If you looked at my calendar freshman year, you’d have noticed I spent most of my time running between Indian events, studying sessions with other computer science students (who were overwhelmingly white and Asian), and dinners with my friends (who were always upper-middle-class like me.)
I skipped one of those dinners one evening in April to go to this event at the admissions office. I’d just gotten randomly sorted into one of the upperclassman houses where I’d be living for the next three years, and since it was nearby I decided to go there for dinner. A girl who said she had also been sorted into my house came with me. I learned later I’d met her once before, but I didn’t remember her at all.
We talked for hours over dinner and started spending so much time together that, by the end of the school year (which was only about three weeks later), she’d become one of the best friends I’d met that entire seven-month-long school year. We hung out at our house’s formal dance, ate together while railing about life all the time, and spent hours trying (and failing) to study for finals. I learned everything about her, including that she’s part Native American and a first-generation college student.
We quickly realized that our schedules led us to run into each other at least three times a day. “We’ve probably been seeing each other everywhere this year,” we told each other once. “Why didn’t we meet earlier?”
The next time I opened my calendar app I knew why. The only people I ever met were Indians, computer scientists, or upper-middle-class people. In other words, people exactly like me. The only reason I’d actually gotten to know her was pure dumb luck — that one-in-twelve chance that threw us into the same house.
I was so thankful for that dumb luck, but I started wondering just how many amazing people like her I’d been seeing, but never meeting, all year.
A lot, probably.
