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.