Everyone inside was grouped with people they knew, looking around to see who they didn’t know and figuring out who they wanted to know.
For the most part, we knew everyone there was to know on campus. While there were many groups, we generally all got along and had respect for one another. But because there were many people on campus and at the show that night who didn’t go to our school, things felt different.
Some people used their guest passes to bring people who simply didn’t fit the typical mold of the students at our school (friendly and polite), and some of the guests even seemed intent on disrespecting people that night.
Specifically, there were two white guys (not from our school) who I saw the moment I walked in; they were hanging out with this Black dude I deeply despised named Kenneth Barns.
People actually called him “KB,” but this is my book, so his name is Kenneth.
Kenneth was from somewhere on Long Island and grew up in a wealthy family around a bunch of wealthy white kids, but for some reason he always tried to act tough on campus. As if he was from “the hood,” where I in fact was actually from.
I hated seeing someone perpetuate the negative stereotypes of not only Black people but also where I was from, especially someone who had no reason to. But I was never more disgusted than when I saw the guys he’d brought to the show.
Kenneth and the two white guys were all wearing clothes you would only see in a parody of a rap video from 2008: baggy jeans, Jordans, gold chains, big fitted caps.
Mind you, at this point “urban fashion” had trended away from that style already. Which made it that much more annoying.
It was just our luck that they were right near us, and there wasn’t room to get away from them. At first I was able to ignore them, as I had done with Kenneth most of the year, but then they started doing things that were impossible for me to ignore.
I was taught from a young age to respect women, part of which meant not to catcall women. It was something that my mother and grandmother made sure I understood was wrong.
If I saw someone doing it, I would typically approach them about it. But what Kenneth’s friends were doing wasn’t just catcalling women; they were grabbing women and being completely outrageous.
I already knew if I said something to them, it was going to be a big issue, and I didn’t want to ruin the night for my friends. But after a few minutes of watching Kenneth and his white friends disrespect almost every woman walking by, I decided to approach them. I told my friends I was going to get food; just in case anything happened, I didn’t want them dragged in.
As I walked up, one of the guys was talking to a classmate of ours named Yulitza, and she looked annoyed. But I couldn’t hear what they were saying over the music until I got closer.
Pay attention to everything that happens next, because it’s a great example of just about everything white people should never do. Heck, much of it is everything no one should ever do.
The first thing I heard was Kenneth saying to his friend, “Her name is Yulitza. She bad, right?”
Kenneth’s friend (I’m calling him Tweedledee) responded by saying, “Oh, word, Yulitza? That’s mad exotic. Where you from?”
Yulitza: “I’m just Dominican. Can you leave me alone now?”
Tweedledee: “Damn, I can’t just keep you company?”
Yulitza: “I’m good. My friends should be here soon.”
Tweedledee: “You don’t have to be all stuck up. You waiting for your man?”
Yulitza didn’t respond. She started looking around as if hoping whoever she was waiting for would suddenly appear.
Kenneth’s other friend (Tweedledum) finally chimed in: “She’s just stuck up because she has some hair.” He then proceeded to touch her hair.
As I said, pay attention to things you should never do. Touching Black hair is one of them.
Yulitza yelled, “Don’t touch me!”
It was at this point that I walked over and said, “You good, Yulitza?”
Before she could say anything, Kenneth got in my face. “Yeah, she’s good. Why don’t you relax?”
No one likes being told to relax, but honestly, I’d been waiting for Kenneth to give me a reason, anyway.
I responded in the most tactful and pleasant way I could: “Get out my face before I hurt you, Kenneth.” (Yes, even then I refused to call him “KB.”)
Kenneth glanced at his friends as if to make sure he would be backed up in what he was going to say next. He then responded, “So what’s up, then?”
I wasn’t surprised that he felt bold enough to fight me in that moment. But he did seem surprised when I looked at him and his friends and said, “Who’s first?”
All of them stared at me for a moment. Then Tweedledee responded, “Don’t get your ass beat, my nigga.”
As soon as he said it, Yulitza looked at me, and I looked at her. We both then turned toward Kenneth. Kenneth didn’t seem surprised, but Yulitza and I obviously were. This white dude had just called me his what?
Now, I’ve already said that before college I wasn’t the most woke person, and I certainly let white people slide with a lot of things. But the n-word was always off-limits for anyone who isn’t Black. Doesn’t matter if it’s with an “a” or an “er”—if you aren’t Black, don’t say it.
Also, remember, I don’t condone violence, but I did what any self-respecting person would do—I went full Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson.
At some point, my friends joined in, then everyone came running over to watch. Eventually a few other people who had nothing to do with our fight started fighting.
After a few minutes (probably seconds, because brawls never last that long), one Black and two Latinx campus security guards came over with two white police officers, broke everything up, and took us outside the venue.
As soon as we got outside, the police asked Tweedledee and Tweedledum—the only white people involved—what had happened. They said that I started a brawl and was harassing them.
They both changed their voices and wording while talking to the police. They went from speaking in slang with an accent to articulating every word as if they were English professors. They knew how to play their whiteness to their favor.
The police didn’t bother to ask me or my friends what happened, so I decided to speak up. “Officer, they called me a nigga,” I said.
The officers looked at me for a second, and one of them said, “I suggest you stop speaking before you make this worse for yourself.”
“Officer, we didn’t do anything. They were grabbing women and said the n-word,” I responded.
“We don’t have any complaints of that,” the officer responded. “All we have is a bunch of Black kids who decided they were going to jump some white kids watching a concert. Look at their faces.” He pointed at the marks and bruises on Tweedledee’s and Tweedledum’s faces.
In all fairness, my friends and I had not only won the fight handily; we’d kicked their asses. But the officer didn’t bother looking at Kenneth’s face, which personally offended me, as he looked the worst, thanks to yours truly.