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(Don’t worry, they’re still alive and well.) And since these schools are looking to diversify their student body, and since I am: a.) very smart (not bragging, just true); b.) Black; c.) poor (sounds depressing that way, but strictly speaking, also true); and d.) the kid of immigrants, the admissions director literally shook my hand four times over the course of my interview. And so I was to be a FATE student: tuition, spaceship-looking building, and megawatt future all included.
High-rise kids are what we call a certain specimen of children of Manhattan (and a few in Brooklyn too). They’re that breed of rich kids that rarely take the subway or even cabs because there’s always a family car service waiting for them around the corner.
There’s no Haitian in her, no Jamaican, no Puerto Rican. Her Blackness is American, born and raised. Stolen and enslaved, technically, but still, it’s rooted here. She never aspired to be here from another shore elsewhere.
Just be yourself.” “People love saying that.” I sigh. “That’s like screaming at someone having a panic attack not to panic. What if I don’t know what that means?”

