Fifth-Place Winner of Constantine Cannon’s Sixth Whistleblower Essay Contest: Kourteney Salmon
By the Constantine Cannon Whistleblower Team
Congratulations to Kourteney Salmon, the fifth-place winner of the Constantine Cannon Whistleblower Team’s Sixth Law School Scholarship Essay Contest!
About Kourteney
Kourteney is a rising 2L at Florida Agricultural & Mechanical University (FAMU) College of Law. She also attended FAMU as an undergraduate, graduating summa cum laude with a degree in political science. Kourteney plans to practice civil rights law after law school. As a civil rights attorney, she hopes to combat racial disparities within the criminal justice system and provide marginalized communities better access to justice.
In Kourteney’s winning essay, she discusses how she spoke up and rallied for meaningful changes to her high school’s policies and culture. Kourteney’s experience reinforced for her that speaking up against injustice is both a responsibility and a powerful tool for creating change.
Kourteney’s Winning Essay
From a young age, I knew my future would involve speaking. I loved to talk and could easily be described as a “certified yapper,” a title my parents claimed I earned early on. But growing up as the daughter of immigrant parents in spaces where I was often underrepresented meant constantly navigating microaggressions that were rarely addressed. On the soccer field, I encountered remarks about my hair, my body, and my “attitude,” regardless of how well I performed. In classrooms, being one of the few Black girls present often meant my actions were more closely scrutinized. During these periods of my life, that “certified yapper” in me grew quieter as I realized it was not deemed acceptable in the environments I was in. Over time, I came to understand that using my voice, especially when others are silenced, is both a responsibility and a calling. I also learned that wrongdoing flourishes when met with silence and in the absence of accountability.
That realization became unavoidable during my senior trip to Helen, Georgia. My best friend and I were two of only three Black students in the room when a game of charades began. Classmates mocked George Floyd’s murder, joked about the Holocaust, and reenacted slavery. The room erupted in laughter while we sat frozen, our shock turning into disbelief and discomfort. The moment further solidified what I already understood: how easily the suffering of marginalized communities can be turned into entertainment.
When reporting the incident, an administrator asked me, “What would you like me to do about this?” Accountability should not have required me, the student, to take the lead. The school’s initial response was to separate the students responsible from us by moving them to the front of the bus, a decision reversed by the next bus ride. It became clear that the situation was not being treated as a priority, and that my concerns were being dismissed once again.
This moment was a breakthrough for me; I actively refused to be silent. I documented every aspect of the incident, confronted school leadership, and demanded accountability. The students involved were suspended, but I went further, by drafting proposals for stricter anti-racism policies, leading discussions on DEI training, launching school news segments to foster conversations about race, and urging teachers to incorporate racial justice discussions beyond Black History Month. These efforts resulted in meaningful institutional change, including increased Black faculty representation and greater integration of racial justice into the curriculum.
Looking back, I would have addressed the entire room in that moment of discomfort, not in a fit of rage, but in a statement of disappointment. At that time, though, I was not only in shock, but also fearful of the angry Black woman trope. For so long, I dealt with microaggressions. I heard them, I endured them, and I avoided them. Ironically, I knew I wanted to be a Civil Rights Attorney, yet I consistently stayed quiet, stuck in a state of survival.
I read Bryan Stevenson’s Just Mercy in high school, and his words showed me how one voice, used intentionally, can challenge deeply rooted injustice. I always understood that, but never knew how to put it into practice; this trip taught me exactly that. My understanding of resistance deepened, and I learned that silence is neutrality; silence is a choice; and knowledge is nothing if it isn’t spoken into power to confront injustice. To many, I was deemed a “tattle-tale” or a “rat” and there was tension at school, because not everyone agreed with me holding their friends accountable for harmful behavior. This experience shaped my understanding of what it takes to speak up. It is difficult, I often have to go against the grain, and some people will be unhappy about it. But speaking up against misconduct is ultimately for the greater good; it means looking injustice in the face and doing my best to challenge it.
Each challenge I have faced has strengthened my commitment to pursue civil rights law and clarified the role my voice must play in that work. My voice has always been my most powerful tool, one of my parents’ continuous jokes, and I intend to use it to challenge the systems that allowed what I experienced to go unaddressed. Adversity taught me that speaking up is necessary when misconduct is ignored. Silence was never a solution, and it never will be.
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