My mother had decided that the school I was attending, Palms Middle School, wasn’t enough of a challenge for me. Not only that, but my sixth-grade best friend Ashley’s mother had decided to enroll her in a private school. When Ashley was pulled out of Palms, I was, too. The entire process was just like applying for college, I’d find out later. My mother set up appointments for me at the top private schools, Harvard-Westlake, Windward, Archer, Crossroads, and Brentwood. Once there, I’d interview with the headmasters and charm them with my intellect and vast and worldly twelve-year-old experience. Then I’d go back to sixth grade and sit in class, fantasizing about my new, diverse, state-of-the-art future.
Much to my delight, I got accepted into all of the schools. I couldn’t decide between Harvard-Westlake and Brentwood. But I remember that during my Brentwood tour a really cute (probably not, I had horrible sixth-grade taste), white, brown-haired upper-classman waved to me as he leaned coolly on his desk, a pencil in his mouth. That image of coolness and the potential for diverse love interests solidified my choice of Brentwood.
But my mother had toured the schools along with me, and in her eyes there were very few black faces in what seemed like an overbearing sea of white. She feared that my sense of identity would be snuffed out and needed reassurance that I’d be okay. She discussed it with Ashley’s mother and discovered ABC. An acronym for A Better Chance, ABC was headed by a short but robust, shiny-scalped black man named Michael who served as the preemptive olive branch between black kids and the private school system. The organization was founded to make sure we didn’t get lost in the private school culture, that kids with less fortunate economic backgrounds or kids who were prone to forget that they were black or Latino would always have a place to simultaneously uplift and ground them. This was music to my mother’s ears.
What excited me the most was that there was an ABC summer retreat, right before I would begin junior high in the fall. A co-ed retreat in Northern California?! What a perfect opportunity to find a boyfriend! This was a must for me. Ashley and I prepared, giddy with opportunity.
Except that everyone hated me. With the exception of one girl—who hailed from Inglewood, loved chicken nuggets, and was dubbed “Cheerful Cherie” for her upbeat attitude—nobody thought I was cool. My “uncool” status was established on the bus ride we took up to the Bay. My mother insisted that she, my little brother (nine), and my little sister (six) would ride with us and take a return flight home. Aside from the designated chaperone, she was the only parent present. But since my mother was gracious enough not to sit near me so as to fully embarrass me, no one besides Ashley knew that the family in the back belonged to me.
The trip started off hopeful enough. Ashley and I watched as various junior high schoolers of all shapes and sizes and both genders filled the bus. That’s when I saw him for the first time. I tried not to stare as he walked onto the bus. Taller than me, crème-brûlée-colored skin, green eyes, puberty buff—it was lust at first sight. I jabbed Ashley with my elbow.
“Ohmygod, he’s SO fine.”
“Who?”
“Don’t look, but he’s about to walk past us. Don’tlookdon’tlook.”
Ashley looked.
“Him? He’s not fine. He’s cute.”
He walked to the back of the bus. This is going to be so much fun , I thought.
Then my little sister got stuck in the bus bathroom and lost. her. MIND. My little sister who grew up to be a cool, calm, and collected germophobe freaked out at the thought of being stuck in the bus bathroom. She started banging on the door, yelling, “I CAN’T GET OUT, MOM! I CAN’T GET OUT!” To which my mother rushed to help her baby girl, while everyone on the bus turned in their direction. When my mother failed to get through to her, assuming
Much to my delight, I got accepted into all of the schools. I couldn’t decide between Harvard-Westlake and Brentwood. But I remember that during my Brentwood tour a really cute (probably not, I had horrible sixth-grade taste), white, brown-haired upper-classman waved to me as he leaned coolly on his desk, a pencil in his mouth. That image of coolness and the potential for diverse love interests solidified my choice of Brentwood.
But my mother had toured the schools along with me, and in her eyes there were very few black faces in what seemed like an overbearing sea of white. She feared that my sense of identity would be snuffed out and needed reassurance that I’d be okay. She discussed it with Ashley’s mother and discovered ABC. An acronym for A Better Chance, ABC was headed by a short but robust, shiny-scalped black man named Michael who served as the preemptive olive branch between black kids and the private school system. The organization was founded to make sure we didn’t get lost in the private school culture, that kids with less fortunate economic backgrounds or kids who were prone to forget that they were black or Latino would always have a place to simultaneously uplift and ground them. This was music to my mother’s ears.
What excited me the most was that there was an ABC summer retreat, right before I would begin junior high in the fall. A co-ed retreat in Northern California?! What a perfect opportunity to find a boyfriend! This was a must for me. Ashley and I prepared, giddy with opportunity.
Except that everyone hated me. With the exception of one girl—who hailed from Inglewood, loved chicken nuggets, and was dubbed “Cheerful Cherie” for her upbeat attitude—nobody thought I was cool. My “uncool” status was established on the bus ride we took up to the Bay. My mother insisted that she, my little brother (nine), and my little sister (six) would ride with us and take a return flight home. Aside from the designated chaperone, she was the only parent present. But since my mother was gracious enough not to sit near me so as to fully embarrass me, no one besides Ashley knew that the family in the back belonged to me.
The trip started off hopeful enough. Ashley and I watched as various junior high schoolers of all shapes and sizes and both genders filled the bus. That’s when I saw him for the first time. I tried not to stare as he walked onto the bus. Taller than me, crème-brûlée-colored skin, green eyes, puberty buff—it was lust at first sight. I jabbed Ashley with my elbow.
“Ohmygod, he’s SO fine.”
“Who?”
“Don’t look, but he’s about to walk past us. Don’tlookdon’tlook.”
Ashley looked.
“Him? He’s not fine. He’s cute.”
He walked to the back of the bus. This is going to be so much fun , I thought.
Then my little sister got stuck in the bus bathroom and lost. her. MIND. My little sister who grew up to be a cool, calm, and collected germophobe freaked out at the thought of being stuck in the bus bathroom. She started banging on the door, yelling, “I CAN’T GET OUT, MOM! I CAN’T GET OUT!” To which my mother rushed to help her baby girl, while everyone on the bus turned in their direction. When my mother failed to get through to her, assuming
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