The classroom bustled with liveliness as the children flooded in through the doors, having returned from the cafeteria and playground outside. Smiling faces entered the classroom that was lushly decorated with drawings, posters, and stickers of pumpkins, turkeys, and congratulatory words used in the holiday of Thanksgiving.

The children, some returned to their seats, while some wandered around the classroom to interact with their fellow classmates. 1969, the classroom of thirty two students was predominantly occupied by children of light complexions and varying, vibrant hair colors, but amongst them were also children of dark complexions and curly black hair. A sight increasingly common in the recent years. The children did not seem to mind the differing appearance of their classmates; they were all busy enjoying the few minutes left before recess ended. Truly, a harmonious sight to behold, filled with the vigor and naïveté of the children, excited for the activities they’d participate today in school, and when they return home.

As the children played in the classroom, the front door slid open and in entered a middle aged woman. Looking to be around her mid thirties, she had pale skin and short brown hair curled towards her ears. She wore a modest, pink jacket while underneath was a long yellow dress, reaching her ankles, decorated with flower patterns. While one hand pushed the door, her other hand held a small stack of books with colorful cartoons on the cover. She was the teacher. With her entrance to the classroom, the children all returned to their seats, the prior commotion quieting down as they early looked up to their teacher.

The teacher, Mrs. Johnson, gently walked to the blackboard. With a pink chalk, she wrote on it two big words: “Thanksgiving Presentation”. Turning back to look at her class with a smile, she walked to her desk and gently placed the books on her desk as she sat down.

“I hope you all had a nice lunch, kids”

“You too, Mrs. Johnson.” The class chanted in unison. A routine exchange they did everyday.

“Now, I know that Thanksgiving is today and you kids must be really excited, but I hope you didn’t forget the assignment I left you yesterday.” She spoke in a gentle voice.

“Does anyone remember what it was?” As soon as she finished speaking, a young girl raised her hand, eager to answer. With a nod of approval from Mrs. Johnson, the girl stood up.

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“We had to prepare a presentation for today about the person we’re most grateful for!” She eagerly replied, then quickly sat back down.

“Thank you, that’s correct!” Turning her attention from the young girl to the class, she asked with a smile. “Now, does anyone wanna volunteer to go first?”

The classroom erupted into a small commotion as the kids started asking each other what they were going to present today. Some would tease each other and try to let Mrs. Johnson pick their friend to go first, and some would play Rock Paper Scissors amongst themselves to decide who would go first. It was evident that the children all had something to present, and some were very eager too, but nobody wanted to be first.

“Seems like there’s no volunteers.” Mrs. Johnson said with a small chuckle.

“Vicky, would you like to come up first to set a precedent?”

At the sound of her word, the young girl, Vicky, who had previously answered Mrs. Johnson’s question stood up once again, and confidently walked towards the blackboard. Just like her classmates, she had the youthful face of a 13 year old. A fresh look of maturity with a lively naïveté that had not yet left, characteristic of children of this age. Unlike her classmates though, she had a spark of ambition and maturity in her eyes that few of her age had; a feistiness befitting of one who had great aspirations. She was one of the few children in the classroom that had dark skin, black eyes, and black curly hairs. Yet, unlike the other African American children, Vicky also had feature that resembled those of her white classmates: a thinner nose, a higher nose bridge, and almond shaped eyes typically seen on the faces of children born from white parents.

A biracial child. A sight unique and seldom seen, yet increasingly becoming common in the recent years.

Vicky stood before the classroom of students eager to hear her presentation. A small bit of nervousness crept up, but was quickly pushed back by her determination. She’d wanted to tell others about the person she’s grateful for, the subject of her presentation today, for a long time. Today, it was finally the chance. With a small inhale, she started her presentation.

“Today, I will talk about a person I am very grateful for. They are not my mom and dad, and they’re not related to me by blood.” She paused. A few children let out a snort of confusion, while a few kids started talking amongst themselves, asking who the person she’s grateful be if not her family. They were quickly hushed by Mrs. Johnson, who told Vicky to continue with an encouraging nod and a smile.

“But, even though we are not related, he is a part of my family.”

“This person is my dear Uncle Sunny.”