The Latte Rebellion (23 page)

“Point number one,” Miranda said. “The Ignorance of the World at Large.”

“Nice,” Carey said. “Just don’t denounce your potential supporters. The goal is to get the undecided people on your side, not against you.”

“Good point.” Miranda scribbled that down in her black spiral notebook. “Point number two: Ethnic Mutts Are Everywhere. Point number three: Ethnic Mutts Are the Future, So Why Malign Us? Leading finally to the climactic point, The Smoke Bomb, Or, It Could Happen To You.”

“Nice,” I echoed. “I like your use of ‘mutts.’ Way to reclaim the enemy’s verbiage.”

“Yeah, speech class really worked out for you, didn’t it,” Carey said teasingly.

Miranda grinned. “Speaking of things working out, I have something to tell you guys.”

There was a long, expectant pause. She was doing this on purpose.

“So tell us,” Carey said. “Don’t leave us in suspense.”

“Well …” Miranda took a deep breath. Her expression was carefully neutral, but then she broke into a huge smile. “I got into the Institute! I get to move to San Francisco!” She was practically bouncing up and down in her chair.

“Woo hoo!” Carey burst out, before remembering we were in the library. Ms. Yates gave us an exasperated look. “That is
awesome
news!” she added, more quietly.

Then they both looked at me and sobered, seeming almost embarrassed. I wanted to cringe at the way they were treating me, like I might burst into tears on them.

“Hey,” I said, a little annoyed. “I think it’s great you got into art school. Don’t not-talk about colleges on my account.” There was an awkward pause. “Speaking of which, Care, what about you? Have you decided where to go yet?” I was determined to keep this positive.

“Well,” she said, carefully, “I’m trying to decide between Berkeley and Stanford.”

“If you go to Berkeley and I go to Robbins, we could get an apartment together.” I smiled.

“I know.” Carey didn’t meet my eyes.

“What?” I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. “What aren’t you telling me?” Miranda looked from one to the other of us with a worried frown.

“Asha … I think I might want to go to Stanford. I’m sorry—it’s got nothing to do with you. I just think they have a better program for what I want to major in.”

“Since when do you know what you want to major in?” I looked at her, flabbergasted.

“Um … since talking to Leonard about pre-med programs.” She still wasn’t looking at me, just doodling little squares on her notebook. Her bangs fell over her face so I couldn’t see her expression.

“What does
he
know about pre-med? Isn’t he a philosophy major?”

“Philosophy and pre-law. And his roommate is a pre-med major. I talked to him for a while about med schools, and I asked some of my dad’s doctor friends.”

“Well, I’ve been doing research too,” I said defensively, “and I think I still have a good chance at getting into Robbins. I’m writing a letter of appeal. And I’m going to major in”—I thought quickly—“sociology and public policy.”

Carey looked up at me in surprise. So did Miranda. I let myself feel a little triumphant, looking at their expressions.

“Yep,” I said. “Just watch me. And I’m going to speak about it at the sit-in. I already wrote the letter of appeal.” I reached into my backpack, where I had a copy of it stashed. I’d been planning to show it to them, though not necessarily under these circumstances. But I felt almost feverish, desperate. I was
not
going to be left behind. I cleared my throat and read:

Dear Mr. Blake,

When I read your letter informing me that I was on the waiting list to enter Robbins College, my first reaction was amazement. What had I done wrong? I’d submitted my application on time, my grades were nearly perfect, and my record of extracurricular activities was long and varied.

Then I realized something. I realized that school admissions policies sometimes don’t consider the individual student as much as they should. Sometimes the emphasis is on placing students in desirable categories. These categories might be racial, or they might consider other factors such as community service or overcoming hardship. In any case, these policies are well-intentioned. But they leave out those individuals who are difficult to categorize, who might fit in multiple places, or not quite fit in any place.

I am an individual of mixed ethnicity. I indicated this on my college applications, not realizing that this, like the plethora of activities elsewhere in my application, would simply “water down” the evaluators’ ability to put me in a category like everyone else, to boil me down to a single factor such as “socioeconomic disadvantage” or “athletic ability.” Though I do not intend to imply that this was the sole factor in my failure to be admitted to the freshman class, I feel it is a symptom of something bigger, of something wrong in our society at large which tends to group people according to perceived identity, and ignore or dismiss or mislabel those people whom it cannot easily construe.

This was a primary factor in my choice to start a movement to address these types of issues. I did not see a support system in our school or our society that specifically focused on students of mixed ethnicity or diverse backgrounds. Therefore, two friends and I turned what was essentially a T-shirt brand we had created at home as a small business into an identifiable symbol of these issues, of the struggle to get them addressed and empower those who support the cause.

The Latte Rebellion ultimately became much more than the brainstorming of a few high school seniors. It grew far beyond our small community and gained a life of its own. I see this as proof of the need for such a movement in our society, of the receptivity of our society to issues important to the growing mixed-ethnicity population. As I became more involved in pinpointing vital issues to address, I realized that many of these very issues could be found in my own life. At first I was sad to realize that my inability to be recognized by college admissions judges was another symptom of the institutionalized bias against not-easily-categorized citizens. But then I became elated at the opportunity to have my individual voice be heard by writing a personal letter of appeal. This was my chance to speak, not only for myself, but for others in similar situations.

My goal as a college student is to study sociology and public policy, in order to better equip myself to address the healing of these injustices—in the workplace, in our society, and throughout the world. If any place is receptive to these ideas, and sympathetic to the cause, I think Robbins is that place. Please reconsider my application to your undergraduate program. Thank you for your time.

“Sincerely, Asha S. Jamison,” I concluded.

Carey goggled at me. “You can’t do that! You’re telling them
everything.
”

“Give me one good reason why I can’t,” I said, thinking of at least five on the spot.

“Oh,
Ash,
don’t play dumb. Aren’t you worried people might find out about us? I can’t afford that.” She fiddled with her pen, flipping it over and around her fingers.

“Someone’s a little paranoid.” Miranda laughed. “I think the letter’s killer.”

“I’m serious!” Carey sounded miffed.

“I’m not using you guys’ names,” I said. “I’m not even saying definitively that I was Agent Alpha or anything. I’m just telling them that we came up with this idea …
spearheaded
this idea, and because of my creativity and leadership skills I ought to be let into their freshman class after all.” I smiled tentatively.

“I think it could definitely work,” Miranda said, flipping her long braids over one shoulder.

“It’s a gamble,” Carey said.

“And of course,
you
would
never
gamble,” I said mercilessly, grinning; I was feeling a little better now that I’d told them what I was planning.

“You have to admit, it’s not the kind of thing I would do.” Carey smiled at me.

It’s not the kind of thing you’d ever
need
to do
, I thought.

“But,” she continued, “it’s the kind of thing
you
would do.”

“What is
that
supposed to mean?” It was my turn to stare at her in surprise.

“Nothing,” she said, levelly. “Just that you take more risks than I would.”

“Huh,” I said, letting the subject drop. It wasn’t worth getting in another fight with Carey. But I left the library for our fifth-period class feeling odd, and kind of left out. And when I thought about Carey going away to Stanford without me, and Miranda moving off to San Francisco while I was stuck here, my mood plummeted, despite my best efforts.

That night at dinner, I was so nervous I could barely have a normal conversation with my parents. I only ate about half my dinner before pushing the plate of partly-massacred chicken and rice away.

“Don’t you feel well?” My mother looked at me in concern.

“I’m fine, Mom. I, uh, have a test tomorrow. I’m kind of nervous.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Telling my secret shame in front of all those people would be a test of sorts.

“Well,” my dad said, “I’m sure you’ll do well as long as you studied. We’re very proud of how you’ve gotten serious and really buckled down, Asha. I’m sure it’s going to show in your final grades. You might still have a chance at salutatorian.”

“Maybe,” I said. “I was ranked fifth after the third quarter grade report.”

“That’s an improvement,” Dad said grudgingly. “You were down at eighth after that disappointing fall semester.”

I ground my teeth and forced out, “Gee, thanks.” I divided my remaining rice into three even little piles, still not looking up. I wanted to ask him why grades mattered so much to him. Whether he cared if I was even happy. But I really didn’t want to start any arguments, not tonight of all nights.

“May I be excused? I want to study a while longer before bed.” I tried not to sound sarcastic, but it was hard.

“Are you sure you’re feeling all right? Do you want me to bring you some ginger tea?” Mom pulled away my half-finished plate and put her hand on my forehead.

“No, Mom, I’m fine.” I shrugged out from under her hand and got up. “Really, I’m feeling okay. Like I said, I’m just nervous about my oral report.”

“I thought you said it was a test.” My dad frowned.

“Yeah, um … it is,” I said, feeling sweat breaking out under my arms. “There’s a part where we have to give an oral report to the class on one of the essay topics he handed out.”

“Sounds challenging,” Dad said. “What class is this for?”

“AP History,” I said quickly, and hurried off to my room before he could ask me any more questions, before I could blow my cover story even more. I’d made him suspicious, I could tell. He still hadn’t quite forgiven me for last semester’s slipping grades. He was so attached to his vision of my rosy, successful future that he didn’t have any room to see alternatives.

And my mom just went along with him. But then again, she’d never had
any
trouble in school whatsoever. She figured if it was easy for her, it would be easy for me due to good genes. Then, if I worked even harder, I wouldn’t be stuck in the same situation she was, teaching grade school without any opportunity to “move up in the world.” My good genes would magically mix with all that hard work and make me a prize-winning doctor or lawyer or whatever.

I sank down onto my bed, squeezing my eyes shut and trying to force back tears of frustration. My shoulders ached with tension. Maybe I was an anomaly, a black sheep—at my school, in my own house, and even with my friends.

Angrily, I shoved all my textbooks to the floor and pulled the rejection letters out from under my mattress, setting them in the middle of the cleared desk space. I sat in my desk chair, my head in my hands, and stared at them. Stupid pieces of paper. Stupid pieces of paper that had ruined my life, ruined my plan for cruising on to a good college and a stable, successful career.

But it wasn’t the letters. I knew that. I just didn’t want to think about how royally I’d screwed up by letting myself get so wrapped up in the Rebellion that I forgot about everything else. And I
really
didn’t want to consider the idea that maybe, deep down, I didn’t quite feel bad enough about it. That maybe I felt, in a way, that it had all been worth it.

The next morning I could hardly eat, but I forced down a banana because my mom was hovering. Then, on the way to school, I stopped by the coffee counter in the grocery store to get a latte, hoping it would infuse me with the mojo necessary to get through today.

By the time I’d picked up Carey and driven to school, I felt jittery and on edge. After parking, we sat in the car as I made sure everything was ready to go as planned. My index cards were safely tucked into the pocket of my blazer, along with a few other key items. The front buttons were fastened securely and no part of my rule-breaking Latte Rebellion T-shirt was visible. I put my glasses on and checked my appearance in the rear view mirror, moving a lock of hair to cover a zit on my temple.

“Asha, you look
fine
,” Carey said, exasperated. “Let’s go! I have to stop at my locker and we only have five minutes.”