Many of Regan’s colleagues were vocally unsympathetic toward LGBT students. One teacher, telling Regan about a flamboyantly gay student in her class, whined, “I’m just so over it. Can’t he keep it to himself? I mean, we all know, okay? Get over yourself.” Several teachers spoke about a transgendered student “like she’s weird and deserves to be ridiculed by her peers,” Regan said. Recently she had walked by a classroom in which students were screaming “faggot.” Regan asked them to stop. Then she saw that there was another teacher in the room, sitting at her computer, ignoring the students’ behavior.
Regan hoped she could use her position as the head of Johnson’s all-faculty Diversity Committee to start the GSA. At the next meeting, the group debated how to utilize a main bulletin board to demonstrate the school’s diversity.
“We could put up flags for each country that’s represented here,” one teacher said, as if suggesting a completely original idea. The other committee members nodded.
“Maybe we could put up a map and use pushpins to show where different teachers are from,” another teacher suggested.
“Well, we’d have to revise that because we can’t have pins readily available to students,” an administrator interjected. “That could be dangerous.”
Regan wondered if she was the only committee member who thought these ideas were boring. “That’s great,” she said, “but diversity is more than just national origin. Maybe we could do something for religious diversity and family diversity.”
“I would be uncomfortable doing anything religious,” a teacher said. “If we’re going to put up symbols of different religions, then what about the kids who are Satanists? Do we have to include them?”
Regan thought that argument was ludicrous, but before she could say anything, the administrator spoke up again. “I would be really wary of putting anything on a bulletin board that deals with religion.”
Surprised that the group considered religious diversity to be controversial, Regan didn’t fight the point. “What about family diversity?” she suggested. “Adoption, single moms, two dads . . .” The group ignored her, instead resuming discussion of the map.
This committee isn’t going to help Johnson at all, Regan thought. She kept quiet for the rest of the meeting.
Not long afterward, when Regan was walking past the main office, she did a double take. Right there was a prominent bulletin board devoted to the school’s Christian fellowship. The bulletin board featured images of a cross and a Bible.
ELI, VIRGINIA | THE NERD
Eli’s mother had been urging him for about a month to go shopping with her at JCPenney. “It’s seventy-five percent off!” she said. “We can get you some winter clothes and clothes for college!”
Eli reluctantly agreed, although he expected such an outing to be a disaster. The last time they had gone out, she had insisted on taking him to the optometrist to tighten his glasses because, she told the doctor, “he’s always pushing them up.” But he liked his glasses the way they were.
Eli browsed through a row of T-shirts without designs or logos. He picked up solid blue, yellow, and orange tees and continued wandering around the section. Hesitantly, he approached a rack of plaid button-down shirts, their sleeves already rolled fashionably. He mostly wore only plain T-shirts, but maybe, he thought, I can try stepping out of the box. He picked up a black, white, and gray plaid shirt and headed to the fitting room.
Eli methodically went through the solids, briefly looking down and checking the fit for each one. When he tried on the plaid button-down, he left the top button undone over his white undershirt and peeked in the mirror. His eyes widened. Hey, this looks good! he thought. Shopping for clothes that gave him a thrill—this was new to Eli. Encouraged, he decided to pick out a second plaid button-down, or perhaps even another clothing item he’d never worn before.
As Eli sauntered out of the dressing room, he saw his mother riffling through shirts sporting logos. “What did you find?” she asked.
Eli proudly held up his discoveries. His mother hesitated, then heaved a disappointed sigh. “You couldn’t find anything else?” she said. “Honey, orange is not a guys’ color. Don’t you want to mix it up? We could go to Hollister if you want.”
“Hollister is the last place I want to go.”
His mother looked frustrated. “Then tell me: Where do you like to shop?”
“No, let’s just go. ’Cause obviously this never works out.” Eli’s confidence in the button-down had faltered. They went home without purchasing a thing.
Just before dinner that evening, Eli’s mother told him, “You can’t go to college wearing [your usual] shirts! You need normal clothes.”
Eli already was counting down the days until college. He had decided to attend Westcoast University even if he received other acceptance letters in the spring. Through a Facebook group for incoming freshmen, he had begun to meet some of his future classmates. He was pleased with his efforts to chat with them. He already had so many questions: “What should I bring to class the first week?” “How early should I get to class?” “How am I going to meet people?” He knew better than to post these on Facebook.
ELI’S CHALLENGE
When I told Eli about the challenge, he said he was “kinda overwhelmed.” He liked the idea of it, but he had already given up on having a satisfying social life in high school, and therefore he wanted to get through the remaining months “as quickly as possible.” He didn’t want to do a challenge that involved interacting with people at school, whom he assumed had already written him off. For an outside-of-school challenge that would provide him with skills he could use in school, I suggested that he take an improv class—he could take it in a different town, with adults, if he liked—to help him with his speaking insecurity and his fear of being laughed at.
“Ohhh my goodness,” he said. “It’s improv. And I’m kinda worried about the convenience of it.” He was busy with schoolwork, his job as a restaurant busboy, Academic Bowl, and Model UN, and he was already studying ahead of time for AP exams he would take in May.
A few days later, Eli got back to me. “Okay, I’ve thought a little,” he said. “Could the challenge be more internal, without the need to really involve anyone else?”
When I said no—the point was to change perceptions, not the person—Eli declined to attempt a challenge because he didn’t think his social life could change.
JOY, CALIFORNIA | THE NEW GIRL
In PE, Joy noticed that a group of three Mexican girls frequently shot dirty looks at her. Having never spoken to them before, Joy ignored them. Within a week, the girls began eyeballing Joy resolutely as she crossed the street to school in the mornings. Between class periods, they followed her down the sidewalks, calling her a bitch, ridiculing her looks and clothing. Joy IMed a friend in Jamaica.
Joy: yea man, sum ppl want 2 beat me up
Friend: hahahaha lmao
Joy: big man ting (a Jamaican phrase meaning “seriously”)
Friend: lmao
Joy: sum mexican gyal ah gang ah dem
Friend: wow yow avoid dem dem crazy. Yea man Joy be careful . . .
A few days later, Joy was running the mile in PE when she accidentally brushed past one of the Mexican girls. “Sorry!” Joy said as she continued her run.
“Fucking bitch!” one of them yelled back. On each of Joy’s subsequent laps, the girls repeated the phrase.
That afternoon, Joy worried that the girls were going to come after her. She wouldn’t be able to handle all three of them at once. She called her stepfather and asked him to pick her up. After school, Joy stood outside of the school office, waiting for her stepdad, when she saw the three girls. They stared daggers at her, as if gearing up to attack.
Joy adopted her best unperturbed expression. You’re wasting your time, she thought, feeling sorry for the girls. Someday, we’re going to be at very different places in life. They don’t know any better how to behave. What can I do, say, “Let’s hug?” I do
n’t think so. She smirked.
“What the fuck is she looking at?” said one of the girls.
“I don’t know. Fucking bitch,” another said.
The girls lurked while Joy waited patiently for her ride. When her stepfather arrived, he insisted that she report the girls to the administration.
The vice principal was sympathetic. “Joy, I’m sorry to hear this is happening to you,” Mr. Cruz said. “You’re a nice person. I don’t see why you should have issues with anyone.”
“I’ve never spoken to the girls; they’ve just decided I’m a target,” Joy replied. “I understand if I was rude to them I would deserve that treatment, but they don’t know me. And to be standing and watching me, I don’t rate that.” Joy used the Jamaican term for respect.
“I need you to write a report,” Mr. Cruz said. “Bring it to me first thing in the morning and we’ll have this dealt with. Citygrove has a zero-tolerance policy for indiscipline. We believe every student should be comfortable.”
Joy filed the form in her binder. “Thank you, Mr. Cruz. I hope this will all be over soon.”
At the end of the week, Joy was in PE again, waiting for the teacher to take attendance. The leader of the mean girls stood nearby, talking loudly to a classmate. “I’m gonna fuck up the bitch that’s talking shit about me to the principal’s office,” she said. She shot Joy a piercing stare. “I’ll deal with her ass after class.”
When Joy changed into her gym clothes, the three girls glared at her again. Joy grew uneasy. Was today going to be the day they tried something? As they left the locker room, Joy whispered to Anisha about what the girls were doing. One of the girls bumped Anisha roughly on her way out the door. “You have to tell [the teacher]!” Anisha whispered back.
Outside, the girls called Joy degrading names, trying to provoke her. Other girls gathered closer, circling as if they expected a fight. Joy had never been in a fight before. These girls weren’t playing, and Joy was too skinny to put up much of a defense. The PE teacher led the group to the track for their weekly mile run. Joy slowed down and waited for everyone else to pass her so that she could talk softly to the teacher.
In sixth period, campus security called her to Mr. Cruz’s office. Just outside the doorway, Joy realized that the other girls were already in the room. She could hear them laughing. When Joy walked in, the girls, who sat in a row facing the vice principal, smiled at her for show.
Joy sat in the empty chair next to Mr. Cruz’s desk, facing the girls. Mr. Cruz told them that if they continued to harass Joy, there would be consequences, which could range from suspension to a school transfer. The girls’ leader avoided Joy’s eyes, instead chomping on gum and humming what sounded like a Spanish song.
Mr. Cruz told Joy that Mia, one of the girls, had gone through a similar ordeal at the beginning of the school year. Another girl had threatened to beat her up. Surprised, Joy glanced at Mia, who squirmed.
“I understand,” Mia whispered to Mr. Cruz. “I won’t sweat her no more.”
The other two girls slouched and hummed, narrowing their eyes at Joy. Mr. Cruz sent the bullies out of the room. He turned to Joy. “I spoke to them and they say they understand,” he told her. “I told them you’re a nice girl who’s never done anything to upset them.”
“Why did they start this whole thing?” Joy asked. “I’ve never even spoken to them.”
“They said they thought that you’re too sophisticated, intelligent, and professional to talk to and because of that, they thought you hated on them.”
“How can I possibly hate on someone I don’t know? They shouldn’t be so quick to judge.”
Mr. Cruz ended the meeting by telling Joy that if anything else happened, she should tell him immediately and the girls would be suspended.
When Joy left the room, the other girls were in the main office. Two of them were still humming and laughing. Joy made eye contact with Mia. She looked sad. “Bye,” she mouthed to Joy.
Joy pitied the girls. She understood them. When Joy was about nine, back when her father was abusing her, she suffered from low self-esteem. “So I used to be mean to others and tease them,” she explained. “I was angry. I couldn’t understand why other people could live happily yet I had to deal with my father’s abuse. For a young child, that’s a lot to take, so other people were my targets. I wasn’t the best person I could be, not living up to my potential completely. I wasn’t going to become another woman who was bitter because life broke her down, so basically I built my strength and changed myself. Most bullies were hurt at some point and don’t want people to see that they’re weak.”
AT CITYGROVE, A WOMAN gave a presentation and held a workshop for a select group of students about Rachel’s Challenge. Rachel’s Challenge was a program encouraging a “chain reaction of kindness and compassion,” based on the writing of Rachel Scott, the first student killed at the Columbine school shootings in Colorado. As Joy listened to the presentation, she wept soundlessly. She remembered an incident she hadn’t thought about in a long time.
It had happened when Joy was twelve, on a sunny June day in Jamaica. Joy remembered that the sky was so clear that every outline—of trees, people, blades of grass—was sharp and clean. About five minutes after school let out for the day, Joy was laughing with friends beneath a shady tree near the soccer field when they heard a pop. “Probably some eediat bwoy wid im foolishness, yo dem need fi stop, in di name ah Jesus,” said one of Joy’s friends.
Then there was another pop, this one louder, closer, and followed by screams. Concerned, Joy and her friends walked toward the school building. Students were pouring out of their classes toward the buses. Then—pop—again. Screams. Hundreds of students scurried like ants in every direction. “Him have a gun, him have a gun, yo run, yo run!” someone shouted.
Joy lost sight of her friends and ran around frantically looking for them. Someone from Drama Club saw Joy sprinting toward the drama building stairs and pushed her down to the ground. “Stay down,” he said. “Come on, get it together. You need to help yourself. Stay low. It’s gonna be okay.” Three more gunshots pierced the air, this time close enough that Joy heard ringing in her ears. Tears streamed down her face. Am I going to die? she wondered. Is the gunman coming after someone? Is it judgment day?
“She dead, she dead,” wailed a girl Joy knew. “A gyal get shot up, yo run, dem ah come!” Panicked, Joy sprinted upstairs toward the drama classroom. Two seniors saw Joy at the gate to the building, looked around furtively, ducked, and pulled her inside the room. Two more shots rang out. Then it was quiet.
Later, Joy went downstairs to search for her friends. They reunited and wept on one another’s shoulders. “Don’t cry, Joy,” one of them said, hugging her. “It’s okay. You’re okay, don’t worry.” They heard sirens. Near the school office, police handcuffed a naked man the students had never seen.
Joy learned that only one child was injured, an eleven-year-old whose neck was punctured by glass from a bus window. She survived. But the ordeal was draining. It was “heart-wrenching, the fear knowing that you might die, and you say, ‘Today I will die and will never see my friends and family,’ ” Joy said later. “It’s one of the most unexplainable feelings one can have, hearing those bullets, the screams, the cries. When my face was down in that dirt, I said, ‘This is it.’ I couldn’t help but wonder if the person came to kill me, what would I do, just sit there and take it? Wait for it to be over and pray to God I would not die? It makes you value life and value what you have.”
Joy was struck by one of Rachel Scott’s quotes: “If one person can go out of their way to show compassion, it will start a chain reaction of the same. People will never know how far a little kindness can go.” Joy vowed to herself to continue the chain with what Joy called “positive thinking.” She started an online group dedicated to this purpose; for the group’s description, Joy wrote, “I want people to know that one bad experience doesn’t direct our lives; things can get better, if only we hav
e the will and drive to try.” She encouraged people to share their negative experiences, in the hope that others could help them to see the positive things that could result from those experiences. She shared her own. Joy believed that the bad things that had happened to her—the school shooting, her father’s abuse—had shaped her into the person she was today, a person who “found good in all things bad, [which] made me stronger.”
JOY’S CHALLENGE
Because Joy was so inspired, I made compassion the cornerstone of her challenge. When I asked her what she hoped to improve about school, she replied, “I basically want to be able to communicate and connect with people better. I don’t think I’m a negative person, but at times the worst gets the best of us.”
Joy was an incredibly articulate and expressive fourteen-year-old, but I could see what she was getting at. Sometimes she didn’t practice the open-mindedness she preached. This tendency might have been typical for a high school freshman, but Joy prided herself on her ability to look beyond the surface of people, as she put it. So I asked her to give students of various cultures a chance to know her better by breaking the ice with acts of kindness. Eventually, she could work up to giving one of her bullies the opportunity to befriend her—and herself the chance to broaden her network. Joy loved the idea. She happily accepted the challenge.
______
THE “WHO’S MOST LIKELY TO BRING A GUN TO SCHOOL” GAME
Midway through her sophomore year at a Delaware public school, Annmarie, a quiet girl who spent class time writing short stories or drawing chimera-like creatures, told me a secret she had never told anyone else. Well into high school, Annmarie had no friends. Students ridiculed her for her weight, her clothes, her atheism, and her love of literature. They thought she was weird because she watched anime, was obsessed with zombies, and listened to metal instead of rap. There was a time when the ridicule brought Annmarie to her breaking point. Classmates stole her belongings and hid them. A boy in four of her classes called her psycho on a daily basis. “Those were really bad times in my life. No one liked me,” Annmarie said. “But I would dread coming to school because it was always the same thing every day: He would say I was crazy and that I would shoot up the school and try to kill everyone. That was one of the few people I actually wanted to hurt, though I never did.”
The Geeks Shall Inherit the Earth: Popularity, Quirk Theory, and Why Outsiders Thrive After High School Page 22