The death of Laurence King – killed by a junior high classmate in Oxnard, California in 2008 – highlights a big problem: If you're a teacher, how should you deal with homophobia in the classroom? One group is using theater to teach teachers how to counteract sexual bias in Southern California classrooms.

According to the Gay, Lesbian and Straight Education Network, by the time they get to high school, ninety percent of lesbian, gay, bisexual, or transgendered students have experienced physical, verbal or sexual harassment at school. Those students are more likely to skip school out of fear, don’t do as well academically as their straight peers, and are less likely to graduate.

Student actor Drew Cameron says, “hopefully teachers are watching this and thinking, here’s some students that are putting on a scene for us. Here are some students who are showing us how to be better teachers. “

… better teachers in a school where every student feels safe to focus on the job of learning.

A high schooler struggles with changes she sees in herself due to stress.

Radio Rootz Reporter explores the role schools play when dealing with cyber bullying.

HOST: This I Believe has received thousands of essays from young people. Today we hear from one of them. Kamaal Majeed (kah-MAHL mah-JSHEED) is a junior at Waltham High School in Massachusetts and wrote his essay in his English Class last year. He loves studying language, and intends to use his knowledge to help people understand one another better. And -- as with most of his personal decisions -- Majeed is not likely to knocked off course by the judgments or expectations of others, as you'll hear in his essay for This I Believe. MAJEED: "Why don?t you 'act black'?" Since my middle school years, I've been asked this question more than any other. It seems to me that too many people have let society program into their brains what should be expected of me, a black person, before ever interacting with me. But I believe in being who I am, not who others want me to be. On my first day of high school, going into math class, two of my classmates pointed and laughed at me. I initially thought my fly was open, or that something was stuck in my teeth. But as I took my seat, I heard one of the students whisper, "Why is a black person taking honors?" So my fly wasn't open. An honors level class had simply been joined by a student whose skin was an unsettling shade of brown. Many people think my clothes should be big enough for me to live in, or expect me to listen exclusively to "black music." In seventh grade, a group of my peers fixed their cold stares on my outfit: cargo shorts and a plain, fitting t-shirt. They called out to me, "Go get some 'gangsta' clothes, white boy." In one of my Spanish classes, as part of a review exercise, the teacher asked me, "Te gusta mas, la musica de rap o rock?" "Do you like rap music or rock music more?" I replied, "La musica de rock." The look of shock on my classmates' faces made me feel profoundly alienated I am now in my junior year of high school. I still take all honors courses. My wardrobe still consists solely of clothes that are appropriate to my proportions. My music library spans from rock to pop to techno, and almost everything in between. When it comes to choosing my friends, I am still colorblind. I continue to do my best work in school in order to reach my goals; and yet, when I look in the mirror, I still see skin of that same shade of brown. My skin color has done nothing to change my personality, and my personality has done nothing to change my skin color. I believe in being myself. I believe that I -- not any stereotype -- should define who I am and what actions I take in life. In high school, popularity often depends on your willingness to follow trends. And I've been told that it doesn't get much easier going into adulthood. But the only other option is to sacrifice my individuality for the satisfaction and approval of others. Sure, this can be appealing, since choosing to keep my self-respect intact has made me unpopular and disliked at times, with no end to that in sight. But others' being content with me is not nearly as important as my being content with myself.

Cristel Martinez came to America from the Dominican Republic with a dream to become a music producer. But the only music she hears in school, says the eighteen-year-old senior, is the sound of violence.

Jeff's reputation as a bully was something of a legend in the coastal town where he grew up.  Eight years later, and with a chance to start over again, Jeff knows why he bullied...and why it might still work for him.  Can you grow out of bullying?  And what would it take for bullying to seem less useful in the first place?

This piece was produced by Jones Franzel with funding from a Transom Donor Grant.  It is presented by Blunt Youth Radio's Incarcerated Youth Speak Out Project.