by Diya Kakkar
Growing up in South Carolina, I learned to keep my opinions quiet, especially the ones that made people uncomfortable. When the class laughed about ICE, I laughed along. When someone made jokes about deportation, I swallowed my words. I swallowed and swallowed until the knot in my throat finally reached its limit. My silence was my shield, protecting me from turning heads, sharp looks, and the quiet whispers that followed me down hallways. But that silence did not just protect me; it hollowed out the part of me that wanted to be seen, to be heard, to belong, leaving me small in a world that seemed to notice everyone else but me.
Ironic, isn’t it? South Carolina, the beautiful Palmetto State, known for its Southern hospitality and strong sense of community, is also a place where so many of its residents feel invisible. I had hoped our small state could be different, a place where everyone could feel safe, seen, and welcomed. Instead, I have sometimes felt that South Carolina’s promise of hospitality does not always reach everyone, leaving me to walk its streets and classrooms like a shadow, longing to be seen, longing to belong, and wondering if that would ever be enough to feel safe.
How can we call South Carolina a state of hospitality when children are ripped from their parents’ arms, when families live in constant fear of ICE knocking at the door? How can we praise our Southern charm when casual racism hides in classrooms, hallways, and playgrounds through whispered jokes, “go back to your country” comments, and even words I once said myself. Once, as I laughed along with friends in an arcade, I made a rude and ignorant joke about deportation to a close friend. At the time, I dismissed it as a joke, something meant to make people laugh and move on. But later, night after night, those words crawled back into my chest and settled there like a stone. I felt a shame so sharp it made my chest ache. I thought about how hurtful those words must have been to hear from someone she trusted, and I realized I had no right to say them. I apologized, and I have spent every day since trying to understand how casual words can perpetuate fear and how growth begins with owning harm and choosing to change.
I have seen how this invisibility becomes more than a feeling. It becomes fear. In a state that prides itself on Southern hospitality, immigrant children in Greenville, Charleston, and beyond live in constant worry. My sister’s friend Emily did not go to school for several days because she was terrified ICE might come for her family. She is not a statistic or a headline. She is a child who wants to learn, to laugh, and to live without fear. The threat may be federal, but its consequences are deeply local, felt in hallways, playgrounds, and homes across South Carolina. Kids like Emily and others in immigrant families must hide, shrink, and silence themselves just to survive. Every day of school she missed, every quiet moment, every whispered fear is a reminder that South Carolina’s promise of hospitality has yet to reach all of its children. This is not abstract or political. It is simply wrong.
But if I can change, South Carolina can too. Maybe the streets I walk, the schools I pass, and the homes I glimpse through windows can be a little kinder, a little safer. Maybe children like Emily will not have to hide, and families will not have to shrink. Maybe jokes will be questioned before they cause harm. Change can begin in small ways, through awareness, accountability, and compassion. I do not know how long it will take, or if it will ever be perfect. But if change begins anywhere, maybe it begins with the people who live here every day, the ones who see, who feel, and who care enough to try. And maybe one day, this state I have loved, feared, and longed to belong in will finally be home for everyone.
About Diya Kakkar, second place winner
Diya Kakkar is a junior at J.L. Mann High School in Greenville, where Kelli Malinowski is her AP Language teacher. The daughter of Sonia and Gunit Kakkar, Diya is secretary of the Beta Club and vice president of the National Technical Honor Society. She is a member of AP Capstone, Health Occupations Students of America, the American Red Cross, the National Honor Society, and the J.L. Mann Science Magnet Program. She enjoys writing, playing golf, and traveling, and plans to attend college and pursue a career in medicine.