FOURTEEN
On the first Friday ofMarch, I woke up at 8:30 a.m.—about three hours before I’d usually wake up on a Friday morning—to catch the breakfast pancake special at Community, a restaurant on 113th and Broadway. I didn’t even like breakfast food that much, but for some reason as soon as Alex brought up the idea of blueberry pancakes the day before, they were all I could think about. Was this what people meant when they said pregnancy cravings? I rolled out of bed and made it to the restaurant five minutes before the special was set to end.
Alex and Eunjin were already sitting at a table near the back, and Alex had invited their friend Leo to join. I knew Leo better than I liked to admit. We had hooked up for two months during sophomore year, a low point in my history of decision-making that I would prefer to never think about again. Leo wasn’t bad looking, but he represented that specific type of Columbia student whose personality was based on hating things. He hated capitalism, neoliberalism, second-wave feminism, corporategreed, economics majors, iPhones, and the Supreme Court. When he wasn’t worshipping his gay dads who had adopted him from an orphanage in Vietnam, bragging about some trip that they took him on, he hated them, complained of their white savior complex, said they were even worse than the birth parents who abandoned him on the side of the street. No one liked him, not even Alex, but he always managed to squirrel his way into social outings. It was like a superpower.
He barely acknowledged me when I sat down, too busy ranting about his latest qualm with the world.
“Hypocrites. This campus is just full of hypocrites,” he was saying, holding his coffee cup in his left hand and gesturing with his right. “They post ‘Black Lives Matter’ and ‘pro-Palestine’ infographics and then work for a big corporation that oppresses the very people they apparently care so much about.”
Alex nodded while Eunjin examined the pulp in her orange juice.
“Eunjin, that’s why I think it’s great that you’ve decided to pursue music. We need more people like that. People who understand that art is fundamental to humanity. I think that’s what Marx meant when he said that workers shouldn’t be alienated from the products of their own labor. When you create music, you’re also enjoying it yourself. Youownyour labor.”
“Actually,” Eunjin said, “classical music is rooted in a long history of classism and imperialism.”
Leo looked like his brain had just short-circuited. “Still, you’re creating art. That means something. You’re contributing to the world. You’re not like those corporate motherfuckers who just care about money and consumption, consumption and money.”
“I don’t think we should be too hard on those people,” I said,glancing surreptitiously at Alex, who, according to Leah, thought I was a sellout. “The ones who end up taking those corporate jobs. Like, life is hard. People have to pay for rent and groceries, make enough money to let their kids enjoy a nice life. I think getting to choose to not be a sellout is kind of a privilege.”
“Spoken like a true liberal with a lowercase ‘l,’ ” he said, and took a sip of his coffee. The waiter arrived and placed four plates of pancakes on our table. Eunjin, Alex, and I all began to dig in, but Leo didn’t even pick up his utensils. “This actually brings me to the point I was making before you arrived, Elizabeth. I feel like Asians at this school are the worst. They care about humanity only to the extent that it doesn’t prevent them from making six figures at McKinsey or Goldman.”
I shrugged. “Maybe that’s because the Asians you’re talking about don’t have trust funds like you.”
Alex nearly choked on their food and Eunjin didn’t even try to hide her grin.
“Whatever,” Leo muttered, and started to pour syrup on his pancakes.
Eunjin changed the subject by asking us how our classes were going. Leo was silent for the rest of the conversation. When one of the workers came by to bus our table, I looked up and saw that Laura had just walked in. She was with one of her friends, Madison, whose father was a successful venture capitalist and infamous donor to the Republican Party. I wondered whether the two of them came here for brunch every weekend. What a charmed life to not have to eat at the dining hall for every meal. But I reminded myself that it was only a matter of time before Harvard rescinded her application. Then she wouldn’t have such a charmed life anymore. Instead of eating her frittata atCommunity, she’d be crying in the office of an expensive out-of-network therapist.
“What are you smiling about? It’s kind of creepy,” Alex said. I realized they were talking to me. I blushed.
“Oh, nothing. Just sleepy.” I took out my phone so I could look down and hide my face. Of course, this initiated a domino effect. It was an unspoken rule: it’s rude to look at your phone when you’re hanging out with your friends, but it’s not rude if someone else does it first. The four of us sat in silence for a couple of minutes as we each responded to our texts and checked our notifications. Alex broke the silence first.
“Oh shit,” they said. “They figured out the identity of the person who wrote that racistMusings of a Columbia Studentor whatever post.”
There was an audible gasp from everyone at our table. Even the students at the table next to us looked over.
“They did?” one of them said.
Alex held up their phone so the three of us could see. Amala had made a post revealing the perpetrator as—you guessed it—Laura Kim.
I pretended to be surprised, but I couldn’t keep the giddiness from my voice. “And even better, she’s here,” I said.
“She’s here?!”
It was a bit weird I knew off the bat Laura was in the restaurant. I wished I had at least pretended to look around first before blurting that aloud. Fortunately, the excitement of seeing her reaction in person seemed to distract everyone from my creepiness. The table next to ours overheard us, then the table next to theirs overheard them, and the news spread around the restaurant like an infectious disease. Everyone was whispering andstaring at Laura. Some people tried to be discreet, peeking over their menu or only looking in her general direction while taking sips of coffee. Others just stared unabashedly. At first, Laura seemed unfazed. She must’ve assumed they were directing their attention at an object or person near her. As soon as she realized thatshewas the object of their attention, she pulled up her phone camera and checked her reflection. Madison was scrolling on her phone and must’ve seen the post just then, because she whispered furiously to Laura and showed her something on her screen. Laura’s eyes widened. “What?!” she mouthed. By this point, no one was pretending like they weren’t staring. Laura put on her sunglasses and started gathering her things.
“I hope you get kicked out, racist!” someone shouted as she walked out. Everyone else remained silent. Laura didn’t react, just continued walking with her head down. Madison waved down the waiter to pay the check and rushed out as well.
Given all the work I’d put into my plan, I was a little disappointed that Laura didn’t have a more dramatic public reaction. Instead, her brusque exit made the whole payoff seem a bit anticlimactic. It would’ve been better if she had at least cried. I wondered what she looked like when she cried, and whether it would make her drop from 80th percentile of attractiveness to the 40th. Some people, when they cried, seemed to produce more snot out of their nose than tears out of their eyes. I wondered if she was one of those people. That would be so embarrassing for her.
—
I was disappointed with Amala.She posted on her Instagram story that she had it on “good authority” the author wasnone other than Laura Kim. I did not intend for her to just take my tip at face value. I expected her to use my tip as a helpful nudge, which she would then find evidence to back. I guess not everyone was as diligent as I was. Did I really need to lay everything out for her? Did I really need to spell out for her that there were only three students in EC who were from a wealthy suburb of New York City and studied history? Clearly, I overestimated Amala’s percentile of intelligence. I was also a bit disappointed with the picture that Amala had selected of Laura, a close-up from a sorority formal. Her makeup looked pristine and the red dress she was wearing suited her perfectly. Why couldn’t Amala have chosen a worse picture? We were revealing the identity of a racist here, not helping her choose the best photos for a dating app profile.
Despite these shortcomings, I couldn’t stay disappointed with Amala for long. She not only accomplished what I intended her to do, she even created her own little spin on the situation that made it more believable.
In addition to the Instagram story revealing Laura as the author of the post, she posted a long block of text about why we shouldn’t be surprised that the white supremacist in question turned out to be an Asian woman. Asians, in particular East Asians, have always used their “proximity to whiteness” to their advantage, Amala argued. For instance, they were often on the forefront of the fight against affirmative action. And they often espoused positions that harm other minority groups, such as NIMBY-ism and supporting politicians who branded themselves as being hard on crime.
