Their leader? A feisty blonde who wielded her index fingers like a two-gun cowperson, a blonde who stood offended by, Your savage insensitivity, who exclaimed in a voice inflated by indignation, Only freshmen could disgrace a simple dot, a blonde who had the decency to wear her own ornament politely left of center, Where the heart is actually located, a blonde who suggested that they do the same and, Show some empathy for other people. Some respect, too.
There, in that umpteenth year of our Lord, at Dormitory Door, a historic treaty was proposed: Remove the dots and you can stay.
During the blonde’s speech a cluster grew, not chanting Fight! Fight! Fight!, but listening intently, as in a lecture, cupping ears and shushing and frowning as each new outflux burped though the dorm doors with the sonic aftertaste of thumping bass. The cluster was soon a crowd, and the crowd soon a congregation constellating in concentric circles around the 3 Little Indians: In the buildings students at their dorm room windows watched like wary settlers wondering how their wagon circle had been breached; within the ring of buildings, passersby perhaps expecting a juggling show or puppetry performance milled at the outer edges of the courtyard, popcorning on tiptoe; within them was a ring of polka-dotted partiers; within them were the blonde’s foot soldiers (that cobbler’s dozen Louis later referred to as Satan’s Anal Army). Our Tribe in the center, fidgeting, with the exception of Charlie, who stood lock-kneed a couple feet apart, and whom no one directly addressed or approached, as if he both was and wasn’t there, a secret at a family reunion, in the same way that no Braggsvillian ever mentioned how Slater Jones was born near the end of his father’s uninterrupted fifteen-month tour of duty. (Everyone just lamented how he was a preemie, and that’s why he was shorter than a Georgia snow day and so Old Testament angry at math.) Yes, Charlie stood there like a secret, if such a thing was possible, which obviously it was. Candice, for her part, was as beet colored as a real red man.
The offer was repeated: Remove the dots and you can stay.
Around this time Louis wandered out, with his collar prepped up and pop-star sunglasses on, and stood next to D’aron.
The blonde pointed to Louis. Except for you! Looking puzzled, she asked, Why are you even out here?
I’m with them. Louis tipped his sunglasses up and mirrored her puzzled expression. The better question is why are you wearing yoga pants?
The blonde blinked as if rebooting. Why are you even out here?
I’m with them, repeated Louis. He again mirrored her puzzled expression. The doors belched two stumbling students and a few bars of a tricky beat. The even better question is why are you blasting that Jay Z and Punjabi MC joint?
Blink. Reboot. Repeat: Remove the dots and you can stay.
Louis began speaking. Candice interrupted him. I’m Candice Marianne Chelsea. I am part Indian. She tapped her forehead. Not the kind you were looking for, but the kind you found. One-eighth to be exact. And I’ll be damned if you get to tell me what to do anymore. She shouldered past the blonde and the foot soldiers and walked in the direction of the door. The crowd parted like the Lord was drawing her finger through water. Charlie followed. The crowd parted wider, eyes to feet. D’aron and Louis followed, but were rebuffed, drowned in the confusion like the Pharaoh’s men after Moses.
When Candice looked back and saw D’aron and Charlie floundering, she huffed and shook her head like a disgusted parent. She pointed to the nearest courtyard exit, put her hands to her mouth like a megaphone: Let’s go. Where I’m from, women don’t need to wear stickers for guys to know where to touch us.
She huffed and marched in the direction of Bancroft Avenue. The other three followed, and 4 Little Indians laughed hee-hee-hee all the way home, never more so than when Candice again claimed to be part Native American. For real!
AFTER HIS ABYSMAL FIRST SEMESTER, D’aron’s academic advisor suggested a meeting, her e-mail as disconcerting as Quint blasting Dio in that stolen ice cream truck. (When Sheriff appeared at his door worn by rue, Quint told him, Grand theft audible: possibly six months. Selling Good Humor wherever the fuck I want, including the Gully: priceless. Sheriff handed him the cuffs. You know how these work.) The good humor of the advisor’s letter, sprinkled with words like informal and independent, was offset by underlying chords of words like probation and tête-à-tête and self-directed learning (all of which had for D’aron become slang for watching Oprah, itself slang for porn, itself slang for the visiting German professor’s stats class, itself slang for beer, itself slang for a few drinks, itself slang for bar crawl, itself slang for … You get the point). When he finally summoned the nerve to meet her, it was nearly spring break, nearly midterms, and at every desk in the César Chávez Center students turtled over laptops. He had applied himself with determination in the few weeks since meeting the other Little Indians, and carried to the meeting those few recent assignments on which he had earned a B or better.
Mrs. Brooks occupied a small inside office whose only window was the sidelight beside the door. On her desk, family photos greeted all who entered. D’aron always found it hard to imagine people in authority with a family, arguing over Netflix and ice cream. She sat with her back to the hall, boxes of tissues piled high on her credenza, her face only inches from the computer screen displaying … was it MS-DOS?! When D’aron knocked she spun around and waved him in with a smile and a How-do-ya-do. Seeing that she was black, he turned to leave. Sorry, I’ll make an appointment. He wasn’t in the mood for an ass-chewing. No, no, no, no. Come in. He thought he detected a faint accent, but couldn’t be sure because once he gave his name, her expression grew stern and officious. I’ve been busy and stressed and am trying to do better, ma’am. She softened a bit, leaning back in her chair and sighing as if there was a big decision weighing on her, one she regretted being charged with making, like a soccer ref giving a red card to a favored player.
Let’s start at the beginning, D’aron. Is it Daron or Daron or Daron?
Daron, ma’am.
What about this apostrophe?
The name’s … Irish, he started to say before catching himself … The name’s misspelled. I never figured why it’s like that or how to git ’em to change it.
Where are you from, Daron?
He told her and she smiled. I’ll bet Berkeley has more students than there are people in your entire town.
Yes’m.
It was the same for me when I first came here from Tennessee, too long ago to tell you. I’ll just admit that when I was an undergrad here, twittering was for the birds. Even now, back home anyone who tweets too loudly is likely to end up plucked, stuffed with spicy pork sausage, and served with cornbread.
They both laughed.
She leaned forward and whispered, I’m from a holler.
My backyard backs right up to one. Daron settled into his seat. It was the first time he’d met anyone in California who was from a holler. Most people didn’t even know what it meant, and he’d stopped explaining because too often they’d ask why he couldn’t be like everyone else and call it a valley.
Look, Daron, it’s a big school. It’s an achievement and an honor for you to have made it this far, so don’t sabotage yourself. If you need help, ask. There are too many students in some of these classes, and it’s only going to get worse; however, the school is committed to seeing first-generation college students succeed. But you have to ask for help. No one is going to offer it.
Yes’m.
And you have to stay on top of your work. It’s not high school.
It