A few minutes later, Eunjinfinished her performance, and the audience responded with applause. A couple of them hooted for good measure. Arnold joined her in front of the crowd, slinging an arm over her shoulder. She slouched under his grasp, wearing an embarrassed smile. “Give it up for Eunjin!” he boomed while grinning at the crowd, as though his mouth were trying to take up as much space as possible. This spurred another round of applause and another couple of hoots. Members of the audience approached Eunjin to compliment her.
“You played beautifully!” they said. “You’re so talented!”
They mispronounced her name, calling her “Yi-jen” or “Lee-jing” instead of “En-jin.” Eunjin didn’t correct them. I was a little bit mad that she didn’t correct them. But if I were in her position, maybe I wouldn’t either.
Eunjin was too preoccupied with her admirers, so I stood on the sidelines, pretending to be preoccupied by the art when really I was watching the people. Earlier in the night, I had discovered that I could judge the importance of each guest by the extent of Schoenbackler’s obsequiousness—whether he merely shook your hand or added some personalization, such as asking how your niece was liking their first year at the Lycée. For example, he greeted Eunjin with a handshake and a “Thank you for agreeing to perform,” and with me, he barely mustered a wave. I wasn’t offended. I knew I was a nobody now, but in a few years, after I had graduated from Harvard Law School and made partner at my law firm, I would be here as a guest, not as a lowly plus-one. I would also be someone whom Arnold would have to woo.
At the end of the night, Schoenbackler’s assistant handed Eunjin a two-hundred-dollar check. We walked to the 1 train on 23rd Street to return to campus. The subway car smelled of stale air-conditioning with a hint of pee. It was a slight upgrade from the subway platform, which smelled like trash with a hint of feces. The only people in the car were two construction workers and a homeless man dozing in the corner.
“Didn’t he tell you two fifty?” I asked. Eunjin shrugged.
“I thought he did, but for a twenty-minute performance it’s still pretty good.” The homeless man jolted his head before dozing off once more. The two construction workers sat in silence, slumped against the smooth contours of the subway seats.
“So what did you think?” she asked. “Was it what you expected?”
“It was pretty much what I expected,” I replied. “By that Imean I expected I would feel like the poorest person there, and that is indeed how I felt.”
“Eh. The bartender is probably poorer than you. I’m poorer than you.”
“Semantics, but fine.”
We shifted into a comfortable silence, listening to the syncopated rhythm of the train movements. From my tote bag I pulled out one of my assigned readings for class, a printed PDF excerpt of something Hegel wrote. Eunjin flipped through flash cards with names of composers on one side and handwritten biographies on the other. It was hard to focus on the reading with the slowing and speeding of the train, but I felt motivated to continue, even just to comfort myself with the illusion of productivity.
When we arrived at 110th, I looked up from my reading.
“She’ll probably receive a nice tip tonight.”
“What?”
“The bartender. Judging by how Schoenbackler was looking at her, she’ll probably receive a nice tip tonight.”
We got off the subway at 116th, passing the turnstile and walking up the steps that led to the main campus gates. I felt a hand on my left shoulder and I turned to the side, expecting it to be Eunjin, but it was actually Gina Lam, wearing a silky dress and strappy heels, standing beside a friend who was also dressed to go out. I knew Gina well because the two of us used to study for Principles of Economics together. Well, by study, I mean I gave her my answers to the problem sets, but this was freshman year and back then I was just grateful that someone as cool as Gina Lam was being nice to me.
“Elizabeth!” she said, drawing out each syllable like they were dipped in molasses. Her breath smelled of gin.
“Hello, hello,” I said awkwardly.
“We were just coming back from a formal.”
“Very cool.”
I was two months into my fourth and final year of college, so I was already familiar with the different kinds of drunks. There were the sentimental drunks like Eunjin, who always ended the night in some heartfelt monologue about how much she appreciated our friendship. There were the sexual drunks like my friend Leah, who would inevitably plop down on someone’s lap. Gina was neither; she was what I liked to call the ebullient type of drunk, performing an unsolicited rant about the formal’s lack of an open bar and how Theta needed to be stricter about plus-ones. Gina’s sorority sister had folded her arms and was glaring at her, but Gina seemed oblivious to her impatience. Finally, she said, “Gina, let’s go! They’re waiting for us,” and Gina gave us an apologetic wave before walking away, the sound of their heels clacking on the pavement growing fainter with each passing moment.
The friend didn’t bother introducing herself, but both Eunjin and I already knew who she was. Laura Kim.
The two of us first met Laura during orientation when we were all placed in the same mandatory “identity workshop,” the purpose of which was to discover how we could create a more inclusive community on campus.
Twenty of us first-years sat in a circle; the moderator, a peppy white woman named Taylor, asked us to go around in a circle and share our names, hometowns, and pronouns. Then she gave us prompts like “Name a time when you experienced orwitnessed racism” or “Describe a time when you felt out of place and what you learned from that experience.” Laura shared her struggles growing up Korean American in Greenwich, Connecticut, a predominantly white environment. She spoke as though she had outlined her points beforehand; her gaze scanned the room without a drop of the timidity that I felt.
“What you shared really resonated with me,” Eunjin said about halfway through the session, right after one of Laura’s eloquent spiels. It was the first time she had chimed in during the discussion. “My mom is Korean, and I grew up in a small town that didn’t have many people of color. It was something that I struggled with as well. That was a big reason why I wanted to come here, to see more people who look like me.” A couple people in the circle snapped their fingers, and the moderator nodded so much I thought her head would fall off.
Laura didn’t snap. Her gaze sharpened and she crossed her arms.
“I really appreciate you sharing that. Eunjin, was it?” Eunjin nodded. “I really do appreciate your honesty. I just want to call out something though, since this is a safe space and all.” The moderator furrowed her eyebrows but urged her to continue.
“I just don’t want us to be complacent about the white privilege that mixed people experience. It’s simply a different experience than when you’re fully Asian, likebothof your biological parents are Asian. I’m not saying you guys don’t have problems—sorry,y’alldon’t have problems—but it’s simply a different experience. You’re nototherizedto the same degree.”
A couple of students nodded. Eunjin’s face turned bright red. Laura smoothed her corduroy skirt and flashed a patronizing smile.
