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Teen who walked 6 miles to his 8th-grade graduation awarded a full-ride college scholarship

"Even on your worst day, keep pressing forward.”

via Harris-Stowe State University/Facebook

Xavier Jones is given his scholarship to Harris-Stowe Stete University in St. Louis.

A story out of St. Louis shows how some students have to overcome many more barriers than others on their road to success. But in this student's case, people in important positions recognized his perseverance and rewarded him in a way that could make his future less of a struggle.

According to a report from KAKE, 14-year-old Xavier Jones had no ride to his 8th-grade graduation ceremony, so he walked six miles to pick up his diploma.

“I was going to tell an adult, but my grandpa’s car was down. So I was just going to walk there,” he told KAKE.

Jones was graduating from Yeatman Middle School, but the ceremony was held at Harris-Stowe State University, a public historically-Black university in St. Louis.

“I looked up Harris-Stowe University on Google Maps and then I saw the walking distance and then I said I could probably make it,” Xavier told KAKE. “I wanted to walk across the stage.”

Knowing it would be a long walk, he brought along his brother and friend for the journey. To get from his home in West Florissant to Harris-Stowe State University took them two and a half hours.

Darren Seals, Jones’ mentor, called attention to the student's incredible dedication during a speech at the ceremony.

“I had to stop my speech and call him on board and was like, ‘Hey, everybody get off your feet and give him a standing ovation,'” Seals told Fox 2. “They clapped for him. They were like, ‘Woah, this boy walked.'”

Jones’ journey also caught the attention of Dr. Latonia Collins Smith, the president of Harris-Stowe State University, who was impressed by his determination.

“When I heard that story and to see that young man who was so bright and excited and driven,” President Collins Smith said. “It spoke volumes to me. It spoke resilience, persistence, perseverance. Regardless of what the adversity is, I’m going to press my way to this promotion ceremony. So that is what sparked my interest in saying, ‘Hey, this is the type of kid that we want to recruit to Harris-Stowe.”

President Collins Smith sees Jones as an example of the many barriers that students in the area face to getting an education. “Many of our students come with a story and many of our students come with environmental barriers they have overcome or that they are currently overcoming,” President Collins Smith told KAKE.

To reward his incredible dedication, the school gave him a full-ride scholarship for when he graduates high school. The scholarship includes four years of tuition, books and student fees.

When Jones heard he got a “free ride” to college, he thought it meant transportation. When Seals explained it was a scholarship, Jones couldn’t believe it. “Wait a minute, I don’t have to pay for college?” he asked Seals.

Jones hopes he can be a NASCAR driver after he graduates college.

“At the end of the rainbow, there’s a pot of gold. I learned a lot from Xavier that day," says President Collins Smith. "Even on your worst day, keep pressing forward.”

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Check out Budweiser's powerful Super Bowl ad celebrating immigrants.

'Go back home!' — a message immigrants have been hearing for a while now.

In 1857, a man named Adolphus Busch arrived in America.

As an immigrant from Germany, he stood out.

Some people didn't like that.

Like many other immigrants in the 1800s, he faced hardships on his journey to find his new home.

But he finally made it to where he was meant to be.

Busch, of course, is the Busch of Anheuser-Busch — the world's largest beer producer. And it's his American story being told in a new Super Bowl ad for Budweiser:

As Slate reported, the ad is a more sensationalized version of Busch's past. Nonetheless, it sends a bold message.

Given today's political climate, the ad's pro-immigrant sentiment has people talking.

The ad — showing Busch overcoming xenophobic attitudes held by early colonists — was released amid talks of President Donald Trump's controversial U.S.-Mexico border wall and just days after Trump signed an executive order banning travel to the U.S. by green card holders and refugees from seven predominantly Muslim countries.

The ban prompted protests in airports across the country. It resulted in Attorney General Sally Yates being fired by Trump for refusing to defend its legality. Lawyers swooped in immediately, many working pro bono, to defend those affected in transit. And dozens of celebrities and influencers slammed the ban as an attack on civil rights.

And believe it or not, Anheuser-Busch dove into white-hot political territory with this ad ... on accident.

Demonstrators protest Trump's travel ban in Chicago. Photo by Scott Olson/Getty Images.

Anheuser-Busch didn't intend for the ad — which it's been developing for nearly a year — to be political.

The commercial was conceptualized long before Trump's travel ban was signed and the announcement of his controversial proposal to pay for the U.S.-Mexico border wall using an import tariff.

The brand wanted to "celebrate those who embody the American spirit" by recapping one of its founder's early days in America — not throw in its two cents when it comes to immigration policy.

Marcel Marcondes, vice president of marketing at Anheuser-Busch, said in a statement (emphasis added):

"Budweiser’s Super Bowl commercial highlights the ambition of our founder and his unrelenting pursuit of the American dream. ... It’s an idea we’ve been developing along with our creative agency for nearly a year. We believe beer should be bipartisan, and did not set out to create a piece [of] political commentary; however we recognize that you can’t reference the American Dream today without being part of the conversation."

Either way, it really shouldn't matter what the political climate is — the message of this ad shouldn't have to be a political one.

What often gets glossed over in American history books (besides our horrific treatment of the only non-immigrants in this country, Native Americans) is the fact nearly every ethnicity and nationality endured some form of discrimination upon arriving on our shores.

When the Irish settled, they were seen as lazy, unintelligent criminals. Italian-Americans were deemed superstitious and violent — an ignorant group that was prone to terrorism. The Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 halted immigration from the East Asian country — even while Chinese-Americans made up less than 1% of the population — in part to uphold "racial purity."

A Muslim woman attends a prayer and rally event against Trump's travel ban in New York City. Photo by Spencer Platt/Getty Images.

Today, Latinx are fighting back against a wave of xenophobia — one that's often exploited for political gain. Black people are still trying to overcome the systemic racism that's lingered from slavery and the Jim Crow era. Muslim Americans are witnessing a surge in Islamophobic terrorism against their communities. And just about every other minority group faces its own hurdles in the form of hurtful stereotypes or prejudice.

We have our work cut out for us.

America is a flawed but marvelous melting pot reflecting a big, beautiful world. And whether Anheuser-Busch meant to or not, its ad sent a powerful message every one of us should keep in mind now more than ever: We're all welcome here.

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The protests she went to looked nothing like they did on TV. So she brought her camera.

A stranger raised his voice and threw a middle finger her way. Patience Zalanga froze.

This was not the first time someone had reacted violently to her presence. And it likely wouldn't be the last.

Zalanga is a badass photographer.

A black woman and long-term resident of St. Paul, Minnesota, Zalanga recently moved to the St. Louis metro area. But when she heard about the shooting of Philando Castile, she hopped in a car and went back home.

Not just to mourn. Not just to protest. But to stand side by side with her community, and celebrate strength in blackness without apology.

Naturally, she brought her camera, too.

All photos by Patience Zalanga, used with permission.

Zalanga has worked as a photographer for the last four years. But she didn't always use her camera for activism.

"It wasn't until two years ago, when Ferguson happened, that I decided to use my camera for ... purposes other than taking head shots," she said.

Zalanga arrived in Ferguson about a week before the grand jury announced their findings. During that first visit, she said, she was too worried for her safety to bring her camera.

"I was really scared that [the police] would confiscate my camera ..." she explained, "I was really worried ... I would be a target."

Eventually, she returned home to Minnesota. But hours after she got home, the grand jury announced they would not indict Officer Darren Wilson in the shooting death of Michael Brown.

Zalanga and her friends were watching it on the news when they decided they should go back. And this time, Zalanga took her camera, too. She wanted to document the real action — the stuff no one was seeing on the news.

Over time, Zalanga has become bolder and more confident about her storytelling.

She's gone from not bringing her camera at all to standing on the front lines of the action to record history.

"When I take pictures, it's so weird, but white men just have this track record of them getting up in my face and being super bold," Zalanga said. "I'm [5 feet 2 inches] ... and I only have a camera, that's the only weapon I have on me. And yet they feel very, very compelled to intimidate me with their bodies, with their language."

The man you read about at the beginning of this piece got upset when Zalanga started taking pictures at an impromptu demonstration at a hair salon. She says he jumped out of his chair and immediately got in her face.

"In that moment, my heart was racing. Everything went in slow motion," she said.

But while the experience felt lonely, Zalanga wasn't alone.

"All of a sudden, I had 10 black people surrounding me," she says. It was the other demonstrators, standing by her side. As always, her community had her back.

Now, Zalanga sees herself as an activist as well as a photographer.

"When I made the decision to start documenting, at first I was doing it for everyone," she said. "But I feel like through my photography ... my style has somewhat changed, and it's definitely more ... centered on black people."

She often shoots in black and white to draw parallels between the contemporary struggles of black Americans and the civil rights movement of the 1960s.

"For me, it's important to shoot in black and white because it really forces you to pay attention to the subject and what's happening."

The photos here were taken in July 2016 during protests outside the Minnesota Governor's Mansion in St. Paul.

While residents and community members were decidedly heartbroken about the death of Philando Castile — "There was a lot of frustration, a lot of rage, and a lot of anger," Zalanga said — events at the mansion have been altogether peaceful.

And for Zalanga, capturing these moments in the movement is more than a passion or a profession — it's a duty to humankind.

She hopes her work will serve as an archive, capturing not just moments of pain and struggle, but celebration and joy. Through her work, Zalanga says she is signal boosting a narrative we all need to hear.

"That's the main reason why I do what I do," she said. "I'm really curious about what pictures are going to be put in history books," she said.

And we can all do our part to pay attention, really listen, and share the stories and images coming out of places where this movement is taking shape every day. History is happening right this minute, and we can all do our part to ensure traditionally underrepresented voices are at the center of it.

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The black soldiers who biked 2,000 miles over the mountains and out of American history.

If you don't know, now you know.

As the sun set on their first day, the men of the 25th Infantry Bicycle Corps were cold, tired, and soaking wet. And they still had nearly 1,900 miles to go.

It was summer 1896. The 20 members of the 25th Infantry, an all-black company out of Fort Missoula, Montana, had been volunteered by their white commanding officer, 2nd Lt. James Moss, to study the feasibility of using bicycles in the military, which, unlike horses, required no food, water, or rest.

Moss was allowed to lead his men on a near-2,000-mile journey from Missoula to St. Louis, Missouri. The weather was punishing, the ride grueling, and the water poisonous. The men of the 25th were selected for the experiment, frankly, because as soldiers, they were worth little to the U.S. military.

Image via The Montana Experience: Stories from Big Sky Country/YouTube.

But odds are you haven't heard of the 25th Infantry Bicycle Corps. Their story was quickly forgotten, barely earning a mention in the pages of history books.

But in reality, these men were unsung heroes. Don't believe me? Here are nine reasons why.

1. Before the journey, many of the men didn't even know how to ride a bike.

Only five of the 20 soldiers were experienced bicycle riders ahead of the cross-country trek. One learned how to ride just a week prior. At the time, safety bicycles (the new model with two wheels of the same size as opposed to the large wheel on the front) were relatively new and exciting.

Photo of Pvt. John Findley, one of the few men in the company with any cycling experience. Image via The Montana Experience: Stories from Big Sky Country/YouTube.

2. The bicycles selected for the journey were on loan and extremely clunky.

The Spalding company donated bicycles for the experiment. The bikes had steel rims and no gears (those hadn't been invented yet). Each bicycle weighed in at 59 pounds, without gear. A heavy one-speed bike is just fine on a breezy ride through the country. But these men were traveling over mountains.

Are your legs tired yet?


Image via The Montana Experience: Stories from Big Sky Country/YouTube.

3. You know when your grandparents say they had to walk uphill both ways? This was the journey for the 25th. Only true.

The route to St. Louis was selected because the men would encounter diverse terrain — perfect for a test of military feasibility. The company traveled from the steep slopes of Montana through the dry, sandy roads of Nebraska. They encountered snow, rocks, mud, and punishing winds. They even crossed the rivers on foot, multiple times, holding their bikes over their heads.

"We were wet, cold and hungry, and a more jaded set of men never existed," wrote Edward Boos, a correspondent for the Daily Missoulian and an avid bicyclist who traveled with the 25th to report on their experiences.

Why didn't they just ride on the road? Good question.


The 25th riding past Old Faithful at Yellowstone. Image via The Montana Experience: Stories from Big Sky Country/YouTube.

4. The roads were so bad, the men often resorted to riding on train tracks.

The roads that existed at the time were worn down from wagon wheels creating deep rutted paths. And when it rained, they were washed away, replaced with thick mud. Instead, at times the men rode their bikes on the train tracks, which weren't much better considering there was nothing between the railroad ties but deep holes. The men held tight to their handlebars to keep from flipping over, resulting in hand numbness and intense shoulder pain for miles.

And you thought you were sore after a 50-minute spin class.

Image via The Montana Experience: Stories from Big Sky Country/YouTube.

5. Each soldier carried 55 pounds of gear on his bike.

Their supplies included half a tent, a bedroll, a pair of underwear, an undershirt, socks a toothbrush, two days worth of food (burnt bread, beans, bacon or canned beef, and coffee), various tools, and a rifle. Every 100 miles or so, the men would stop at posts to refill their supplies.

The supplies were kept in white rolls on the handlebars and in small custom leather or metal pouches attached to the bicycle frame. U.S. National Archives and Records Administration/Wikimedia Commons.

6. They barely got any rest, and at times when they did, it was amid cacti.

The men rode 35 full days of the 41-day journey. Considering the terrain, there weren't many good places to stop and rest. They often made camp in fields of prickly pear cactus, though few men reported being poked.

Image via The Montana Experience: Stories from Big Sky Country/YouTube.

7. And, oh yeah, the water was poisonous.

Because a 2,000-mile journey on a one-speed bike isn't tricky enough, once the soldiers got to Nebraska, they were drinking from water that had dangerously high levels of alkali and even cholera.

Vapors from the dusty terrain made the men sick, too. 2nd Lt. Moss even began to hallucinate.


Image via The Montana Experience: Stories from Big Sky Country/YouTube.

8. Because they were black, the 25th were often considered second-rate soldiers, but they were anything but.

The 25th Infantry were one of four all-black infantry regiments created by Congress after the Civil War. The army moved the unit out west to help tame the wild frontier, where they picked up the name "Buffalo Soldiers" from the Cheyenne.

The men were given slow horses, rotten food, and shoddy gear for the task. Despite the miserable treatment and conditions, though, black companies had some of the lowest desertion rates of regiments out west. And between 1870 and 1898, 23 black soldiers were awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor.

Image via The Montana Experience: Stories from Big Sky Country/YouTube.

9. But when they reached St. Louis, the men received a warm welcome from the city's people.

2nd Lt. Moss and the 25th were escorted to a hotel just outside of town by a local bicycle club. Later, they performed maneuvers in a St. Louis parade, where 10,000 people came to cheer for them. Sadly, not a single military officer was there to greet them.


Image via The Montana Experience: Stories from Big Sky Country/YouTube.

The men had done it — traveling 1,900 miles in 41 days across some of the country's most punishing terrain. Moss wanted to continue the trip and travel to St. Paul, Minnesota. But he was told to return the bikes and send his men back to Montana on the train.

Despite a successful journey, the experiment was over.

The story of the 25th Infantry Bicycle Corps is one of those unique, surprising moments in U.S. history.

After the journey Boos wrote, "This hard work was too much. It could not prove anything about a bicycle and was merely a test of physical endurance of which we had quite sufficient."

120 years later, this story is about so much more than a bicycle. It's about adventure, guts, and mental and physical fortitude. Other than the all-black cast, it has all the makings of a big-budget Hollywood movie. (I kid, I kid.)

Image via The Montana Experience: Stories from Big Sky Country/YouTube.

Learn more about the 25th Infantry Bicycle Corps from historians and their descendants in this documentary.


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