I’ve noticed a pattern in my classes. I walk into a lecture hall, find an empty seat in an empty row, sit and wait. Almost infallibly, the seat beside me on either side remains forlorn and empty as the room around me swells to capacity — until, that is, another black student walks in.
The student sits beside me, throwing my working theory — that I was somehow emitting strong vibes of weirdo — into disarray. He or she most kindly rescues me from my lonely isolation, taking the seat beside me with a casual nonchalance.
This has been my experience with almost every class I have ever taken at Penn.