During my freshman year in high school, I was a notoriously poor student.  I had little interest and frequently ditched school.  My algebra teacher even shamed me once.  On a Friday, after having missed three days that week, she pointed out that I was out of school (three days that week) more frequently than I was in school.  She was absolutely right, though it didn’t change my behavior, at least not yet.  However, I still got good grades in subjects that required little work.  I got average grades on most subjects, and even failed a semester of World History.  It’s truly astonishing that the damage wasn’t worse; I might’ve easily needed to repeat the grade.

The abrupt change happened not upon the start of my sophomore year, but at the end of my freshman year during finals.  I was on the edge of failing another semester of World History.  During an intense review session, our teacher Mr. Beasley outlined everything that’d be on that test.  And for the first time that year, I studied… hard.  Shortly after we finished the exam (which he graded, one at a time, as we submitted them), other students complained that the exam was too hard.  Mr. Beasley smiled, pointed to me, and responded with, “Really?  He aced it.”  I could only smile; I passed the class.

While apathy certainly permeated that freshman year decades ago, so did cruelty.  First, I spoke English, but only for about four years; I still struggled with the language.  Therefore, I rarely spoke up among strangers.  Second, being poor, I could not afford any stylish clothes; I wore whatever I could afford with my own pocket money, which I got at $20 per shift washing dishes.  Finally, I was Chinese (of only about five such students); we won’t pretend that didn’t factor in, right?  That alone made it all awkward and presented its own set of obstacles.

However, there was the bullying.  There were cruel anonymous notes left by my books or the pocket of my jacket.  Those notes confessed a deep affection for me, which was only a thinly veiled means to mock me.  These classmates also uttered insults, loudly enough for me to hear clearly, but softly enough that our teachers would miss.  They spoke words like “You’ll never amount to anything.” and “You suck.”  I merely existed for their amusement.

I spend the subsequent three years of high school crawling my way back from that crater-sized hole that I dug during my first year.  Figuratively, I didn’t merely run to catch up; I sprinted.  I missed precisely one day of school in my remaining three years (fewer than the aforementioned week where I was shamed); that one day was after a bike accident.  For those three years, I competed in math and computer contests; we routinely won our computer programming contests.  I spent two summers in academic programs, including one where I finally decided to go into engineering.

I wish I could say that it was all altruistic; it wasn’t.  Those cruel words from freshman year drove me.  I thought about those classmates who wrote me off those years before.  Consequently, I was hell bent on elbowing my way into that room.  You may not want me in your circles, but you can’t deny that I belong… that in every measurable way, I am your equal.

Don’t get me wrong, I had friends who encouraged me.  They celebrated my achievements and smiled with me as I exceled.  Teachers inexplicably believed in me, some even after having observed me during that disastrous freshman year.  They asked how I managed the abrupt course correction.  They also encouraged me to not just achieve, but to also write, much like I’m doing now.

By my senior year, I qualified for National Honor Society.  Unsurprisingly, I was awarded “Most Improved Student”.  On one particular day, I was given cryptic instructions to go to the dean’s office at the start of second period on the following day.  My classmate Janine and I got “Student of the Month” awards (one for each gender); they presented the awards over the intercom to the entire school.  Upon returning to my second period Chemistry class, I got cheers.  By the end, I made the top 10% of my class.

In every measurable way, I felt vindicated.

As our senior year closed out, the senior class would put on a skit, much like the Latin Club above.  They carefully choreographed a skit filled with both dance and song.  Students bellowed in perfect synchronicity to the words of “We Go Together” from the movie Grease.  The steps of their dance thundered on the floor of the wooden school auditorium.  They filled the room with the sound of their voices and the rhythmic beat of their feet.  They had sung with the jubilation of graduation, with the misguided optimism that they would somehow keep in touch indefinitely.  It was truly a celebration.

There’s a reason why I say “they” instead of “we” above.  You see, even being a member of that senior class, those who planned the skit didn’t invite me to participate.  I understand that there was logically no way to include 25% of the student body to the stage; I doubt that it was large enough or that it might accommodate that weight.  However, for someone who fought for years to inch back into relevance, I felt that I had every right to be there.  I won’t tell you that it surprised me, but it definitely saddened me.

I mentioned this to another friend, indeed another senior.  Subsequently, he smirked and confirmed that he too was omitted.  I have no reason to believe that this selection process was about race; they excluded plenty of white classmates.  Those on stage epitomized popularity in our class.  Only they held the map to the minefield needed to navigate to the popular camp.

It served as a blunt reminder as we embarked upon our adult lives.  Fairness has little to do with what actually happens…  That try as we might, we don’t actually go together.