Racial Diversity Numbers

I slipped into my assigned seat: front row, far left—right next to the teacher’s podium. The first few days of sixth-grade English had been unremarkable. I had no reason to think this one would be different.

Before class started, I scanned the room. My peers’ posture and attentiveness signaled that I was in a new environment. So did their clothes. I alone wore baggy jeans and a long tee; all others wore business casual. I’d never seen so many collars in class.

Redirecting my attention to the front, I watched Mrs. Noone, our teacher, cradle a fresh piece of chalk. Her face glowed as she rolled the alabaster wand in her palm. You could tell she didn’t want to press it against the blackboard—not yet. It was too pure. The magic of board-work could wait a moment more.

Then it was time. Chalk dust gripped the board’s surface as Mrs. Noone detailed the day’s agenda. Each stroke rendered the board more and more white. But the board wasn’t a blank slate. As it absorbed her blows, I saw groves and scars, battle wounds from previous lessons, previous civilizing projects. Erasers could not remove these.

As Mrs. Noone pivoted from podium to blackboard, I transcribed every word. I was meticulous. This was my first honors class. I knew to be twice as good.

Then it happened.

“Nathan!” Mrs. Noone shouted.

“Yes ma’am,” I responded, just as mom taught me.

“Have you been paying attention?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“No, you have not,” Mrs. Noone rejoined, as her dust-covered hand formed a fist. “And that is precisely your problem: You do not pay attention.”

All eyes fixed on me. My heart beat spiked as my ears grew hot. Sweat poured into my palms. I may have dropped my pencil.

“This is an honors class, Nathan, not a daycare center.”

“Yes ma’am, I know. But I was paying attention.”

Wrong move.

“Enough!” Mrs. Noone boomed. “You do not belong in this class, Nathan. Do you understand? You are only here for racial diversity numbers.”

***

My family gathered in the living room. Each of us was nervous. I had only applied to one college, and its admissions team’s verdict lay in my hand. Understanding the moment, Dad prayed, asking God to guide us regardless of the outcome. Then all eyes were on me.

Red-eared and anxious, I slowly pried the seal off the white envelope, careful not to damage its contents. I took in the news: I was in.

“I’m in! They accepted me! I’m going to Grove City College!”

Everyone hugged. Joy-soaked chants filled the room. We were thrilled. We were relieved.

But as the evening wore on, I isolated myself. I felt no joy. I was hot eared and anxious. Grove City College’s announcement pressed upon old scars.

You do not belong in this class, Nathan. Do you understand? You are only here for racial diversity numbers.

Try as I might, I couldn’t dislodge Mrs. Noone’s words from my head, from my body. I’d internalized her lesson, absorbed the chalky blow. I bore civilizing grooves. New lessons couldn’t change that.

Moreover, the grooves dictated what I could and couldn’t say, what I could and couldn’t repeat. I wanted to believe that I belonged at Grove City College, that I deserved be there. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t even tell the truth slant. So I settled for a lie.

Grove City College only accepted you for diversity numbers. You don’t belong there. You won’t last the first year.

Kill the mestizo, save the man.

***

I slid into my office chair and turned on the computer. While it booted up, I put away my markers. Students had used each color while collaboratively solving whiteboard problems.

Markers away and computer on, I checked my email. I couldn’t believe my eyes: I’d won a Baylor University Graduate Student Teaching Award!

Congratulatory emails filled my inbox. They, like my officemates, stressed that the award was “well-deserved.” I was overjoyed.

Then I wasn’t. Less than ten minutes after I learned about winning the award, I doubted I deserved it.

You only won this teaching award because Baylor wants to pad its racial diversity numbers. You know the game.

Returning home dejected, I talked con mi esposa.

“Esposa, it’s happening again. I can’t shake it. Why did she have to say I didn’t belong?!”

***

I’m next in line. The announcer confirms how to pronounce my name. He nails it.

I begin walking to the middle of the stage. My department chair and graduate program director are there, ready to welcome me to the guild.

As I hear my name and degree over the loud speakers, I hear a familiar voice.

You don’t deserve this doctorate, Nathan. You’re only getting it for racial diversity numbers.

The regalia didn’t fit. The announcer’s words didn’t stick. Neither gripped like chalk dust. Neither filled civilized grooves.

***

We take our seats in my study. I can tell something’s wrong.

“Dr. Cartagena, could we talk about being racialized minorities at Wheaton? Students tell me I don’t belong, that I’m only here for racial diversity numbers.”

I grab the tissue box.