From Our Ancestors Hands to Ours.

“Tatyana! Are you ready to give your report?” my teacher asked from her desk.

“Yes ma’am!” I said, smiling big and proud. I grabbed my paper, slid out of my desk, and walked to the front of the class with my head held high.

“Okay, Tatyana, I see you with the little dress change,” my teacher said with a smile.

I heard chatter and a few giggles, but I paid them no mind. I didn’t care if my dress looked old-fashioned or if my hair and glasses made me look older—or funny in a way. I’m a Manuel, and when our name is on something, we go all the way. I took a deep breath and began.

I’m blessed to be the sixth generation in my family. I didn’t have to go through the same struggles my ancestors faced. I go to an integrated school. I can sit and eat wherever I want in a restaurant and drink from a water fountain that doesn’t say “Colored Only.” I’ll have fair rights when I’m older. I’ll be able to vote. And hopefully, when I’m grown, there won’t be a pay gap — not because I’m a girl and not because I’m Black.

But even though my life is different now, that doesn’t mean I don’t have a race of my own to run.

My great-grandma used to sell plates out of her one-bedroom house on a Black-owned farm — owned by my grandpa, I might add. That was her side hustle. She was thinking outside the box. She was thinking like an entrepreneur.

My great grandma was never supposed to be first. She grew up in a time when Black women were expected to be maids or nannies for white families. She didn’t have much of an education, but she refused to let the world decide her future.

She used what she had — her hands, her kitchen, her love for cooking, and her recipes — and turned it into a business. People lined up outside just to get a plate. And those plates weren’t just for Colored only. She fed families. She built respect in her community. She earned her own money, her way.

She may not have finished the race with her own restaurant, cookbook, or riches…

but she was the one who started the marathon for our family.

And my great grandma wasn’t the only one.

Black women like Madam C.J. Walker did the same thing—just on a bigger stage. She became the first Black woman to create her own beauty line and the first self-made Black female millionaire. She showed the world that Black women can build empires. Because of her, there are Black-owned beauty brands and hair salons everywhere today. The baton was passed into their hands—and they ran, and are still running.

Then there’s Mary McLeod Bethune, a woman who believed education is the key to freedom. She opened a school for Black girls because she wanted us to have the same opportunities as everyone else. She raised money, fought for our rights, and even advised the President of the United States. She made sure the baton didn’t just move forward—she made sure it moved for girls who look like me.

Look how that baton made its way through the hands of African American women—we are now doctors, lawyers, judges, senators, and even leaders in the White House—not as the help, but as leaders.

Because of women like them, the generations after my great grandma ran even farther.

My great-aunt opened her own restaurant—living the dream her older sister once started.

My aunt became an event planner with her own company — weddings, baby showers, anniversaries, everything.

My mom is a dietitian who runs her own clinic.

And my mom’s cousin has her own law firm.

They all ran their part of the race.

Each generation pushed the baton farther than the one before.

And not every race is about building a business or making a way for the next generation.

Some races are about keeping a family together—taking care of siblings after parents have passed away or walked away.

Some are about staying sober and choosing a better path every single day.

Some races are about walking with God every step of the way.

Some are about surviving this life and still smiling, even when the pain lingers.

There are women in every city, every town, every state across this country—running their own race, regardless of the hurdles in their way.

Now, the baton is in my hands.

I’m not exactly sure what I’ll do yet. I love to write. I love to dance. And I have my own way of being a critic. I still have time, since I’m only in sixth grade. But because they—and so many other Black women—started their races and didn’t quit, I have more possibilities than they ever did.

Even if I fall, I’ll get back up, dust myself off, and start running again. Because if they didn’t give up, I surely can’t. And when I finish my part of the race, I’ll pass the baton to the girl who comes after me.

But before any of this could happen, one woman had the courage and strength to hold the baton first.

That notable woman was Harriet Tubman. She didn’t just run the race—she started it. She escaped slavery and then went back again and again to rescue others. She taught people how to help enslaved men and women escape. She risked everything so that one day, children like me could stand in a classroom, families could work somewhere other than the cotton fields, and we could be free.

Harriet lived long enough to see freedom declared yet still held down by other chains.

Nevertheless, she made sure we could start the race.

Because the last shall be first—

and we are continuing to run the race and pass the baton for a bigger and better future. We will not be last again.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” I said, smiling. “My report is called Always Passing the Baton. Thank you.”

I took a bow as the room filled with applause. When I looked to the back of the classroom, I saw our janitor and our principal, both older African American women, standing.

Tears ran down their cheeks. My teacher was standing as well.

In that moment, I felt proud.

Proud to be African American.

Proud to be a girl.

And I knew I had earned an "A" on this report.

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Author’s Note

I chose to tell this story through a young girl’s eyes to show the distance between where Black women were once placed and where they have pushed themselves to stand. While the characters and moments are imagined, the obstacles, limits, and perseverance are real—shaped by generations of women who were counted last but kept running anyway. This piece honors the courage that moved the starting line forward and created possibilities once thought impossible