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.”