So, like a black Drew Barrymore in Never Been Kissed, I am going to go undercover—incognegro, if you will—and observe the young people in their natural habitat.
How will I do this?
By going to 8th grade prom.
Yes, 8th grade prom.
Apparently, in some districts, 8th grade is the new senior year, with kids having graduations and prom-like end-of-year dances. While some may say this is cute and teaches kids the social rules associated with fancy dress and co-ed dancing, I’m slightly skeptical. By engaging in rites of passage normally associated with the end of high school, it seems that the New York City public school system has given up on reaching dangerous minds and resigned itself to the fact that most of their kids won’t even make it to senior year. Maybe if we used such fun times as yet incentive (you know, along with knowledge, high self-esteem, and the prestige of historically black colleges), the young brown youth would be more interested in reaching the next level. If not for the joy of seeing a big, scarlet letter A (you know, the good kind) on a paper, they would study for the possibility that, if he/she works hard enough in school, s/he will reach a grade in which s/he can be elected prom king or queen. After all, who wouldn’t keep working for the possibility of dictatorship and popularity?
I think I’ve just solved the educational disparity of the lower class.
You’re welcome.
I’m going to this prom with a gentleman caller who teaches 8th grade social studies. Whiter than the Olympic gold medal for snowboarding, he’s had a rough first-year trying to teach the freedom writers. For example: 8th grade social studies begins with the Civil War, which requires a discussion of…slavery. Imagine how awkward it must be for a white liberal to educate brown youth on the history of oppression? Apparently, one of his students said, “What did you think when you heard about slavery? I bet you liked it.”
These children are after my own heart.
I am really excited for tonight’s prom, and have been repeatedly reminded by various friends that it is not actually mine. When I google search prom night, I just get images from horror movies and pictures of suburban teens in ball gowns. I hope that one of these is an accurate representation of what is in store tonight--either one will do. I’ve told my date to bring me a corsage and be prepared to pose for photographs, and if he “embarrasses me by dancing poorly, so help me god…”
He didn’t think that was funny.
But I know I’m not the only one who’s excited. Look at this journal entry I found while roaming the halls of the school (I was doing a dry run, for research purposes). I do not know the student’s name, but I call her Sad Girl. I imagine that she is chubby and has an overbearing mother, and tries to make friends by telling really obvious lies (like telling her classmates she met Britney Spears, or that she’s been on birth control since she was 17).
Dear Diary,
First off, I want to apologize for those mean names I called you last time. I just get really upset, and it’s like you test me, diary. But, whatever, my total bad. I can’t even stay mad at you, cause I’m totes excited!!!
Tonight is prom--and I actually found a date! Rashaun Thompson asked me 2 minutes ago, after he asked Tanya and Jesica. They were already going with people, and he sits at my table in math class, so he leaned over and asked me!
I’ve never even spoken to him, and when I said yes, I accidentally drooled a little—so embarrassing! But I don’t know if he noticed, cause he walked away really fast when his friends came in the room.
I don’t know what to wear. My mom said she wouldn’t buy me any new clothes until I lost 14 pounds, so I’m going to have to go with something old. I saw Pretty in Pink yesterday and think I should wear something pink, like Molly Ringwald—only it’ll look better on my ebony skin, I just know it.
Okay, diary, I have to tell you something. I’m a little nervous. This is my first boy-girl party, and it’s a dance, and it’s the end of 8th grade, AND I have a date—I feel like this is the night. I’m wondering if I should have sex with Rashaun.
What do you think?
I mean, I haven’t really spoken to him, but he’s fat like me, so I’m not as scared about being naked around him. And, like, I’ve seen the “What’s Happening to my Body?” video, so I know what will happen. I mean, he’ll put his p in my v and it will be like this explosion, and then we will get married!!!
How great would that be, diary?!
Ugh, I know what you’re thinking, diary, and I am NOT a slut. Fuck you, you’re just jealous cause you’re made of vinyl and won’t have sex with anyone ever, you lame d-bag. That means douche bag, diary! Yeah, you, you filthy—
The entry ends there. Who knows what else Sad Girl said to her diary in a fit of blind rage. I hope this girl is at prom. And that she wears something like this:
I plan on gathering all the pretty young ladies into the bathroom and showing them images of chlamydia-infected genitals, and then handing out NYC condoms in case my fear tactic fails. I will also tell them to listen to India.Aire for strength, courage, and wisdom, and bring a few 19th century novels to up their reading level.
PS: I am sad girl.
