Is It Freedom?

By Ben Busschaert

Editor’s note: Ben Busschaert, a fifth grader and sports editor of the Colonial Times, entered the Celebrate America Creative Writing Contest sponsored by the American Immigration Council. He won honorable mention in the national contest and first place for New York State. There were 4,500 entries. His story follows.

It is 1886. Tomorrow is supposed to be a wonderful day when the Statue of Liberty opens. I asked my dad, “Are you going to the opening of the Statue of Liberty?” “We are not allowed to go there son. It is not what you think it is. We are not invited.” He tried to explain.

“But I thought you helped make the platform?”

“I did son.... it is that African Americans are not invited.”

That does not make sense, the name of the statue is the Statue of Liberty, I thought to myself. Then I tried to say something, but I was so mad and confused that the only thing that came out of my mouth was, “I do notundeblerwaht... But why?!”

“I don’t know why, I don’t know.”

I remember that my dad told me that the Statue of Liberty was sent by France to America as a gift of “freedom.” Anyways I tried not to think about it because it is already an amazing thing that I am living here. When my dad was a kid, he lived in Africa and most people in the village died because most of the water wasn’t clean and was toxic so you could get sick and even die drinking it. His family walked hundreds of miles to reach the Atlantic Ocean which was really dangerous. From there they used all their life savings to take a ship to America and only my dad and his sister could go because of their poverty. Only three years later my grandparents could afford the money to come. So I am here because of their sacrifices and that touches me a lot.

Three months later 1887

My dad now gives speeches for everyone’s rights: male, female, and colored or not. He goes to a meeting every week and gives speeches about every month or so. My mom sews clothes for the shop next block. I am not 13 and only now do I understand that African Americans are not treated with respect; I cannot go to normal school, use water fountains and even restrooms used by whites. The other kids make fun of me and bully me because I am “different,” but everyone is different. At least I can attend school.

20 years later, 1907

Now I am 33 and I do the same job as my dad did; fight for people’s rights. I hope that more people do this until we are reunited as a country.

108 years later, 2015

And that is a part of the story of my great grandfather that I thought was important. Without him I wouldn’t be writing this today and even might not be in the same school as some of you.

This also appears on the Colonial Times website.