Dear Martin: Chapters 5-9

In the month and a half since the racial equality discussion in Socio Evo, Jared’s been on a crusade to prove things in America are equal.

“Bros,” he said, “let’s all dress as different stereotypes for Halloween, and then go out together. It’ll be this massive political statement about racial equality and broken barriers...”

Kyle went with the Redneck: woodland camouflage shirt, overalls, trucker hat with a Confederate flag patch, dingy cowboy boots.

But then he stumbled upon Martin’s definition of integration—“intergroup and interpersonal living”—and decided to just go with it.

But then he stumbled upon Martin’s definition of integration—“intergroup and interpersonal living”—and decided to just go with it.

Trey points to Blake, who has removed his pointed hood and is holding it to his nose to stanch the bleeding.

We were doing this satire thing with stereotypes, and it went too far.

He nudges the white guy with them, and they both snicker.

He nudges the white guy with them, and they both snicker.

Staying woulda been a statement of solidarity with these guys I grew up with—and who look like me.

I had this thought—be forewarned, it’s an ugly one...

Me: It’s a conundrum: white people hold most positions of authority in this country.

Yes, she's smart and funny and easy to talk to and kinda feisty...

Tongue-tied, Justyce watches her pivot and walk away without looking back.

When he faces Melo again, she’s smirking in SJ’s direction.

Just stares at Melo’s butt as she saunters off.

Jared: I’d like to discuss how affirmative action discriminates against members of the majority.

Doc: That’s quite an assumption, Mr. Christensen—
Justyce: Hold up...what makes you so sure you got higher scores than me?

Jus: Hold up, man—
Doc: This is an open forum, Mr. Christensen.

Ignoring how effing racist it is to assume your test scores would be higher than Justyce’s, the counterevidence—namely that you and Justyce are more or less equally qualified—has nullified your assertion.

Ignoring how effing racist it is to assume your test scores would be higher than Justyce’s, the counterevidence—namely that you and Justyce are more or less equally qualified—has nullified your assertion.

Jared: Yeah it does. He took a spot I didn’t get because Yale has to fill a quota—
Justyce: Excuse me?

Jared: Point is, it gives an unfair advantage to minorities.

Tuition includes laptops, tablets, and access to more scholarly databases than most colleges have; we’ve got the most current editions of all college-level textbooks; our library is like...I can’t even tell you; we have test prep courses built into our curriculum from the moment we start ninth grade; and I’m pretty sure something like ninety-seven percent of the teachers at this school are PhDs, right, Doc?

Tonight I went home because I decided to share the Yale news with Mama in person, and while she was ecstatic, what I faced when I left the house brought me back as low as the...discussion from class today.

Jared and Trey are only two people, but after today, I know that when I head to Yale next fall (because I AM going there), I'm gonna be paranoid about people looking at me and wondering if I'm qualified to be there.

And what did I do? Capitulated to the booty (and, okay, the fear of what my mama will say if I fail to keep SJ at the furthest end of the friend zone).

And fourth, Mr. and Mrs. F liking me is irrelevant.

Justyce’s brow furrows. “I mean, we occasionally talk about other stuff but—”

“Manny, my mama would blow every gasket in a fifty-mile radius.”

“Jus, if Melo and SJ are diverging paths on the road of life, you’re headed for a dead end, my friend.”

They lapse into silence again.

“I get wanting to please your mom. The only reason I'm even going to Morehouse is because it's been my ‘SpelHouse’ alumni parents' dream for me since they found out I was a boy.

Then he slouches down into the couch and unmutes the movie.

She winks and tugs at his tie, which matches the deep maroon of her suit, just like they planned.

What Doc isn’t saying: he still hasn’t gotten his mind around the fact that his top two debaters elected to forgo the actual debate rounds of the tournament and focus solely on advanced pairs argumentation.

She was sitting cross-legged with her laptop open in this massive wicker chair Mr. F imported from Israel, and Jus was pacing around the pool table, using the cue like a hobbit staff, trying not to ogle her legs.

As he squeezed in beside her and felt her whole left side pressed against his right, he had to take a clandestine deep breath—she smelled like fruit and flowers—and force himself to focus.

The gist of this: back in the nineties, some big-shot researchers predicted that the number of violent crimes committed by African American teen males would skyrocket in the years to follow.

The ‘leading authority’ on the matter dubbed these potential criminals superpredators.”

“Crime rates among youth plummeted.”

When their names are called, they step into the glaring stage lights and up to the adjacent podiums.

When their names are called, they step into the glaring stage lights and up to the adjacent podiums.

His eyes shift among the three of them as he and SJ rattle off the statistics that support their argument: drug use versus drug conviction numbers, arrest numbers in minority- populated versus white-populated police zones...By the time they get to the superpredator stuff, all three judges are rapt.

Some random cute girl from another school brings him water with her number scrawled on the cup, and he sees SJ slip it in the garbage when she thinks he’s not looking.