. I am leaving Istanbul to go back home. I stop by every hand sanitizer station I can find. I stare at people to see if they are coughing. Anyone can have it. I might have it. We all might have it. As soon as they hear me arriving at home, my grandparents ask us to come to visit them. “I just came back from Istanbul, it's too risky,” I say. But they don't listen. My grandmother wants to cook me my favorite food, my granddad wants to buy me presents. Is that how people show each other their love? Because the idea of feeling responsible if they get “it” is not how I normally perceive love. It's silly. It's uncomfortable. It's just unnecessary. I show my love by not going there. It's because I care. Nevertheless, I start staying at my grandparents' house, eating at their dinner table, listening to their tea talk in the evening. I appear to not have “it”. They appear to not die. Time passes and managing friendships over the internet gets harder. I seem to not get on well with people that I call “my best friends.” They seem to not understand my jokes. They seem to blame me for my sense of humor. They seem to not care about my real intentions. They just see what they see and that seems to be enough for them. This is how I always do it, this is how I always show them I love them. I tell people that I don't care and when I laugh after finishing my sentence, it's always funny. It's hard to understand the fact that they just can't seem to tolerate me. It is more real than it has ever been now. I can't go out. My grandparents can't go out. People do Netflix parties, they facetime, they stay at each other's houses. I don't. I cook and bake and sleep and that's all. I have even lost my only weapon. I can't go and explore the city by myself anymore. I can't enjoy my solitude. I can't find the power to fly solo. At this exact time, people lose their beloved ones all around the world. Everything is so sudden. It's stupid how we take everything for granted. And if the people I love were to die the next day, unsure whether I love them or not, I would feel guilty. I would feel guilty for not being able to show my love and the fact that I care about them. I realize after all this time, this is not how it's done. This is not how you show people that you care for them. You don't do that by not showing up, by demeaning them, by ignoring them, by treating them like everybody else. You do that by spending quality time, by keeping your promises. You do that by making them feel special. I am now with my friends at Bebek. We are sitting in our favorite restaurant, eating our favorite food. People go past us, seagulls fly above us, a boat stops by the pier. My laughter is filling the air, I try to capture the moment and make it special. I have my friends now and they are all I care. I have my friends now and they know that I care.

Every single day, I write a gratitude journal. I have been writing one since I was ten years old. In the beginning of the pandemic, I was hopeful. But as people close to me tested positive and one of my best friend's dads succumbed to the deadly virus, the virus was not a cold statistic anymore. My little niece, usually cheerful, wrote a story about how she discovered a magic potion that could combat the virus. For the first time, I knew that I was going to be living through a period in the world that would constitute living history. Indeed, anything we write about this pandemic and our experiences of it, will be used as archival research for years to come. How have I being spending my days, you ask? I have been practising strict social distancing, as several people I am quarantining with are immuno-compromised. In my real life, I live and work as an entrepreneur and a tour guide, so tactile presence is important not just to me as a human being, but also in terms of my career. Of course, my walking tours have dried up, but I have spent my time listening to BTS, a Kpop band that I discovered when I was going through one of the worst phases of my life-getting out of a physical and emotionally abusive relationship. The trauma of that relationship continues to haunt me and sometimes I wake up at night in a pool of tears, frightened and startled too, at the person I became in a relationship with a person determined to impede my growth through their abject apathy and narcissism. It has been three years, and I have emerged out of this terrible equation stronger, wiser and post importantly, much happier. During the pandemic when I have some free time, I watch mukbangs and learn about ASMR, play video games with new friends I have made, the pandemic has really helped me expand my community and appreciate all the creative ways in which food bloggers, sustainable fashion designers are using their platforms. I am also very impressed by the way activists are using the tools available to them to agitate and organize. Writers are writing beautifully. I have been feeling very exhausted of late so I have been snapping at a lot of people who are very close to me. I have built an unflappable social media persona online, but I am still the same quiet, unsure and grouchy person I always was. It is so easy to lose sight of who you fundamentally are when accolades come your way. And contrary to popular belief, success does not always make you confident. It can also make you nervous and insecure. With almost no interactions offline, I find myself comparing my own life to acquaintance's lives. He got an award during quarantine. Her business is thriving. She got a book deal. Once you start looking at other people's curated feeds (and automatically compare your unfiltered life to their curated one), it makes you miserable. Rationally, you know that this is only one part of the story and there is so much more to it, but your insecurity and low self esteem gets the better of you. "I still have not finished the book I promised I'd write," I tell myself. But I have low energy and am mentally too exhausted to actually form characters. "I will be disciplined and create a schedule that works for me." But I fail and I fail every single time. Finally, I decide that it is time for a shift in mindset. I am lucky to be alive and healthy and it is really okay if I don't get much done during the pandemic. I am working on my full-time job, and being productive is not really the prerogative at the moment. Finding a vaccine for COVID-19 is. Surviving is. Staying kind and loving is.

There was a knock on the door. It was sometime around 9 pm on a Sunday and none of us were expecting any visitors; especially at that time of night. My Aunt Ra'Shonda had spent the day with us: 8-year-old Lil' Sam, 4-year-old Vincent, 17-year-old Ziare, 14-year-old Chyna, my mother, and myself. We were all waiting on my step-father Big Sam, to get home with the projector screen to watch movies that night. It was all that he been talking about since he had brought the projector. My mother was upstairs in Vinny and Sam's room when the knock came. I was in my mama's room, probably messing in her bathroom. The details are murky; but the knock that came was clear. My Aunt was downstairs in the family room with Chyna and Sam, while Ziare was in his room with the door shut, doing who knows what. Vincent was sleep. But when the knock came, the whole house went on alert. My mama came from the boys' room still holding clothes, with the given order that, to whoever it was, she wasn't there. She had seen the car from an upstairs window, and didn't like the looks of it. So I ran downstairs only to see that Aunt Ra'Shonda had already answered. There were two people, a man and a woman, both wearing badges of some sort, and guns in holsters at their waist. They were clearly some kind of detectives. “Are you Da'Shonda?” The man asked when he had seen me coming down the steps. “We're homicide detectives here about Samuel DuBose. We're looking for Da'Shonda Reid.” Homicide detectives? Why are they here about Sam? Is he…? I quickly ran back upstairs, putting two-and-two together, that something must have happened to Sam; that something terribly bad had happened. My mama was in the boys' walk-in closet when she asked who it was. I told her they were detectives, but I couldn't bring myself to say that they were there for Sam. In that moment I didn't have to, because my mama asked, “Is it Sam?” And through tear ridden eyes, I could only nod my response. My mama quickly ran past me down the stairs to the detectives, who were now in our living room. “Da'Shonda?” they asked for clarification before proceeding. “Is it Sam, what happened?” My mama was sobbing. The sound of her cries pulled the whole house towards her. “Yes. Sam was shot and killed in an altercation with a police officer--.” The house stopped. Did he just say, police officer? “We see that he was a lot thinner than in his ID, was he ill? Or was there something going on that would make him want to commit suicide by police?” Suicide by police? “Naw he ain't do no ‘suicide by police.' If an officer shot him, I could tell you right now, he didn't do anything to deserve it.” My mama responded; angry at the implications of the question. Lil' Sam and Chyna had been listening from the top of the stairs, while I sat at the bottom of the stairs, closest to the living room. Ziare had come down from his room, and was now in the kitchen listening. “Daddy died?” Lil' Sam asked. Crying, I could only nod. I grabbed and hugged him while he cried tears in my arms. We all sighed that Vinny was asleep, but cried harder for when it was time for him to wake up—to no movie projector; to no daddy. The detectives sat and asked my mother a series of questions: when was the last time she spoke with Sam, the last time he was home, if he knew anyone nearby the area he was shot in, whose name the car was in… These sorts of questions went swirling through the air, mixing and mingling with the sounds of sobs, silences, and sniffles. Sam was gone. And though the detectives were right there telling us this, it wasn't real. We didn't believe it; couldn't believe it. Couldn't grasp the idea that the person we had been waiting on, wasn't going to show up; couldn't handle how we would tell the sleeping four-year-old that his daddy is dead, and that he never made it home with the projector screen. Couldn't understand how, so quickly, the murder of my stepfather, was being turned around on him. How he was never a victim, but an immediate suspect in his own murder. The knock on the door that changed our expectations for the night. The knock on the door that forever changed all of our lives. The knock on the door that punched us all with unbearable news. The knock on the on the door that you think, could never happen to you. The knock on the door with America's hidden truth: that when an officer kills a citizen, it is the victim who will lay accused.