I stride down the halls of my high school. D-Block. This is it. Senior year. This is my school, and these are my halls. Within its halls resides a majority black population, with everyone else holding the title of the minority for once. I look left, I look right, but there is no need, for there He always is, right in front of me.

It seems like no matter where I go, no matter where I am, I can’t seem to shake Him. His gaze: both piercing and consuming. I look away. I ignore him. I refuse his advances.

I rush farther down the hallway, sneaking surreptitious glances behind me to ensure He hasn’t followed. I turn the corner. I face forward, heaving a sigh of relief. He has not followed. I march forward with my former grace and purpose. And I freeze. Because there He is again.

He slips her a small bag of—I don’t want to think what it is. In the middle of the hallway! He makes His own rules. Is that part of His attraction? What about that girl? He is luring her into His trap. She is innocent—or rather, she was.

She has become another one of the fallen. Another one of His conquests. That’s all we are to Him. Just another conquest.

I have not fallen.

I will not fall.

I am His hardest conquest yet.

I pretend to ignore Him and continue moving. I am almost safe. I turn another corner and rush headlong into my office. This is the only place I am safe from Him.

With a sigh I sink into the security of my leather swivel chair. So comfortable. This is my space. There are windows, but the shades are down. There is a wall separating this space from the rest of the classroom—the space that can be seen through the window in the door. But in my space, none can observe. There are seven other desks here. Each possessed by people not at all like me. They have fallen prey to Him. That one is pregnant. That one is a pothead. That one is a known slut. They are His conquests, and they don’t even know it. No, they are not like me. I have not been conquered.

The air is stifling. I suddenly can’t breathe. I need to escape. I need to pee. I rise from the security of my chair. With a sidelong glance into the mirror, I check my appearance. Yes, I look like a victor. I look like a champion. I wear my independence like a cloak.

I step outside the door and onto the battleground. I look both ways. He is nowhere near me. I shove my way through the crowd. Gross. That one stinks of marijuana. That one must not know what a shower is. Disgusting. I dance around an extremely pregnant girl--out of respect for the baby, not the girl. The baby had no choice, but she did. She allowed herself to fall for His trap. Pitiful. I shove her aside anyway. I make it to the bathroom and do my business. This one in the next urinal has tattoos all over his face. Does he have any idea how ridiculous he looks? I shake the water from my hands and look up into the mirror in an attempt to reestablish my powerful identity—and there He is, looking right back at me. And He is smiling.

He has caught me.

Looking deep into His eyes I find only a reflection of my own. Why have I never realized that the reason I see Him, the stereotype, everywhere I go is because I have allowed myself to confine my own people into one definition? My seemingly heroic attempts to remain separate from the Black stereotype have turned me into a monster much worse than He ever could be. I have become the Pride that gives rise to stereotypes, grouping human beings into cultural corrals out of a selfish desire to be different and better than everybody else. Looking into His—no, MY eyes, I realize that the exact opposite is the reality.

I am just like them. We have all fallen prisoner to these pervasive stereotypes—anonymous faces joining a poisoned army. But we don’t have to be slaves to a stereotype. We have a choice. I look around with new eyes. That one is Derek. This one is Janae. Those over there: Celina and Tariq. We are individual faces. We are stories. We are all human.

African Americans are surrounded by these stereotypes, expectations that tell us how to act and what to wear because of our skin color. It is because of these stereotypes that we are forced to deal with our skin color in a social and mental aspect every time we step outside our doors. These stereotypes only have power, however, when we allow people to continue in their self-righteous attitudes on top of their social pedestal. This is our line in the sand. We are African American, and we will no longer remain in bondage to the stereotypes placed on us. We will rise and free ourselves from their authority. Every forward step we take will reflect our rebellion from the inherently selfish system ruled by the stereotype. Snoop Dogg has just done this in Los Angeles, and it is up to us to continue this new wave of stereotype destruction across our great nation.

We will remove the power of the stereotype from our lives.

He is still there. But now, he is on the run from us.