Dear Manny

1

We the People

Jared Peter Christensen is questioning his life choices.

Again.

(You’d think the guy would learn, considering how many idiotic binds he’s gotten himself into over the years, but apparently not.)

Granted, the thing he’s gotten himself into this time isn’t stupid, necessarily. Just . . . not super well thought out. That’s the reality smacking him upside the head as he sits in an exceedingly boring meeting he decided to attend a mere seven minutes before it started. Which then involved a sprint across campus that left him out of breath and extra conspicuous when he came in four minutes late.

He reads the slide currently on the screen behind the head of the sitting UCC president--a pretty Korean American girl named Ari Park, who is droning on at the podium:

Undergraduate College Council

MISSION STATEMENT:

To accurately represent the voices, perspectives, and concerns of all undergraduates while protecting their rights and freedoms.

His eyes drift to the door . . . but of course he can’t walk out early after walking in late. He also put his name on that damn list, which, as Dad would say, means he has officially committed himself to this path. “Your name in your handwriting is a declaration that you’ll see something through,” Bill Christensen said to six-year-old Jared when he made him sign his first contract. It bound him to a set of chores in exchange for the funds that went into a 529 college savings plan.

Jared sighs and shakes his head. The regret is too real.

How did he even get here?

The slide changes to an overdone graphic listing college policy changes the Undergraduate College Council has enacted since its founding.

It’s really his Constitutional Law professor Dr. Yeh’s fault. Just before dismissing class earlier, she made it a point to announce that the UCC would be holding its first meeting for class officer elections. And she looked right at Jared as she said it.

He could swear she was challenging him. Especially since the look came on the heels of a class discussion about the current state of democracy. One that may have gotten a little heated at the end. Jared hadn’t really meant to “go off,” as one of his Black classmates put it, but he also couldn’t sit there in silence as the guy who became his nemesis on the first day of class--an asshat-and-a-half “blue-blooded Florida boy” (his words) named John Preston LePlante IV--acted like he wrote the Constitution and could change it at will. The whole exchange is seared into Jared’s memory:

John Preston: You guys are so stuck on some perceived threat to voting rights, you’re missing the forest for the trees. The truest threat to our republic is getting so far away from the values this country was founded on, the nation itself becomes unrecognizable.

Imani: And what are those values, John Preston?

(Imani Williams is one of three Black students in the class. Living with an African American roommate who survived both a wrongful arrest and a police shooting their senior year of high school makes it impossible for Jared not to notice these things.)

John Preston: That question just proves my point. Only a person with zero concept of what it means to be American would ask that.

Imani: Me asking you to clarify your assertion with specific examples means I have “zero concept” of what it means to be American?

John Preston: I’m just saying if you knew, you wouldn’t have to ask. As such, that question isn’t worthy of an answer.

Jared: [Officially furious.] Dude, you deciding someone’s very valid question “isn’t worthy of an answer” is precisely the opposite of civility and open-mindedness. Both of which were “American values” at some point. I know we’re talking about the Constitution, but if you read the Declaration of Independence, the bulk of the colonists’ gripes with the king came from him having an attitude like yours.

Imani: [Snapping her fingers.] Go off then, Jared!

In the moment, her approval made Jared’s heart grow three sizes, à la the Grinch. He had to resist thanking her out loud, and he knows he turned very red. But then Dr. Yeh made her little election-interest-meeting announcement. And she’d eyeballed the crap out of Jared when she said the words Junior Class Council president.

He tried to let it go. He really did. Shoved it out of his mind, went to his other two classes, and even popped by the frat house. But the moment he was alone in his apartment, all Jared could think about was Dr. Yeh’s eagle-eyed stare.

A door opens behind him, and Jared fights the urge to look over his shoulder as Ari goes on to her next slide: another overdone graphic listing the SLOs (student-led organizations) the UCC works with.

Man, what is he doing here?

The screen goes dark (thank god!) and the lights in the room brighten as Ari asks if there are any questions. Jared’s tempted to raise his hand just to make it seem like he was paying attention--Christensens commit once they’re committed. But then a girl in the first row shoots her arm into the air with the velocity of a UFC punch, and someone slides into the folding seat to the left of Jared.

“Hi!” the girl says with far too much enthusiasm. “I’m a rising sophomore and I intend to seek election for SoCo president? Just wondering if you could give us a brief intro to the history of the UCC and its structure?”

“Well, the organization was founded in 1972,” Ari begins with resignation in her voice, “but as we’re short on time, we’ll save our discussion of structure for the orientation meeting. Your attendance will be mandatory since you intend to run for an elected office.”

“Also, that information is online,” comes a low, disgruntled reply from Jared’s left. “Meaning these ‘mandatory’ meetings are unnecessary and we could all be doing more productive things with our time.”

At the sound of that voice--very bag of nails in a blender--Jared’s stomach drops.

He turns.

Beside him is the last person on earth he’d want to see at a UCC information meeting: John Preston LePlante IV.

Jared sighs. Of course this guy showed up. Jared will never forget his first encounter with John Preston: Jared was walking past the tables for student-led organizations--excuse him: SLOs--set up on the quad during orientation week when someone called out and beckoned him over. Why he went, Jared still doesn’t know, but he wound up in front of an overly preppy guy with an unironic crew cut. “You look like one of us, man,” John Preston said, totally sizing Jared up. “Consider joining our ranks, yeah?” And he handed Jared a card with a QR code on it.

Jared had no idea what to think. Was this what it felt like to be profiled?

It rattled him, but of course Jared’s curiosity got the best of him. The code led to an encrypted website, where he had to complete a five-question quiz that he later realized centered on the Confederacy. (And he felt deeply ashamed that he’d blazed right through it.) At the top of the next page was John Preston LePlante IV’s picture as the “Founder and Chief Officer” of a collection of students who called themselves the Vineyard Traditionalists. Students on a mission “to return the Ivies to their former prestige through the reclamation and reestablishment of their founding standards and traditions.”

It wasn’t lost on Jared that every member pictured was similar to John Preston in both skin tone and gender identity. (Similar to Jared too, but he tried to ignore that part.)

John Preston grins at Jared, then faces forward. “I thought that was you, Christensen,” he says. “You plan to run for something?”

Jared truly cannot stand this butt nugget. “Guess you’d know if you actually showed up on time and signed in.”

“I see we’re feeling spicy today!” John Preston says. “I’ve decided to run for Junior Class Council president.”

Jared’s throat tightens, but he refuses to let the discomfort show. Especially since he doesn’t know why he’s uncomfortable: John Preston LePlante IV is a clown and a half. “I genuinely couldn’t care less, dude,” Jared replies.

“I figured you’d say that.” John Preston crosses his arms. “And this is precisely why I’ve decided to run. Our once-eminent institution is going to hell in a handbasket under the leadership of people like her.” He jerks his prominent chin at Ari. “But what’s really unfortunate is that guys like you don’t give a damn.”

Jared opens his mouth to respond, but in what is surely an act of divine intervention, the meeting is dismissed. So he stands and grabs his bag instead.

“Leaving so soon?” John Preston says.

“Meeting’s over, bro.”

“Aww, but our conversation was just starting!”

Jared doesn’t reply. Just narrows his eyes as he forces himself to (calmly) climb to the exit at the top of the room.

Once he’s out, he picks up the pace. Weaving around other students--Are the hallways in this building always so crowded?!--he moves as quickly as he can without looking like an idiot. Even bumps the shoulder of a Black girl headed in the opposite direction and keeps going. (“My bad,” he says, doing his best to ignore the look of disgust on her face.) His chest has tightened, and he needs to get out of there.

Because Jared knows he can’t back out now. Knows it like he knows that anything John Preston LePlante IV proposes will be aimed at keeping people like John Preston LePlante IV at the top of the food chain.

If that guy is the rising junior class’s other presidential option, there’s only one thing for Jared to do:

He’s gotta win.

2

Self-Evident Truths

Jared pauses outside the door to his on-campus apartment and takes a deep breath. On his way home from the UCC meeting, he learned that Darius “D’Squared” Danielson, their university’s star running back, has been expelled following a drunk-driving incident two nights ago that involved a campus cop crashing his bike into a tree and dislocating a shoulder.

The whole thing makes Jared very uncomfortable. He passed the scene on foot not even five minutes after leaving a party at the frat house . . . where he was drinking.

Something Jared would never tell anyone: His first (inebriated) thought when he saw Darius in handcuffs? Thank god. Because it meant the cops were too preoccupied to notice swaying, bleary-eyed Jared. There was no question his blood-alcohol content was above the 0.08 legal limit. No, he wasn’t operating a motor vehicle, but he certainly wasn’t supposed to be drinking: In addition to being underage, his driver’s license was already suspended from his own alcohol-related driving snafu eleven months prior. So yeah: Getting caught wasted wouldn’t have been a great look.

Thing is, as D’Squared told it, the good officer, who’d been traveling in the opposite direction, was drifting into his driving lane. When D’Squared--who was perfectly lucid (even the other cops admitted that)--honked to get the officer’s attention, the officer overcorrected and ran himself off the road.

The worst part, though: A Breathalyzer test put D’Squared’s blood-alcohol content at 0.04--half the legal limit to drive. But he was a week from turning twenty-one. Which, under Connecticut law, meant he got slapped with a DUI anyway.

So in addition to the expulsion, his NFL dreams are officially kaput.

Jared sighs. It bothers him to no end that the cops decided to Breathalyze a “perfectly lucid” Ivy League student, but he’s trying not to think about that too much. Because he knows that when he walks into the apartment, if his roommate Justyce McAllister is home and has heard about D’Squared’s expulsion, Justyce is gonna be plenty pissed and may not even look at Jared.

Because D’Squared, like Justyce, is a Black guy. One who has experienced firsthand how “consequences” can be impacted by a variable like “skin tone.”

Jared, unfortunately, is evidence walking.

He braces himself and steps inside.

A Briiiiiiing! Briiiiiiing! Briiiiiiing! chimes from the living room TV. It makes Jared smile despite having no idea what mood Justyce is in. There’s no sound more sacred after a long day than that of Mario Kart coins being collected in earnest.

“Yo, you gotta get on this,” Justyce says without looking up. So he hasn’t heard about D’Squared. Jared exhales. (He’s certainly not gonna be the person to tell him.) “Latest wave of booster courses dropped today, and it’s this one through the heart of a volcano. . . .” His eyes go wide, and he shakes his head. “Woooooo boy! Hella banana peels, though. Which is a li’l random but-- Oh snap!”

Jared’s eyes lock onto the TV screen and he watches Justyce’s driver--Mario, per usual--hit one of said peels and spin out, tumbling over the edge of the thin road straight into the roiling magma.

“Curves are a little tricky,” Justyce says.

Jared doesn’t respond. He’s too transfixed by the red-orange liquid. All because of something else Justyce said to him once: “I’m telling you, bro, being Black in this world feels like a never-ending game of The Floor Is Lava. One wrong move, and you’re a goner.”

Is D’Squared not living proof of that?

The image on the screen freezes.

“Helloooo? Earth to Jared? You alive over there, dawg?”

Jared startles. “Huh?”

“You good? Your face is hella pale right now. You find another album of incriminating pictures at your fraternity house or something?”

“Huh?”

“You don’t remember? There was apparently a physical photo album full of white people wearing wildly offensive Indigenous Peoples’ costumes?”

“Oh god.” Jared shudders. He does, in fact, remember. The frat had thrown a “Columbus DAY PARTY” a few years ago, and the photos were . . . Yeah. It was long before Jared rushed, but still. He’d seen enough stories about people’s lives being shredded--jobs lost, college acceptances rescinded, associates publicly disassociating--over not-well-thought-out crap they’d said or done in the past. And though he isn’t in any of the pictures, he knows being a member of the fraternity could cause him some problems were the pictures to ever get out. “Let’s never bring that up again.”

Justyce nods. “Got it. Well, come hop on the game and get some blood back in your mug, man. The ghost skin thing is giving me the creeps.”

Jared drops his bag and takes his regular seat on the sofa, and Justyce hands him a controller and restarts the game. Jared, of course, chooses his regular driver: green-capped Luigi. “Something that’s not lava, please,” he says as Justyce begins scrolling through all the courses they can choose from.

He goes with a pirate’s island.

As the race gets underway--Luigi falls behind quickly, which puts him on track to consistently trail his big bro--Jared realizes this course isn’t super helpful either: all he can think about as chests full of treasure come flying in his direction is how people who look like Justyce were forced onto ships and brought to “the New World” to work without pay. By people who look like him. Did pirates ever attack slave ships?