“It just seems like… Like, what’s the point? No one’s going to take us seriously anyway.”
“Facts, bro,” Marquis said.
“Facts!” Rayshawn echoed. Others nodded.
“Except for,” Marquis quickly added, “we did do a lot of work. And we did help you find pictures of famous walls in history.” He made a mic-drop motion with his hand. “And not for nothing, on the Google Doc, I edited the captions you wrote. I’m just sayin’, so…”
“Yeah, but that was after we’d found quotes,” Ivy said. “And not for nothing, if you added the pictures, then you should have written the captions in the first place. We only did it because y’all had left that part blank.”
“True,” I said.
“Yeah, but y’all had them in no real order,” Marquis hit back.
“And don’t forget—I hooked up all the sound equipment with that IT dude,” Biodu added.
“Also true,” I said.
Marquis raised his voice. “Aaaaand some of the captions were in full sentences when others were just like, notes with no punctuation.”
“He said ‘punctuation’! ” Brianna exclaimed.
Ivy cracked a smile. “I’m hip. It was a lot of work. And on the real, I learned some stuff. But what if they just laugh us off the stage?”
I swallowed hard. What was up? We had to do this. All of us. Ivy included. Cold feet? Okay, I got it. But… I was more and more convinced that if we didn’t say anything, then nothing would change. If we didn’t try to change it, we’d… we’d kinda be saying we didn’t matter, even to ourselves! Mr. Rivera was pacing the room; even he looked a little anxious. But no way. The least I could do—the least we could do—was step up to a bunch of ignorant students who thought memes like the ones Rayshawn and I got were funny. And, why not try to connect with the other kids—like Rosie!—who probably had nothing to do with that garbage and thought it was just as stupid. And… not for nothing, we had to do the assembly. We were just showing our weakness if we didn’t. All this I wanted to say to my METCO people, but all I could manage to get out was, “Guys. We got this.” Eloquent, right?
Ivy loosened her top bun. A few thick seconds of silence passed—and I really wasn’t sure which direction we’d go.
Then: “Aite,” from Biodu.
“Aite,” from Marquis. “I mean, like I said. It was some work. So we might as well go through with it.”
“Aite,” from Brianna.
And finally, “Aite,” from Ivy, and the others.
Phew! “So—this is totally last minute, but I have a new idea that could be cool for after the slideshow.” I held out the book. Mr. Rivera raised an eyebrow to say, Oh, I see you helped yourself to my little library. But in a good way.
So I went on, opening to the Post-it page. “This seems really cool. We call up groups by race and ethnicity and then we ask them all three questions: ‘What is it that you want us to know about you in terms of race and culture? What is it that you never want to hear again? How can we be allies and assist you?’ Soooo, what do you think?”
The room was quiet for like three fat seconds, and then Marquis said, “That’s dope.”
“Yeah, it’s, like, universal and personal, at the same time,” Rayshawn added.
And I swear, we all exhaled. The missing piece! Until Mr. Rivera asked, “There’s one last thing left to figure out. Who will emcee?”
Everyone looked at ME.
I shook my head fast, hard.
Brianna leaned forward. “Why not, Lili?” Dorito Girl—my cheerleader?
“Talking in public, in an auditorium—it’s not my— Just, no.”
“Look, you said it before. We got this,” Rayshawn propped. “Means you, too, got this.”
“Truth.” Marquis smirked.
Truth. Getting the truth out there. I took a deep breath. Truth, my dad had offered to work for free as a janitor so I could go to a good school. Truth, my mom had cleaned other people’s toilets so I could grow up in this country. Truth, my parents had learned English and still taught us both languages. Truth, I was scared as shit. But I had this.
* * *
And in what seemed like a blink, the assembly was starting. It ended up having a whack name—“Westburg High for Diversity”—because that’s all the administration would approve. Inside the packed auditorium a guy sitting a row ahead of me took a piece of notebook paper and rolled it like a blunt. The kid next to him cracked up. Meanwhile, we played the slideshow with quotes and pictures of famous civil rights leaders and photos of the walls while everyone settled into their seats.
After the last slide, the principal said a few words about the “disappointing online activity of late,” and the school chorus sang a few songs—the national anthem and “I See the Light.” The dean talked about our school moving on from these “episodes” to better race relations. He also read some official blah blah blah about how “The Westburg School District is dedicated to a policy of nondiscrimination and to the provision of equity in its educational programs, services, and activities for all students and employees.” The dean droned on and on. The assembly—a few songs, a boringville speech. Even I could do better than that. I could. I had to!
And finally it was our turn. The audience went silent, spooky silent, as Rayshawn, Anthony, Brianna, all of us walked onstage. I veered, mouth suddenly like the Sahara, to the podium. Adjusting the microphone, I tapped on it three times—why do people even do that?—cleared my throat. I could see Dustin out in the audience—he was with some of his buddies—but I didn’t see Steve. I forced myself to stop looking at him and caught Holly’s gaze. She gave me a thumbs-up and looked so mama-bear proud I almost laughed.
“Good afternoon, Westburg,” I said, not loud enough. I pulled the mic closer, the flare of confidence of a few moments ago withering. I wasn’t sure I could do this. I stood, blinking, clutching the mic. Then this voice, this voice in my head full of attitude kicked in: You know what’s hard? Your dad trying to cross the Mexican border, being turned back again and again, just to get back to you and your mom and your brothers. That’s hard, girl. Your mom holding it down while working to get him home. That’s hard. This is a cakewalk. Time to man up. No—girl up. Time to do this.
Holly must have sensed that I needed a boost, because she started clapping. A few others joined her—Peter from my French class, and Paula from Creative Writing. I gave a nod, and I did this thing.
“My name is Lili—Liliana Cruz.” The microphone screeched, and I gave it a flick. “So, some of you may know us up here as ‘the METCO kids,’ but today we wanted to share some things you may not know. Today, rather than show you all some lame-ass— Sorry!”
Students laughed. A few teachers scowled, but a few laughed, too.
I can do this.
I went on.
“Okay, so. With, you know, all that’s happened recently ONLINE”—I coughed, deliberately—“there’s a lot of tension out there, and in here—in this school. Just this week—” I hesitated, feeling heat flaming my cheeks. “Someone posted a meme of my head on a piñata with the word ‘wetback’ above it.” There were mad gasps. Wait—some people didn’t know? One teacher in the aisle covered her mouth. I went on. “But rather than show you all a boring presentation with statistics or whatever, we thought it’d be more interesting to share some things about us that you might not know. That’s all. But we hope it’s enough to get us all thinking and talking in a real way. And when we’re done, we’d like to invite some of you to come up onstage and speak for yourselves.”
And… I couldn’t believe it—people clapped. Not just Holly but, like, lots of people. I saw Holly’s friend Lauren. She had a look of chagrin on her face and even gave me a little wave.
Focus, Liliana! “Okay, I’ll hand it over to Mr. Rivera now,” I said, and passed him the mic.
Mr. Rivera faced us fifteen METCO students. “If you identify as Black, please step forward,” he called out. Like in a game of Mother May I, ten
kids moved forward.
“Thank you. Now I am going to ask you three questions. Please answer honestly. First question: What is it that you want us to know about you in terms of race and culture?”
Oh man, I hoped this was going to work. PS, Mr. Rivera was wearing a tie with the Puerto Rican flag on it. Props!
Rayshawn went first. With all the confidence, he said, “I live with my mother and my grandmother. But we’re not poor. My mother is a nurse. My grandmother is too.”
If it had been quiet before, it was like someone had hit the mute button now.
Then Ivy spoke. “I have a cousin in law school. And I have another cousin in prison.”
Someone else: “We don’t all love fried chicken. I’m a vegetarian!”
Everyone laughed at that.
Someone else: “We want a decent education just like everyone else. And we deserve it too.”
Mr. Rivera leaned back into the microphone. “Thank you. Thank you. Next question. What is it that you never want to hear again?”
This time my friends launched right in.
“Oh, you’re Black, so you must know someone who’s a dealer, right?”
“Is your mom a crackhead?”
“Why don’t Black people know how to swim?”
“If you get into an Ivy, it’ll only be because of affirmative action.”
“Is it true what they say about Black guys?”
The whole auditorium erupted at this, kids yelling “Oh shoot” and “He went there!” and “Oh my God!”
“Moving on,” Mr. Rivera said, loud. “Last question. How can we be allies and assist you?”
METCO stepped up.
“Please ask questions, don’t just make assumptions.”
“There’s more to us than our hair. And no, you can’t touch it.”
“Get to know me, not just the color of my skin.”
“Maybe come to my neighborhood once in a while.”
“Teachers, please don’t constantly ask if I need a pass to use the computer lab. You know, I do have a MacBook at home.”
At that, a few adults shifted in their seats.
“Thank you,” Mr. Rivera said, that eyebrow of his raised high, high, high. “You can all step back. Now, if you identify as Latinx, please step forward.”
There were fewer of us. Seven to be exact. Yep, some were mixed. I knew I had to participate and all, and I knew what I wanted to say, but I wasn’t sure I’d have the guts to go through with it.
“All right. Same first question. What is it that you want us to know about you in terms of race and culture?” Mr. Rivera asked.
Well, Brianna had no problem speaking up. “You know what,” she said, raising a finger. “There’s a lot more to me than my accent, and my nails, and my attitude. A whole lot. I love snowboarding. And kids. I want to be a preschool teacher maybe. Or a veterinarian.” She paused. “That’s all.”
“Thanks, Brianna. Who’s next?” Mr. Rivera asked.
“I’m an only child. Shocker, right?”
“I don’t speak Spanish. I would love to study Japanese in college, actually.”
“I love speaking Spanish, but I don’t love being asked to help you on your Spanish homework.”
“My parents are legal citizens.”
At the last comment, I almost choked. The stage became a blur. But… I had to do this.
“So, I was born here… but… my parents weren’t,” I said. “They’re from Central America—one from Guatemala, the other from El Salvador. And they aren’t criminals or rapists. They moved to the United States for better opportunities—you know, health, education, jobs. And…” I shut my eyes tight, and when I opened them again, I blurted out, “And… four months ago my father was deported.”
I searched the rows of teens and teachers, braced for some dumb-ass comment. Crickets. Then, I swear I heard a couple of sniffles. Maybe it was that teacher in the aisle.
Weird thing was… I felt… free. Yeah, it would be out there now. Not crammed in me. Yeah.
“Thank you,” Mr. Rivera said. His eyes looked—wet? Wait, was he crying? He blinked hard. “Next: What is it that you never want to hear again?”
Genesis raised a finger. “That I need to go back to where I come from. Because I’m from my mother’s womb, and that would be really uncomfortable.” That brought a few hoots from the crowd.
After an awkward pause, Brianna chimed in with, “Oh, and I am so over people asking me if I eat burritos every night for dinner. I’m Dominican! We don’t even like burritos!”
Out came: “That I’m abusing the system. That my family and I are on welfare.”
“Go back to Mexico.”
“Go back to Boston.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Rivera said when we were done.
It was done.
Wow.
It had happened… and it had been… okay?
Oh, wait. Mr. Rivera forgot to ask the third question. I was going to remind him, when out of nowhere a kid in the audience stood up. Steve. Really? And he yelled out, “Hey, Lili! Aren’t you going to ask some white kids to come up onstage? You know, white lives matter too!”
We all looked at each other wide-eyed, then at Mr. Rivera.
Steve pressed it. “I mean, you’re all about racial equality or whatever. So why don’t you have some of us come up there too? You did say you were going to do that.”
“Yeah, and what about Asians?” another kid called out. I looked at the crowd to see who it was.
“And Native Americans?” someone else added.
“And Muslims?”
Mr. Rivera tapped the microphone. “All right, settle down. Settle down.”
“You’re right!” I called back. Mr. Rivera turned to me in surprise.
I mean, technically Steve was right. They were all right. And if Steve had been patient, he would have realized that was where we were headed next. “Let’s start with you, Steve.”
To my surprise, Steve made his way down the aisle and walked up onto the stage.
“Anyone else want to join him?” I asked, breathing hard. Mr. Rivera called to me, but I ignored him. I couldn’t help but glance at Dustin, who was literally shrinking in his seat.
A few more white kids actually did join Steve onstage, about ten.
“Same questions for you, then.” Mr. Rivera was tugging on his tie, hard. “What is it that you want us to know about you in terms of race and culture?”
A girl stepped forward before Steve had even opened his mouth. “Well, I guess I want others to know that white people can’t be lumped into one big group the same way that people of color can’t be, or, like, shouldn’t be.”
Another girl spoke up. “I am white… but I can dance.”
Steve then announced, “I am white and proud, and don’t think others should feel bad about being white. You can’t control what color you are, so what’s the big deal?”
Mr. Rivera’s eyes literally bugged.
“I know what’s he’s saying,” Matt, from my math class, said. “Like, we’re not slave owners or whatever. So why should we be blamed for like, all of history or whatever?”
Some students in the audience actually clapped.
“Next question,” Mr. Rivera said instead. “What is it that you never want to hear again?”
“Oh! I got one!” Steve practically yelled. Apparently it was now the Steve Show. “You’re a white boy. You can’t play ball. Um… yes, I can.” He raised his arms in the air as if to hit a three-pointer. Oh, give me a freakin’ break. Brianna was rolling her eyes.
I could feel a shift in the crowd.
“Others?” Mr. Rivera asked.
Another girl onstage raised her hand. “We’re not all rich.”
Then another guy added, “And some of us actually want to learn about, you know, other cultures, but it’s not always easy to like, just ask someone, ‘Hey, tell me about your culture.’ ” A few people laughed, but it was a laugh of like, support. Agreement. And yeah, I cou
ld see his point.
Then Mr. Rivera called out, “Okay, okay. And the final question. How can we be allies and assist you?”
One kid was totally ready for this one. He said, “Well, like Steve said earlier, it’s not our fault we’re Caucasian. So why do we have to stand back and let… other kids… get scholarships and full rides to college when our parents and families have worked wicked hard to get us here too? How is that fair?”
This provoked an actual cheer. I looked around uneasily. This was… not going the way I’d imagined.
Mr. Rivera pressed him further. “Yes, but how can we be allies then, and assist you?”
“Well,” Steve said. “There could be scholarships for white kids too.”
Brianna and Rayshawn yelled simultaneously, “There are!”
That’s when someone in the audience yelled out, “White lives matter! White lives matter!” And someone jumped in with “Build the wall! Build the wall!” Then—no way, but yeah—others joined in, and it became a chant. “White lives matter! Build the wall!”
Teachers were pointing at students, telling them to quiet down. When they didn’t, the teachers began telling them they were getting detention. But it seemed to only make everyone more amped.
And then, a pencil flew past my head, just missing my eye. I was too shocked to move. A pen followed it, clattering onto the stage, then another pencil, an eraser, and then other objects I couldn’t make out because now I was moving, covering my head and ducking behind the podium, almost bumping into Rayshawn, who was doing the same thing. Students were bolting up from their seats, crowding the aisles. The teachers and administrators were shouting “Stay seated” and “Stop that right now or else.” No one was listening. Next thing I knew, people were being spit on. Insults were flying faster than the pencils and crumpled papers. Someone actually chucked a textbook at the stage!
Now the METCO kids were shouting back. More textbooks came flying. One hit Rayshawn on the side of his head, and he went wild, jumping off the stage. I peeked out from behind the podium. The whole student body was just going cray-cray. Kids shouting, “Black lives matter!” and “White lives matter! and “All lives matter!” They were throwing punches, dodging punches, screaming, crying. The auditorium was total chaos. The teachers, shouting and threatening, were being totally ignored.
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