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      "permlink": "steemitboard-notify-briberri-20190912t020827000z",
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      "body": "Congratulations @briberri! You received a personal award!\n\n<table><tr><td>https://steemitimages.com/70x70/http://steemitboard.com/@briberri/birthday2.png</td><td>Happy Birthday! - You are on the Steem blockchain for 2 years!</td></tr></table>\n\n<sub>_You can view [your badges on your Steem Board](https://steemitboard.com/@briberri) and compare to others on the [Steem Ranking](https://steemitboard.com/ranking/index.php?name=briberri)_</sub>\n\n\n###### [Vote for @Steemitboard as a witness](https://v2.steemconnect.com/sign/account-witness-vote?witness=steemitboard&approve=1) to get one more award and increased upvotes!",
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      "author": "briberri",
      "permlink": "you-re-acting-like-a-bunch-of-monkeys",
      "title": "\"You're Acting Like A Bunch of Monkeys\"",
      "body": "Is what I’ve heard in a classroom on account of two incidences, both by substitute teachers. We were offended, to say the least. I mean, after all, why say such a thing to a room with twenty-nine African-American students and one or two Hispanic students? The worst of it all, was that we brushed it all away both times. We all collectively scoffed at her sentence and moved on with our lives, not thinking twice on telling anyone, let alone doing anything about what she said.\nThis is only one of the few memories I hold of my schooling. There’s much more to come.\nIt is most pertaining to add the limited perspective I have of the education system. I went to public school just about my whole life. I knew I wasn’t filthy rich, but I wasn’t dirt poor either. But I wasn’t “middle class”. I was somewhere in lower-middle class or something, or in no-man’s land. I was certainly too poor for anyone to really care about me, but not poor enough for section 8.\nOnly recently have I thought more in-depth about my previous elementary and secondary schooling. I knew I hated school ever since seventh grade. But I could never put my finger on why. I blamed it on what I could understand. What other people could easily understand. I was lazy. I didn’t like learning. I didn’t like working hard and challenging myself. In fact, I don’t think it’s true for anyone. The truth was: school was prison. And not just the: “ugh, I’m trapped at school for eight hours and I want to leave but they won’t let me” prison. It was almost like a simulation.\nThe basic comparisons were easy. You wore an ID at all times. You go through a metal detector every morning and swiped your ID for the day. You had to have a hall pass signed by your teacher to go to the bathroom, and present it to security if they asked you where you were going (can someone say “freedom papers”). But there were certain things my high school did that was way more strict than most other schools. My Chicago Public School was a predominately black high school (about 95% black), and my high school had some rules that, when I explained to older adults, raised a couple of eyebrows. For one, students weren’t allowed in the halls at all. Students weren’t allowed to leave the lunchroom unless they used the bathroom, and students could only leave a class to go to the bathroom with a hall pass. Then you came immediately back. It wasn’t unusual to get hassled and/or heavily questioned by the security staff on your way down the short hall either. We could use the library, but only if we had signed up for it in the morning. You signed for your lunch period, which they checked on your ID, then you signed the sheet and took a library pass. Students that tried to use the library without signing up previously would be sent away.\nWe couldn’t come back into the building after we left at the end of the day. I remember a lot of my peers fighting the school about this, because some clubs went on until 6:00, with a break to leave and eat something, then come back to the school.\nWe received detentions for skipping and being late to class. That’s normal, but the school wanted a 95% attendance rate that they were anal about getting. They treated us as though we were never in class, but praised us as being the class with the best attendance. They took away things for students with even one detention. Because they were considered privileges. Imagine: talking about privilege to a bunch of black teenagers! For my senior year homecoming, it was required to have another student sign a permission slip to attend. A slip that had to be signed by them and their principal to confirm that said student didn’t have any detentions either at the outside school. Needless to say not many people wanted to go through the trouble of actually doing that.\nI remember a shocking story of how a girl at my school got tazed while in the school. It was during a basketball game. Students that went to my home school went through the metal detectors as normal, but students from the away school didn’t. Well, turned out that someone from a different school had a taser, and got into an argument with a student from home. A poor girl, who was a bystander in it all, ended up tased somehow. The question then became: why only make us go through the metal detectors and not everyone else? Because you don’t care about everyone else, you care about your students? It certainly wasn’t unheard of. Even if no one in the school administration said it, the message was clear: no one in the school really trusted the students. Some days it felt like security was more worried about if a student had a gun than the other measures to protect my school.\nIn my recent transition to college, my most shocking discovery was how much my professors wanted me to talk in the classroom. High school had one clear direction everyday: sit down, shut up, and listen. Listen to adults talk to you everyday for eight hours. Some days it didn’t make sense why anyone would want to do that, and I wondered why anyone would think ADHD was a disorder and not just common sense. I had a whole class that was discussion based. I remember staring at those two words on my syllabus for a while when I printed it. I struggled in that class, and maybe even talking to my peers at times. After all, I wasn’t conditioned to have opinions and share them with others. I was conditioned to listen and soak up information. People on campus raved about Socrates, and his ingenious Socratic Method: asking questions to help others seek an answer. I had a history professor that answered questions with another question, until the student found a reasonable answer. Whenever anyone used this method on me, I stared at them like an idiot. I mean after all, a teacher is supposed to answer my questions, right? That’s like, how school works.\nTowards the end of my senior year, I was annoyed with even my own teachers. I had realized something else that spelled doom for the school. The teachers didn’t believe in us, the students. It was the little things. Like how once, a few students in my senior class asked an English teacher how many students they believed would graduate this year. Their answer? Not many. It was similar for the ACT test. They told us things like: you only need a 21 or better . . . you only need a 21 . . . only need a 21 . . . only a 21. Like we weren’t capable of doing better. Or rather, doing better than a score of 21 is an after thought, not an expectation. It was things like this that students caught onto. And I knew it discouraged them. I mean after all, what use was there in trying when no one else believed in you? No one else had any more maturity to strive for success on their own accord. We were all still young teenagers after all, and if we knew we could get away without doing work and/or being pushed to do better, we wouldn’t do the work.\nThe only problem I felt inclined to fix during my high school career was how the special education students were treated. Both the predominantly black middle school and high school I attended treated special ed kids similarly. They were always separated from everyone else, they ate at their own lunch table, they had their own section to sit at during school assemblies and events. While most students were cool with them, no one spent more than a few minutes near them. The special ed teachers were also a bit rough with them. Sometimes they pushed them around or pulled on their clothes to get them to walk somewhere. They yelled at them a lot. It was often that the students with autism would swing their heads around violently, and no one would attempt to get them to calm down.\nI remember mentioning it to my friends. They agreed that the special ed kids were being treated badly, or that at least something was off.\n“We should tell the principal,” the school had just started a suggestion box after all. But my friend’s faces glazed over, their eyes drifted to somewhere over my shoulder, their mouths in tight, straight lines.\n“Who would ever listen to us?” It wasn’t a question I was unfamiliar with. I’ve had my fill of old baby boomers complaining on Facebook about how my generation was too complacent, we didn’t care about real issues and making a change in our communities. I knew it was a lie, we could all see several problems happening all over the city, and we discussed them frequently. But whenever someone suggested taking action, there was always the question of who would take a bunch of teens seriously. We knew people listened if there was a lot of us. But organizing a collective change was a risk, it may work or it may not. It was hard convincing others to do anything without first believing that they actually have a voice.\nMy question now becomes: what sort of motivational, Malcolm X call-to-action statement could I make that would actually work? How could I try to change this issue I’ve noticed?",
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      "body": "In my sophomore year of high school, I joined the debate team. I did about four tournaments and did about 160 meetings. It lasted about six months, meetings were twice a week from 4:30 to 6:00. I loathed debating and any related topics. I was never big on arguing beforehand, but the experiences I went through only worsened. \n\nSixteen year old me had anxiety. As unlikely as it seemed, it wasn't as nearly as bad as it used to be. I only felt stage fright in a sense, I had a horrible fear of public speaking. Maybe I was just good at covering up, but every time I was isolated out for everyone to pay attention and listen to me, my hands would go sweaty, the butterflies raged in my stomach, a rock was shoved down my throat, I often held my hands to try and cease their shaking. \nThe only thing was, it didn't matter who I was in front of, I was always nervous. I could be in front of four hundred people or four people, I was feel the nervousness creep in all too soon. \n\nMy first debate tournament was the worst experience I can remember. We arrived late, and rushed to our assigned rooms after grabbing our boxed dinners. The opposing team had already eaten and had their papers out. Only thing left was the judge. (During these tournaments, it was usually college kids that judged students for the little tournaments anyway. Most of them did it for volunteer hours, I learned this through half eavesdropping). \n\nWhen our judge arrived, she sat at the desk and gave us a quick speech:\n\n“Here's how not to piss me off:”\nAnd proceeded to tell us what we shouldn't do as me and my partner desperately tried to finish our dried sandwiches. She didn't let us finish eating, and instead made us start as soon as she finished talking.\n\nI didn't understand even half of what was going on. I just read the cards we picked out or what my partner told me to say. At the end, there's one last moment where the opposing team grills us with questions. The team going against us was a boy and a girl, the boy did most of the question-asking. \n\n\nExcept he gave me no time to answer. Apparently, this was a tactic to overwhelm the opponent. His lips flew and the questions lodged me like bullets, each question flowed into the next for three agonizing minutes. In the middle, I gave up on answering and waited for the timer to sound.\n\nAs the beep resounded throughout the empty classroom, my vision blurred. I walked slowly back to my seat, careful not to trip over my bag. I didn't want to speak, because my voice often broke when I was crying, but I still had one more turn. \n\nI turned to my partner and begged him for what I should say. Although he told me, I couldn't do it.\n\n“I can't do this.” I whispered to him. \n\n“Yes you can, just say . . .”\n\nWe desperately tried to get together something during the prep time.\n\n“It's working, just look at her face.” I heard the boy whisper to his partner. \n\nIn the end I stood for five minutes for the last rebuttal, but said not a single word. The other team won. I was forced to shake their hands, but by then enough whimpers were heard for everyone to understand I was crying.\n\nMy partner still consoled me as we left the room. I thanked him as best as I could, but didn't say much. Although the tears were flowing and my eyes were visibly red, he didn't say anything. Bless his heart. \n\nI went to the bathroom and composed myself, but was relatively still upset. My coach asked what was wrong, but I still couldn't talk loud enough or clear enough for him to understand, so I just shook my head. \n\nSomewhere in the middle, the coach was filled in on what happened. The whole time until ten o'clock I didn't want to talk. I pretended to be ok until I arrived in my mom's car.\n\nI don't know what it is about her, but I could never stop myself from crying in front of her. The tears waterfalled down, and I started hyperventilating. I cried like a baby, it was so embarrassing. I hadn't cried like that since I was a child. \n\n“What's wrong?”\n\nI didn't answer her for a while, I knew I couldn't say anything coherent anyway. \n\n“What happened?” she kept probing.\n\nSo I gave up and spoke, but as I suspected, nothing she could understand came out. \n\n“Calm down and breath.”\n\nSo I did. But even as I was able to say something, I still hiccuped  in between words and huffed breaths amount syllables. \n\n“I don’t want to go back, I don’t wanna go back,” I kept desperately pleading. \n\n“Just get some rest for tomorrow, it won’t be as bad,” my mother tried to console me. We both knew that wasn’t working very well. \nThe next morning I was very morbid, I still didn’t want to go back to the debate tournament, but I did so anyway. For the next three other tournaments, I barely won any rounds, I was honestly terrible at debating, but I also carried that scar around for the rest of my time on the team. \n\nI wanted to quit debate after the first tournament, but didn’t because my mom and coach always said how proud they were that I stuck with debate despite my bad start. It made me feel so guilty, but eventually I couldn’t handle having an anxiety attack every time we had a debate round. So I found a job and used that as an excuse to quit, I never felt proud of it. \n\nEven though I was fairly sure I had escaped that world, it always came back. My teachers at school then seemed so obsessed with debating and arguing. They would teach us what made a good argument and a bad argument, and showed us how the debate would be structured. Even worse, most of them made it so you only got points if you won a round, or made a good argument. My worst nightmare came back to life. I didn’t do well. \n\nFor at least two and a half years, I escaped having to do much talking in class at all. Disappointingly, I didn’t contribute much verbally to the class. But even this week, my Journalism teacher wants us to debate controversial topics assigned to us (based on pro or con of the topic), and I can’t help but remember all of this. Granted, the class is small, only about twelve people in the class, but my anxiety says otherwise. \n\nEven now, I have a strong desire to avoid the class altogether now (which regretfully I have skipped some of my classes to avoid this), but I can’t skip first period. \n\nI guess I’ve just realized that not all obstacles are ones I can overcome. Sometimes people sink rather than swim.",
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      "body": "In my sophomore year of high school, I joined the debate team. I did about four tournaments and did about 160 meetings. It lasted about six months, meetings were twice a week from 4:30 to 6:00. I loathed debating and any related topics. I was never big on arguing beforehand, but the experiences I went through only worsened. \n\nSixteen year old me had anxiety. As unlikely as it seemed, it wasn't as nearly as bad as it used to be. I only felt stage fright in a sense, I had a horrible fear of public speaking. Maybe I was just good at covering up, but every time I was isolated out for everyone to pay attention and listen to me, my hands would go sweaty, the butterflies raged in my stomach, a rock was shoved down my throat, I often held my hands to try and cease their shaking. \nThe only thing was, it didn't matter who I was in front of, I was always nervous. I could be in front of four hundred people or four people, I was feel the nervousness creep in all too soon. \n\nMy first debate tournament was the worst experience I can remember. We arrived late, and rushed to our assigned rooms after grabbing our boxed dinners. The opposing team had already eaten and had their papers out. Only thing left was the judge. (During these tournaments, it was usually college kids that judged students for the little tournaments anyway. Most of them did it for volunteer hours, I learned this through half eavesdropping). \n\nWhen our judge arrived, she sat at the desk and gave us a quick speech:\n\n“Here's how not to piss me off:”\nAnd proceeded to tell us what we shouldn't do as me and my partner desperately tried to finish our dried sandwiches. She didn't let us finish eating, and instead made us start as soon as she finished talking.\n\nI didn't understand even half of what was going on. I just read the cards we picked out or what my partner told me to say. At the end, there's one last moment where the opposing team grills us with questions. The team going against us was a boy and a girl, the boy did most of the question-asking. \n\n\nExcept he gave me no time to answer. Apparently, this was a tactic to overwhelm the opponent. His lips flew and the questions lodged me like bullets, each question flowed into the next for three agonizing minutes. In the middle, I gave up on answering and waited for the timer to sound.\n\nAs the beep resounded throughout the empty classroom, my vision blurred. I walked slowly back to my seat, careful not to trip over my bag. I didn't want to speak, because my voice often broke when I was crying, but I still had one more turn. \n\nI turned to my partner and begged him for what I should say. Although he told me, I couldn't do it.\n\n“I can't do this.” I whispered to him. \n\n“Yes you can, just say . . .”\n\nWe desperately tried to get together something during the prep time.\n\n“It's working, just look at her face.” I heard the boy whisper to his partner. \n\nIn the end I stood for five minutes for the last rebuttal, but said not a single word. The other team won. I was forced to shake their hands, but by then enough whimpers were heard for everyone to understand I was crying.\n\nMy partner still consoled me as we left the room. I thanked him as best as I could, but didn't say much. Although the tears were flowing and my eyes were visibly red, he didn't say anything. Bless his heart. \n\nI went to the bathroom and composed myself, but was relatively still upset. My coach asked what was wrong, but I still couldn't talk loud enough or clear enough for him to understand, so I just shook my head. \n\nSomewhere in the middle, the coach was filled in on what happened. The whole time until ten o'clock I didn't want to talk. I pretended to be ok until I arrived in my mom's car.\n\nI don't know what it is about her, but I could never stop myself from crying in front of her. The tears waterfalled down, and I started hyperventilating. I cried like a baby, it was so embarrassing. I hadn't cried like that since I was a child. \n\n“What's wrong?”\n\nI didn't answer her for a while, I knew I couldn't say anything coherent anyway. \n\n“What happened?” she kept probing.\n\nSo I gave up and spoke, but as I suspected, nothing she could understand came out. \n\n“Calm down and breath.”\n\nSo I did. But even as I was able to say something, I still hiccuped  in between words and huffed breaths amount syllables. \n\n“I don’t want to go back, I don’t wanna go back,” I kept desperately pleading. \n\n“Just get some rest for tomorrow, it won’t be as bad,” my mother tried to console me. We both knew that wasn’t working very well. \nThe next morning I was very morbid, I still didn’t want to go back to the debate tournament, but I did so anyway. For the next three other tournaments, I barely won any rounds, I was honestly terrible at debating, but I also carried that scar around for the rest of my time on the team. \n\nI wanted to quit debate after the first tournament, but didn’t because my mom and coach always said how proud they were that I stuck with debate despite my bad start. It made me feel so guilty, but eventually I couldn’t handle having an anxiety attack every time we had a debate round. So I found a job and used that as an excuse to quit, I never felt proud of it. \n\nEven though I was fairly sure I had escaped that world, it always came back. My teachers at school then seemed so obsessed with debating and arguing. They would teach us what made a good argument and a bad argument, and showed us how the debate would be structured. Even worse, most of them made it so you only got points if you won a round, or made a good argument. My worst nightmare came back to life. I didn’t do well. \n\nFor at least two and a half years, I escaped having to do much talking in class at all. Disappointingly, I didn’t contribute much verbally to the class. But even this week, my Journalism teacher wants us to debate controversial topics assigned to us (based on pro or con of the topic), and I can’t help but remember all of this. Granted, the class is small, only about twelve people in the class, but my anxiety says otherwise. \n\nEven now, I have a strong desire to avoid the class altogether now (which regretfully I have skipped some of my classes to avoid this), but I can’t skip first period. \n\nI guess I’ve just realized that not all obstacles are ones I can overcome. Sometimes people sink rather than swim.",
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      "body": "Welcome to Steem @briberri I have upvoted and sent you a tip",
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      "author": "rightuppercorner",
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      "body": "Hello, @Briberri,\rI'm just here to leave a nice Hello ^^. Unfortunately i don't have much voting power, but i will be back and vote my followers. Need to grow a little ^^.\rHave a great time @rightuppercorner",
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      "body": "![is 2.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmPMSUZxEQAvPakSXRw9DdDhDbqydS5utki4ahCUCrFswC/is%202.jpg)\n\nHi Steemit, \n\nMy name is Briana, I’m 19 years old and a broke college student. I’m born in the US, and have lived in a few different states since my father is an air force veteran. I don’t really know what the heck cryptocurrency is so this whole making money thing seems very strange to me. Someone in the comments section of a YouTube video mentioned steemit, so I came to check it out. \n\nI’ve been blogging on wordpress for a while now, and want to try blogging here too. I mostly write this log I started documenting my mental health, because I’ve been fighting depression for a while now (and recently PTSD). I also blog a lot about my personal experiences, and how it affects me. Writing is extremely therapeutic for me, so I try to do it often. I also write poetry but I’m not sure if this is a good platform to post poetry on. \n\nI’m not really interested in making money on steemit, but it sounds cool. I’d mostly just like feedback and grow my writing. I’m hoping I can write another book and see how that goes. \n\nI tend to get really passionate about mental health , black culture, and to my surprise, eduction, so my writing may mostly be about those topics. But I am in the tech world a bit (I know some front-end code), and videography (which I’m currently studying). \n\nSo yeah, I think I’ve had my fill on talking about myself.  Also, it’s late and I’m sick, so I didn’t get a chance to take a picture. Here’s the one I use a lot though:\n\n\n![id.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmSqJVdUJp8V7Yrz4eytmNehuSvUZbet6tvHvvXLz1VV8e/id.jpg)",
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