A Gold Medal Portfolio Award is the highest honor students can receive in the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards. Jurors choose portfolios by high school seniors whose works best represent the Scholastic Awards’ judging criteria: originality, technical skill, and the emergence of a personal vision or voice. These remarkable artists and writers will each receive a $10,000 scholarship.

For the next few weeks, we’ll be profiling the 2022 Gold Medal Portfolio recipients. Next up are Maya McFadden and Ava Hudson.

Maya McFadden

I first began The Vos Family back in 2018, not as I have it today, but the idea of it. It started with one character, and she was my pride and joy at the time, with my oldest work about her starting on June 3, 2018, but I wanted to give her more. She was a Black woman without a history, and so I worked backward to give her one—a reason to be the way she is. I planned everything out, generation by generation, head by head, and then, in the midst of a pandemic and social upheaval, I wrote the story I both wanted and needed. And although I am not sharing her specific story (it was, unfortunately, far too long and complicated to edit) I am telling the story and growth of a family—The Vos Family.

Beyond the veil of noir and mafias, it is a story of life, as it is death; a story of love, as it is hatred. It is longing for an identity in a white world that would hope to exclude you. It’s a story of desperation, but also a rise to power. It’s the justification of thoughts and actions otherwise seen as morally gray at best, and a look into how everyone is the hero of their own story. No one is a saint; everyone is a hypocrite in some way, shape, or form.

But above all else, it’s a story of history—Black history. There are just as many moments of excellence as there are bumps in the road, and proof that even as one life may end, another will continue. I couldn’t involve all of the different short stories that encompass this passion project, however, I was able to narrow it down to six pieces—one man’s reflection upon his life in face of everything he’s done, and the beginning of his son’s.

Entry IV

SHORT STORY

Maya McFadden, Grade 12, William B. Murrah High School, Jackson, MS. Gold Medal Portfolio, Lindenmeyr Writing Portfolio Award

I remember December 7, 1941, like it was yesterday. At the time, I was working the cash register at some grocer. The job was hard to get, but I managed. It was a monotonous job, but the simplicity of the calculations pleased my soul. I wasn’t paid much of anything, but a job was a job, and the small store filled with neatly stacked cans, along with the produce on display, brought me a sense of comfort. It was momentary escapism from my nightlife.

As I recall, the radio was playing oh so quietly, and yet I remember the broadcast that changed my life: “We have witnessed this morning the distant view of a brief battle at Pearl Harbor and the severe bombing of Pearl Harbor by enemy planes, undoubtedly Japanese.”

I’d always casually listened to the news, not even paying attention to it half the time, but I couldn’t help but turn up the radio. Nine words stuck with me that day: “It is no joke. It is a real war.”

The attack on the U.S. had been over for three hours by the time that broadcast was made. It was a pointless attack and a blunder on Japan’s part that cost them dearly. It was a supposed “preventive action.” Lord knows what it prevented, because the U.S. had been brought into the mess that was the Second World War just like that.

It was, perhaps, the one time I put aside my prejudice against the nation to fight for “the greater good.” Though, really, I saw an opportunity to escape overseas. White folks wouldn’t have you think that Black folks even fought in the war. They didn’t want us fighting next to them, because then they’d have to recognize us as humans.

I knew this from talking with WWI Harlemite vets and reading letters from Black soldiers who stayed overseas. Let’s just say I was prepared to flee the country at any point in time. I had a rough idea of what to expect, and I didn’t let it stop me. I was going to serve in that war no matter how shitty it’d be. It’s not like the government had many options. While they used my Black body, I used their free plane ticket. The training was rough, but I made it as an engineer; I wasn’t allowed to be a soldier until later.

I sold a good portion of my valuable items for a mixture of money, metals (silver and gold), and ration tickets. What I couldn’t put in my wallet, I hid in my assault pack. Ole Jerry took up the operation of the Vos family while I was overseas; I trusted him to not get caught.

I was sent overseas to Great Britain. Considering the struggles I had had with the Italian, Irish, and Jewish mobs, I didn’t know what to expect from the Brits. To my surprise, they weren’t half-bad. Far better than the Americans.

The U.S. GIs did their best to push Jim Crow, but they couldn’t implement it. They tried to order multiple businesses to put up White Only and Black Only signs, but the British weren’t having it. As a man born and raised in the South, and who had spent almost two decades in the North, I wasn’t used to such liberal interracial mingling. Sure, I’d been nice to Léo through our letters, but it was nothing physical.

While in Britain, my battalion was responsible for the construction, maintenance, and defense of airfields. We were poorly trained, then put to work. The labor was deadly, but what else was to be expected? It was an aviation engineering unit, rather easy to break something or get a hand cut off. It was probably no worse than working in a factory—save for the possibility of being bombed. Or shot by your own “allies” for being Black. I even grew close to five men in our misery: Matthew Hammond, Devin Brown, Marques Lloyd, Watson Holt, and Leroy Fox.

Overall, the experience was not bad unless you were in the hospital. God, I don’t even want to call it that; it was a death trap. Imagine, for a second, having a shortage of medics and nurses to cover the job. Think about how much worse it was with the segregation on the base. But there was one light in the darkness: Joan Fletcher. My beloved wife, mother of my son, and the only love of my life. It hurts that I’m leaving her, but in writing this our love will live on. We met in sickness, and sickness is how we’ll split.

I’d broken my arm and gotten a rather nasty infection. She was the nurse who mended my wounds. I liked everything about her, from her rough, calloused hands to her dark, ebony skin. Her wit was, and still is, unmatched, and she’s always been well put together. I was smitten by her inquisitive, dark eyes, and in more than sixty years of living across two continents, I’ve never felt anything as strongly.

We talked and laughed. She cared for me, but damn if she wasn’t quick to dismiss my notions of getting back to work. Not until I was properly functional, at least. I hated the work, but I hated being out of commission even more. I was always calculating and scheming, but she taught me to slow down. Sadly, she was rarely ever available outside of the hospital. But not all was lost.

There were a few times a day when we could see each other on base. Our conversations weren’t very long, but I learned a lot about her over the course of a few months. Her daddy had served in WWI as a combat medic, but when he went home, he was lynched. To honor him, she took after him. She liked jazz, nature, and drawing. After the war, she wanted to be an artist.

I was slow to reveal much of anything about myself, especially on the base. There were too many ears for my liking. I didn’t want to get her involved in my illicit work if she didn’t want to be.

I only opened up off base. I went to the pubs with the boys, and worked to expand the Vos family. Sometimes, I tried contacting Léo to see if he was alive and well. Other times, I checked up on Ole Jerry and our operation in America. And when I was too tired to socialize, I was stuck up in a library by myself. A good book always made me forget about the war.

Of course, this all paled in comparison to when Joan was in town. I pulled some strings to make her smile. Dealing with the dregs of society had its benefits. My power wasn’t limited overseas, and had, in fact, grown due to the black markets. The British liked American goods, and I liked their money.

I remember all the things I ever got for her: a record player, more jazz albums than she could ask for, the finest art supplies, and books. She was slow to accept them since she wasn’t the type of woman to be bought. I respected that.

As we opened up to one another, I answered more of her general questions. I told her where I was from, my day job and work experiences. I kept my mouth closed about the underground life I lived. I wasn’t ready just yet.

But Joan was smart. Once she got to know a little about me, her intuition told her I was hiding something. In a moment of weakness, or a fit of love, I had called her out to a bridge in the middle of the night. Patrols had ended, the streets were quiet, and everyone was asleep or in a pub.

She came to me, asked me if I was hiding anything. I admitted everything: my life in Harlem, the syndicate, the lowest points I’d experienced. For the longest time, she’d been curious about how I could afford what she’d gotten, and I laid it all out on a silver platter—told her everything I was and had been. For the first time in years, I was afraid. I wasn’t afraid of being caught, but afraid that she wouldn’t love me. I wouldn’t have blamed her for leaving.

Instead, she smiled and laughed. Then she kissed me. I’m almost ashamed to admit it, but at 40, it was my first real kiss. It wasn’t like some kiss I did as a dare in a bar, or out in the woods with some little girl as a child, but something electric. I could charm my way into business deals and positions of power, but applying that to love had been difficult. I’ve always liked the idea of love, but I was slow to fall into it. That, and I was never proactive about the matter, so the years had simply passed by, and I never noticed.

Joan, on the other hand, had experience in matters of the heart. She’s always been a go-getter—she knew what she wanted, never waited, and didn’t fear mistakes. She had had her fair share of men over the years, despite the taboos of the time, and had almost completely decided against marriage. Instead, she became an art teacher and worked to be an artist on the side.

I appreciated her honesty and straightforward nature. She, on the other hand, loved my work ethic. She loved how I was loyal and never gave up on my ideals. She took my hand underneath the moonlight and said, “You’re flawed, but you have a vision. I love you regardless.” Then she gave me a pen; it was her father’s pen. I’ve used it to write ever since, and am using it even now.

We walked to the inn she was staying in, moved the furniture around, and put on a record. I didn’t realize just how much I missed the jazz and dancing associated with Harlem until then. Our movements were slow and fluid, full of love and care.

The song I remember clearest that night was “Dream a Little Dream of Me.” We sang it together. When I close my eyes, I can see and hear the moment clearly. Her in my arms, her head on my shoulder, and our voices as we hummed along to the lyrics. . . . I think about that moment often—the moment we danced.

She was and still is my dream, but war can be complicated. As it droned on, there was a need for more soldiers. The “Negro press,” as White folks said, pressured the system to allow us to have combat roles. I jumped at the chance to be a soldier.

Joan was pissed. She didn’t want me to go off and die. I argued that I’d rather serve with a gun in my hand than stay on the field and hope to not get bombed. It was my calling as a man of God. She understood how I felt, of course, but she was still mad. She yelled and cried. She didn’t want to lose me, because I was the “right one.”

When she said that, I proposed then and there. I promised her that I’d always send letters, make sure that she was loved, and keep her protected even when I wasn’t there. All she had to do was stay and wait for me in Britain. She accepted. The next few days (or weeks, for all I can remember) I spent my time saying goodbye to the boys, working, and bribing the White officers to put in a good word or two for me. Racist or not, all men came to me for something—extra rations, better-quality goods, unsavory things—so even if they didn’t want some “uppity nigger” fighting in their war, they knew what type of man I was. I wouldn’t have taken no for an answer, and I would ruin their careers if they trifled with me. Buying illicit goods in the military isn’t exactly a good look.

I got my recommendation letters, and there’d been no messing around, so I said my goodbyes. After brief training in Utah, I was shipped to the front lines in France. The allies were desperate to win, so I went above and beyond. As a Black man, it was a fact of life that I had to work twice as hard as any White man to survive. It was especially important, then, that I fought the hardest that I could. I wasn’t fighting to prove that I was a man deserving of equality, but to relish the fact that I had the choice to determine how I wanted to live and die.

Out of all my battles, I remember the shores of Normandy most vividly. I’d seen my fair share of conflicts, but I’ll never forget the sight and smell of D-Day. I’d seen the inner workings of aerial and naval combat, but it didn’t prepare me for seeing men blown up, shot, or falling from ships. That was a day of all-out warfare.

There almost was something lifeless about the war. All that passion and valor I had, and yet a part of me knew I was fighting for a future that would actively seek to exclude me. Even if I were to end up happy in Europe, racism would still exist. I and my sacrifices would be forgotten.

Then I remembered that I was fighting for Joan, and I defended that damned beach with those balloons. Sometimes, the greatest purpose you can fight for is yourself. By the end, hundreds of thousands were dead, but we won. It was the beginning of the end for the Nazis. We spent a few more months in France, liberating it and the rest of Europe. Letters with Joan kept me hopeful. On top of this, I had begun receiving more and more letters from Léo.

I hadn’t forgotten about Léo, nor our potential business, and apparently, he hadn’t forgotten about me. In fact, he went out of his way to find me. Imagine for a second you’re reading in your downtime. The rest of your division is doing their best to work or relax. All of a sudden, some loud, scrawny White boy who looks almost less than half your age with a deep, French accent asks for you. It was unexpected, I’ll admit. I had intended to wait until after the war ended to attempt physical contact. He had more energy in person than in his letters.

After a few moments of getting stared at like I was crazy, I set my book down and invited him to take a walk. I remember our conversation perfectly.

“So you’re Léo Châtithier?” I asked. “Sure are young.”

“Well, yes, I took over the ‘family business’ early,” he replied.

“Ima guess your daddy got tired or died. Either way, you barely look a day over 25, which would explain your optimism.”

“I’m almost 30,” he retorted. “I have a wife and a newborn back at home—little Armel.”

I congratulated him, and we talked about our lives. Both were relatively hard, but I couldn’t quite grasp his optimistic views, so I asked questions: “Why do you believe in equality? Why are you interested in Negro culture? Why do you want to work with me?”

“Well,” he began, “it’s easy to say that the culture of Harlem and jazz was ‘exotic,’ but personally I found it admirable. There was a certain, how do you say, ‘soulfulness,’ I think that’s the word. I couldn’t relate to the experience, but I respected it. Eventually, I found myself learning more about civil rights and advocating for the rights of the marginalized. God says all men were created equal, no? Even if he didn’t, I’d believe it of my own accord; I am someone with empathy for my fellow man. It’s why I want to work with you. I did my research. You’ve survived two decades of changing times, getting yourself to the top. There’s a power in survivability.”

I chuckled. I found his answer entertaining, but very heartfelt. It cemented our friendship then and there. I knew I had an ally in him. “Do you know why my name is Roman?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“My mother told me on her deathbed. She named me after an empire because she knew I’d be mighty. Even after I’m gone, I’ll be remembered somehow.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “I intend to grow great—with you.”

He nodded, then said, “Let’s survive this together.”

From that day forward, we had each other’s back. As the war trekked to its final conclusion, we created a brotherly bond. We pulled off a smuggling operation together that went beyond goods to getting needed medical supplies to the front lines and smuggling refugees to safety.

He got me things and gained me some priority as a Black man. I made sure we had no enemies. We took bullets for each other and even ended up pushing into Germany together. We fought two battles—one against the Nazis, another against Jim Crow. And though he couldn’t understand what it was like walking in my shoes, he supported me.

By May, we’d heard news about the deaths of Mussolini and Hitler. The war went on for another four or five months, until America dropped the nuclear bombs. I had still been stationed in Germany throughout those months, so the initial impact didn’t occur to me until days later—the sickening price needed to end that war.

But my main concern after the war was finding Joan and bringing her with me to France. She was in Britain, waiting for me, and our wedding was a month later: October 2, 1945. It was a small, sweet affair. It was a way to say we survived, scars and all.

Ava Hudson

My first fashion collection sprung from feeling disconnected and lonely. In January 2021, I was isolated at home with my family, like so many others. With my outside sources of community and belonging cut off, my sense of self felt thrown off. I felt blank, in need of a purpose. I decided that I would create my first collection of garments, and started searching for inspiration. Craving ways to venture out, even if only in my mind, I turned to documentaries, podcasts, and books that transported me to new places, times, and aesthetics. I thought about my heritage, and how I could connect to cultures beyond the one I was immersed in at home.

I became engrossed with three main themes: the Norwegian Arctic, folklore, and the nostalgia for one’s home country.

Reading about the rapid climate shifts in the Arctic, I worked to reduce the environmental footprint of the project by sourcing fabric from a store that sells excess fabric and remnants and foraging a reused craft store for materials. To bring my ideas to life, I used trial and error to learn new sewing and textile techniques such as ruching, pleating, embroidery, painting, embroidery, and patternmaking. As costs mounted, I started a weekend bun baking and delivery business to pay my bills and to save for the runway show that I was beginning to envision.

On December 17, I held my first show. At a downtown Portland gallery, professional models walked my collection, Boreal, with an audience of forty friends, family, and local designers and mentors in attendance, followed by a gallery showing the next day. It felt magical to honor my ancestors in this public way, and share this world that I had created in isolation. This experience confirmed that fashion is the future that I want to pursue.

Featured images: Ava Hudson, Telemark Ensemble and Golden Bird Gown, Fashion. Grade 12, Lincoln High School, Portland, OR. Gold Medal Portfolio, Alliance for Young Artists & Writers Art Portfolio Award

To see more Gold Medal Portfolio recipients, past and present, visit our Eyes on the Prize series.