“Listen up, people,” Mr. Rivera said, yep, slapping that table. “We’re going to dive right in, pick up on our discussion from last week. Did everyone do the reading?” I had. I mean, I had skimmed it while I’d been talking to Holly on the phone last night.
“Anyone at all?” Mr. Rivera pressed when no one responded.
We all swung around in our leather chairs. Genesis hadn’t shown up. In fact, I hadn’t seen her in a minute.
“All right. Well.” Mr. Rivera sounded deflated. He didn’t seem to have a plan B.
Brianna must have taken pity, because she blurted out, “I did.” The signature bun perched on top of her head wobbled.
“Wonderful! Brianna! Yes. Please tell us what you thought.” He looked like he was going to cry with happiness.
The article had been about the Little Rock Nine, a group of nine Black students who had enrolled in Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas, in 1957. I guess at first, the governor had prevented them from entering the white school. But then President Eisenhower had said yeah, those students could attend that school. The article gave background information on Brown v. Board of Education and the Supreme Court, and there was a whole sidebar on the NAACP (the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People). I got why Mr. Rivera was having us read it. Okay, so I’d done more than skim the article. Still, this wasn’t the 1950s.
Brianna leaned back in her chair. “I can be honest, right?”
“Absolutely!” Mr. Rivera was nodding all enthusiastically. He really needed to tone it down. If he wanted the students to talk, he’d better just, yeah, tone it down. That would be my advice, anyway.
“It’s ridiculous,” she said, flat. I felt totally bad for Mr. Rivera!
His face fell. “Ridiculous?”
“Literally nothing has changed.”
“Hmm. Nothing has changed.” Mr. Rivera adjusted his tie. Little globes.
“Mister! Are you gonna repeat everything I say?”
Now the tips of Mr. Rivera’s ears turned pink.
“She means the article only proves that like, segregation is the same today,” a guy named Anthony said. He had a shaved head and kept “drawing” on the table with an eraser, then wiping away what he’d drawn. Little pink pieces of eraser piled up in front of him.
“Care to expand on that?” Mr. Rivera asked, his hopeful look blooming again.
Brianna went off. “Sixty years later, and the fact is, white kids still go to white schools and Black kids go to Black schools. I mean, except us. But like, there has to be a program for it.”
Three people nodded. Including me.
“All right, all right.” Mr. Rivera stood up, pushed a finger between two slats in the blind and stared out at the parking lot. When he turned back around, he looked kind of sad, actually. Then he took off his glasses and wiped the lenses with his handkerchief for what felt like forever. “Do you all know why you’re here?” he asked at last, folding the handkerchief back up.
I could feel a speech coming on.
“At this school, I mean?” he asked.
“Yes,” Marquis said, his voice all defiant. “I know why they want some of us here, and that’s to win basketball games. Don’t even pretend it’s not like that either.”
I gaped at him. O.M.G. I hadn’t even thought of that Were some METCO kids chosen because they had game?
I glanced around. Lots of heads were nodding. Damn.
“I’m sick of this stupid school,” Ivy said, interrupting my growing outrage. “On dogs. I’m sick of dumb people asking me all kinds of dumb questions. This girl actually asked me today in bio—we’re learning about DNA and inherited traits and whatever—‘Why do you look Asian if you’re Latina?’ ”
“Interesting,” Mr. Rivera said, fully back to all eager. It was like he had only one station on his emotional radio or something.
“Nah, for real. What Marquis said is kinda right,” Biodu cut in. “I’m hip. Why don’t they bus white kids to Boston?”
“Because!” Marquis pretend shot a basketball. “They won’t win basketball games!” He laughed at his own joke, but it was like a dam had broken, cuz then the comments just sort of… took over.
“Last week a teacher accused me of copying another girl’s homework when that girl had copied MINE. Why did she just assume that I was the one copying?” Jo-Jo said.
We moaned.
“I got one,” Biodu said. “White boys using the word ‘nigga.’ Like, that ain’t your word, yo.”
More moans.
“Also,” a girl named Patricia chimed in. First time I ever heard her speak.
“Yes, Patricia?” Mr. Rivera asked.
“I’m sick of people saying I’m Spanish. Like, whatsup with all the corner stores and restaurants in Hyde Park and Roslindale advertising Spanish food and whatever?” she said. “We’re not Spanish!”
“Hold up. Just, hold up a second. What you mean?” Marquis looked all kinds of puzzled. “Yeah, you are Spanish. And I’m Black.”
Some people laughed. But not Mr. Rivera. “You bring up a great point, Patricia. Many Latinos speak Spanish, but that doesn’t mean we are Spanish.” Now a bunch of us looked all kinds of puzzled, me included. Mr. Rivera noticed. “Those of you who’ve been paying attention in history class already know this, but it’s important. The Spanish conquistadors bombarded most of Latin America at various points in history. They destroyed entire civilizations.”
“Dang,” Brianna said.
“Dang indeed.” Mr. Rivera adjusted his already-adjusted tie. “When they came over, they brought their language: Spanish. But that doesn’t mean that everyone in Latin America suddenly became Spanish. They had their own cultures and traditions and everything already in place.”
Made sense.
“And another thing—the term ‘Latinx.’ Use it more. It’s meant to be inclusive.”
“Well,” Brianna said in her flat end-of-discussion way, “I don’t know if I like it… yet.” I was glad she said that, because I admit, I wasn’t 100 percent sold on it either. “What’s the x for anyway?” she asked.
“Like I said, it’s meant to be inclusive of all people of Latin American origin or descent, no matter what gender.”
Brianna propped a foot on the edge of the table. “Okay. I can live with that.”
“Ha!” Then Mr. Rivera started explaining about how this term was an attempt to go against that old mentality of Spanish-language words having a gender—masculine or feminine. He was clearly going off on a little tangent, but it was interesting. To be honest, I’d never actually known that when I said “Spanish” for someone whose heritage was Dominican, Puerto Rican, Guatemalan… that I was wrong. I mean, all the restaurant and bodega and corner store signs in my neighborhood advertised “Spanish” food, so I never thought twice about it. In my old school, most people just said “Spanish” for anyone who spoke Spanish, regardless of where their ancestors were from. It was as if he could see the wheels turning in my brain, because Mr. Rivera looked directly at me.
“What about you, Miss Cruz? As our newest student, what has your experience here been like—in terms of race and class?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Well, to be honest…” I had a lot to say, and yet, what was the point? I thought of the cafeteria, how it was divided by groups. No one mixed. Same with a lot of my classes.
“Yes?” Mr. Rivera encouraged, like he could see inside my waffling mind.
So I let it out. “I guess I’m just… surprised that there isn’t more interaction between groups here, you know?” I thought back to my first day, spotting the huddle of METCO kids on the bleachers among the sea of white kids. Then, lunch. Same deal. I went on, “I mean, it’s one thing to have diversity or whatever, but if people from different backgrounds aren’t actually interacting, then isn’t that just like segregation all over again? Like, have you ever checked out the cafeteria at lunch?”
Marquis squinted at me. “You know what?”
I looked at him uneasily.
“That’s true,” he said. To my surprise, everyone began nodding. And I breathed again.
“All right,” Mr. Rivera said. “What Lili brings up is important. Why do you all think the cafeteria is, as she says, segregated?”
Mr. Rivera paced around the room for a long minute as no one answered. Then he clapped his hands together. I noticed he did that whenever he was about to tell us something big. Sure enough, he began. “It’s fortuitous that Liliana—sorry, Lili—brought up bringing different groups together today, because, in fact, the administration wants us all to do exactly that—to plan an assembly. An assembly of hope.”
“Huh?” I hadn’t meant to say it aloud; Brianna actually laughed, and not in a mean way.
“An assembly where different student groups will give presentations about equality and empathy.”
He was kidding, right? An assembly? Like that was going to do anything. Plus, can you spell “dorky”?
Mr. Rivera ignored the chorus of moans and groans. “We, as in the administration and teachers, want you all to present together, on anything related to METCO. Something you want to say, do, change—really, it’s in your hands. We’ve got a few weeks to pull it together—it’ll be right before winter break.”
“Wait,” I said. “Only the METCO kids? Why don’t other kids have to do presentations? See, right there! Segregation again! Why do we have to school all the white kids?”
“Yeah!” Brianna added, her voice loud, mad.
“Who says you are?” Mr. Rivera asked.
“Oh, come on,” I said.
“Okay, focus, guys, focus. This is a great opportunity. People can’t know things they don’t know. So, you may call it ‘schooling,’ but I call it a great opportunity. Let’s own it. And discuss what it is you all could do.”
“Can we have a bikini contest?” Marquis asked.
Mr. Rivera didn’t miss a beat. “Well, that depends, Marquis. Are you going to wear one?”
“Hell naw!”
Everyone started hooting “Marquis! Marquis!” until the bell rang. I thought Mr. Rivera would be all mad, but he was watching us, this goofy smile on his face. Like a dad.
* * *
On my way out of the meeting, Dustin sent a text. Walk u to art after school? I wrote back: . Then, in the hall, I spotted him. No, not Dustin. Rayshawn! He was back! Getting fist bumps from every direction. One girl asked if she could give him a hug. Of course he said yes. He was in midhug when he caught my eye. I raised my chin ever so slightly, and he returned the gesture. For real: I had really missed him.
* * *
The countdown until winter break began, and the school totally got its Christmas on—and Hanukkah, and Kwanzaa. All kinds of decorations filled the lobby; a regular UN of festive. But, yeah, festive. And yeah, we needed an idea for our assembly presentation ASAP. I skipped my lunches with Holly to brainstorm in Mr. Rivera’s office: a project on busing, a PowerPoint on the history of METCO, a panel of METCO alumni. No, no, no. It wasn’t that those ideas were bad, but they were all kind of… safe. Kind of—dull, dull, dull. I wanted to do something that had energy, that would actually put people on the spot, people who weren’t all that used to being on the spot. Like, wake them up, not put them to sleep. What that was, I had no idea. Yet.
One day as I was rushing toward Mr. Rivera’s office, Holly caught my arm. “Hey, stranger,” she said with her bright grin.
“Hey.” I gave her a hug. It felt like I hadn’t seen her in forever. I sort of hadn’t.
“Where are you headed?” she asked. I knew she knew the answer. I’d already told her about the METCO meetings.
“Yo, Lili!” Brianna called from the stairwell. Yeah, we talked now. We weren’t going to get matching nose rings or whatever, but we were cool. I know. Stranger things have happened, right?
I looked to Holly. “Hey, we’re still working on that assembly stuff I told you about. Call you later?” Holly looked hurt. I could see it in her eyes. I felt so bad, but I really had to go. I shoved the feeling down as I caught up with Brianna.
“Okaaaay,” I heard Holly say, and I felt even worse.
* * *
Mr. Rivera told us he’d been talking to Mrs. Davila about the assembly, and she had some ideas, so we were taking a “field trip” to the art department. There, she had laid out a half-dozen posters she’d printed out. One, in black-and-white, was of a civil rights activist named Audre Lorde raising her hands in the air. The quote above her read: “Without community, there is no liberation.” Beside that poster were ones of Dolores Huerta, Martin Luther King Jr., and Cesar Chavez. That last one read: “Preservation of one’s own culture does not require contempt or disrespect for other cultures.”
I paused, read it over again. I thought of the meme about Rayshawn. How Genesis’s teacher hinted that Gen might need a scholarship. Then, truth, I thought about how I had judged Westburg kids before even coming to this school. I’d judged… Holly… before I’d even met her! I looked back at the first poster, an idea brewing. Community. Culture. But how could we get people to, you know, talk? That’s what METCO was ultimately trying to do—integrate. Yeah, I’d read the pamphlet, remember? But was that really possible?
I glanced at the clock. Our time was almost up. “I had a thought,” I called out. “What if we run a slideshow of posters and quotes, and pass around microphones so people can respond?”
Brianna pursed her lips, thinking. “Hmm.” Then she nodded. “Not bad. Lay in some music in the background, too.”
“I’m cool with that,” Ivy said.
“I’ll take pictures of these, and I bet we can find lots more online,” Brianna said. As she pulled out her phone, I sent a Snapchat photo of our art room to Jade. She would kill for a space like this. She immediately pinged me back. Girl. I'd go to school on the WEEKEND if our art room looked like that.
Not that Jade let anything keep her from painting. Just the week before, she’d bought paintbrushes from the Dollar Store to paint a mural in her bedroom. It was cool. At Jade’s school you couldn’t exactly borrow paint supplies. And—whoa—I’d just thought of my old school as Jade’s… not mine.
As I reached the door, I paused. I could go do math homework, or I could channel my best friend. So I swiveled. In the opposite direction. The opposite direction being the direction of the Writing Center. Signing in at the front desk, I could feel someone watching me. I finished putting in the date and time and looked up.
“Hello, Lili. I’m surprised to see you here.” Mrs. Grew! She looked like she was on her way out.
Wait—was that an insult? I studied her face while saying, “Oh, yeah… I decided to check out the Writing Center after all. And you said we could rewrite one assignment for a better grade.”
“And you’re smart to take advantage of the opportunity,” she said with a grin.
“Yup.”
She grinned again. But it wasn’t sarcastic. She looked maybe something like happy or proud or just… satisfied.
“Well, enjoy!” she said. “I look forward to reading your rewrite.” And she swept out the door.
I settled into a cubicle and pulled out my pages about the road trip. Almost immediately, a teacher called my name from the sign-up on the clipboard.
“Oh, hi. I’m Lili,” I said, picking up my essay and walking over.
“Great to meet you. I’m Mr. Hall and I teach senior seminar. Let’s sit over here and get started.” He looked younger than a lot of other teachers. His hair looked windswept, and with his ruddy complexion he made you think he’d just stepped off a sailboat. But he smiled with his eyes, and he wore an old-school pocket protector, which made me like him, actually.
We sat at a round wooden table. I held out my essay and braced myself as he read, waiting for him to shake his head and say, “Tsk-tsk.” I could tell he was speed-reading by the way his eyes darted across the paper. “Ha,” he said at one point. I just sat on my hands, feeling all kinds of nervous.
Then he passed back the paper. “This sounds like a really fabulous trip.”
“Thanks?” I laid the essay on the table and used the side of my hand to iron out the wrinkles.
“Oh, we won’t need that anymore,” Mr. Hall said.
“We won’t?” Wow, it was that bad?
“No.” He reached over for a blank piece of printer paper, laid it down horizontally, and drew a line across the middle. “Tell me about your trip again, from beginning to end.”
What? But I did. As I talked, he wrote. He filled out a timeline with basic events.
“Okay, now this is what we call the front story. The main events. But let’s figure out the best order in which to tell this amazing story of yours.”
Huh. It had never occurred to me that I didn’t have to stay in chronological order. We reordered the parts of my trip, starting with the most interesting moment (when we ran out of gas on the highway in the middle of a rainstorm in Tennessee) and filled in the timeline from there.
The bell rang, and man, I wished I’d had a double block so we could keep working. I wanted to hug Mr. Hall, but that would probably have been weird. I rushed to my next class, making a mental note to take Mr. Hall’s seminar my senior year.
28
Because the assembly had been scheduled for the Wednesday before winter break—to “finish the year right” the principal had said—the Saturday before, Brianna and I met up at the Boston Public Library to do more research. I dragged Jade with me. We sat in the back by the space heater, sneak-sipping AriZona iced teas because the librarians were mad strict.
While we hunted for more quotes, Biodu and Marquis and—yeah!—Rayshawn and some of the other guys looked up images of walls throughout history at Biodu’s house. We shared them all on one Google Doc. I found a really cool book called This Bridge Called My Back—maybe my next miniature would be a bridge!—and even though we were supposed to be looking for material for the METCO presentation, I copied down a few quotes for myself, too. They gave me an idea for a poem.
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