So I told Carlos his future wife was going, and he was in.
I mean this literally when I say “future wife.” Carlos and Cynthia ended up getting married after college. Don’t believe what you hear; there are still high school sweethearts out there.
I spent days searching for costumes with Carlos. He was focused on impressing Cynthia, while I was focused mainly on looking cool but not like I was trying too hard.
Carlos landed on being a fireman because he felt it would allow him to show off his developing muscles, and I decided to be a vampire. Not one of those cape-wearing vampires, more like a True Blood vampire, where you don’t know I’m a vampire until I show you my fangs or tell you.
Basically, all I did was wear some dope sneakers, a fly outfit, and have fangs in. Low-key, inexpensive, and a conversation starter. I was the master of strategic popularity.
Since Cynthia lived near us, she rode with me and Carlos in his car the night of the party. In all of my time knowing Carlos, I had never seen him so nervous and quiet. He didn’t say a word until we got to the house.
When we pulled up, it was like a scene out of Animal House or Old School. It was a sea of red Solo cups and teenagers wearing costumes mainly made of stuff they seemed to have found in their parents’ closets. The sounds of Gwen Stefani’s song “Hollaback Girl” (ugh, this was a terrible song) and people shouting “Go! Go! Go!” were the first things I heard, and I immediately knew this party was everything I’d expected, sadly.
For many of you, the movies Animal House and Old School are before your time. But I’m not devoting space in the encyclopedia to them, so if you really want to know more, head to Google. As far as the song goes, I wouldn’t bother searching for it. For those of you who will still inevitably search, don’t forget that I warned you.
The three of us sat in the car for a second and stared at one another as if trying to decide whether we were actually going to do this instead of finding somewhere to hang out and watch bad horror movies.
Right before any of us could make a suggestion, the person who was throwing the party ran up to the car.
I think the name of the guy throwing the party was Tony, but I’ve met so many fratty bros like him, it’s hard to remember. Let’s just call him Tony.
“Fred! My man! You made it!” Tony yelled.
I stared at him blankly, annoyed and despising myself for dragging my friends to this guy’s house to help me continue surviving high school and keep my popular status.
We got out of the car, and Tony led us inside to show us where to get drinks. Along the way, Tony made sure to introduce us to everyone he saw. But not in the way of “These are some people I know.” More like, “Hey, look, I have friends who aren’t white. I’m cool, huh?” As we met more people on our journey to the drinks, I quickly realized we were in fact the only nonwhite people there.
I would be lying if I said I expected to see many other people of color, but to be the only ones was both surprising and off-putting. Normally this would have been a bigger issue for Carlos, but he was more concerned with showing Cynthia he was courteous by getting her a drink. I didn’t drink alcohol, so I spent my time just observing people.
I decided to give Cynthia and Carlos some alone time by walking around a bit and seeing what people were wearing and checking out the house. (I was an expert-level wingman.)
I found people dressed as the typical things: hot nurses, hot cats, hot pilots; someone was even a hot Pikachu. But what caught my eye and immediately made me pause was the sight of two white kids dressed in sombreros and traditional Mexican garments.
I walked up to them, and they greeted me by saying, “Hola,” in what seemed to be their attempt at a Mexican accent. I looked at them for a second in disbelief, and then looked at what else they were wearing and carrying.
One had a belt with an empty can of beans and rice tied to it, while the other was standing next to a mop, bucket, and a sign that said WILL WORK FOR TEQUILA next to him. I still hadn’t said a thing. I just stood there, dumbfounded.
While I wasn’t the wokest kid in high school, I did know what blatant racism looked like by that point in my life. I’m just going to assume that by this point in the book, you can also see why these costumes were hugely problematic.
I eventually said, “What are you guys doing?” To which one of them replied, “What do you mean, señor?”
So I replied, “Your costumes are racist as hell.”
A white girl standing with them replied, “That’s not racist; it’s Halloween. Besides, you’re not even Mexican.”
“I don’t have to be Mexican for it to be racist, and I don’t care if it’s Halloween. Take them off,” I replied.
One of them told me to make them take off the costumes, to which I was very happy to oblige, so I started walking closer, ready to fight. As I did so, Tony ran over with a few people and jumped in between me and the two guys.
Look, I’m a believer in nonviolence. I think most things can be resolved through conversation. But there have been times when I’ve been involved in physical altercations, which I’ll talk more about later. This was very nearly one of those times.
Tony looked at me. “Fred, what’s the problem, my dude?” (I hope you rolled your eyes at “my dude.”)
I told him what was going on, and he replied by telling me it was Halloween and I was “starting trouble for no reason,” because they were “just costumes.”
I tried to explain to Tony that they weren’t “just costumes,” because they weren’t costumes at all; they were racist ways of reflecting people’s lives and cultures.
I’ll be honest: what I likely actually said to Tony was “F*ck you! That’s racist.”
In the middle of my back-and-forth, Carlos and Cynthia walked over. Before I could explain what was going on, they both looked at the two guys in the Mexican costumes. Carlos immediately said, “You think that’s funny?”
“You need to calm down. It’s not that serious,” replied one of the guys.
“It is that serious. You’re making fun of our culture, idiot,” replied Cynthia.
I’m pretty sure that was the moment Carlos knew they were meant to be.
“We are both Latino, and we are telling you it’s offensive. How would you feel if someone made a costume out of you?” Cynthia continued.
One of the guys looked at me and said, “Why don’t you and these spics leave?”
None of the other white people called him out for what he’d just said. They all just stood there.
It was in that moment that I knew Carlos and I were likely going to be arrested that night. Two kids of color fighting a bunch of white kids while Cynthia likely pleaded our case.
Carlos and I looked at each other, and it was as if the world froze. Without saying a word, we were playing rock, paper, scissors with our eyes to decide who was going to hit him. Before we could decide, the guy’s nose was bleeding.
We looked at Cynthia, who was standing there, grabbing her hand and cursing because she had hurt herself punching the guy in the face.
I take back what I said earlier—this was probably the moment Carlos decided he was going to marry Cynthia.