A boy in black is sitting at a desk in his room with a stack of looseleaf. He stares at the blank page in front of him for a long time, contemplating if he should go through with the decision he's about to make. He closes his eyes. The deep slashes on his wrists ache and throb and his mind takes him back to a place where they taught him to live, where they taught him that outward appearances sometimes hide the most beautiful things. His eyes fly open. With trembling fingers, he picks up a pen. He exhales heavily as he begins to write, his pen releasing silky smooth jets of ink as it glides across the paper, forming small but carefully written script characters. He tries not to let his sweaty palm stain the paper and smudge the ink. He knows these letters will tell his story, and that of many others.
My name is Nico di Angelo and I am fourteen years old. I spent the past three weeks in a mental hospital because of an attempted suicide and I feel like what I discovered there should be put into words.
We are not who you think we are.
Frank Zhang, the boy with Tourette's, told the funniest jokes.
Rachel Dare, the girl who raked her nails up and down her skin, could create the most exquisite drawings.
Annabeth Chase, the girl who abused drugs, had the wisest soul.
Jason Grace, the boy with schizophrenia, had the biggest heart.
Will Solace, the boy who tried to kill himself, told me stories to help lure me to sleep when I had insomnia.
Leo Valdez, the boy who wanted to kill himself, had the deepest passion for cooking.
Piper McLean, the girl with slits and scars all over her body, dried my tears and told me I was beautiful.
Thalia Grace, the girl with anger issues, gave the warmest hugs (no matter how rare they were).
Silena Beauregard, the girl with bulimia, told everyone every day that they looked beautiful in their own bodies.
Travis and Connor Stoll, the boys who are compulsive liars, told us that they wanted us all to get better, and that for once they were both telling the truth.
Reyna Ramirez-Arellano, the girl who nearly drank herself to death, stood up for anyone that felt they were feeling bullied.
Percy Jackson, the boy with social anxiety, made sure no one sat alone at meals.
We are not who you think we are.
My sister, Hazel Levesque, means more than anything to me. She joined me in that same mental hospital four days later because she was speaking up for what she believed in, against prejudice and bigotry. I know she's safe there, with those who only know how to care, give, and love. She's safer with those labelled 'mentally disturbed' and 'a threat to society' than with some 'perfectly normal' people we've known our whole lives.
We are not who you think we are.
The boy scans the page wearily once more. He carefully folds the paper, tucks it into an envelope, quickly checks the address, and presses a stamp onto it. He runs out of his room and out his front door, all the way down the block and drops the envelope into a navy blue mailbox. He gazes up at the sky, lost in his own world for a moment. He checks his watch and sprints down the block again, only to disappear into his house once more.
A week later the New York Times releases a new article, one by a young boy who is called 'wise beyond his years.' It is an article that makes some angry, some smile sadly, and most want to cry. This boy's story is all over the news, the story of a boy who is not what you think he is. He has only recently been available for interview, and when being asked why he submitted his article, he replied, "Because we are not who you think we are. In some senses we are better. But in most aspects, we are the same. We have been hardened by life and softened by the conditions of others. I submitted that article because I wanted to put into words what I discovered in those three weeks. I submitted that article because I owed it to them to tell the world their stories. I submitted that article to say thank you, thank you for everything that they had taught me while I was there. For being there when nobody else was. For proving that the most wonderful humans emerge from the worst circumstances. They wake up every day to fight the same demons that left them so tired the night before, and that, my loves, is bravery. If you think that they are less than you or are worth the dirt on your shoe, come talk to me. I will fight you."
He paused. "I will not have anyone insult those who persuaded me to keep on living. I will not have anyone look down upon those whom I have not known for a month but yet still trust with my life. I will not have anyone demean them or make them think they are worth less than their true value."
The boy was said to look the reporter in the eye. "I will not have anyone say that they are not human, because you know what? They're more human than anyone I've ever known. And they deserve some merit for that. They are veterans, they are warriors, they are clad with battle scars on both the inside and the outside."
The boy took a deep breath. "We are not who you think we are."
Nico di Angelo has not been available for interview since then, and his father wishes for the press to leave it at the brief speech that he had given them. But America still continues to marvel over the story of a boy, and that of many others, all told through one letter, one speech, one article.
And many words.