Nicknamegate

Brad Meyer and Soo-Jin Chae are my chosen family at New Horizon High School. We met on the first day of our first year, and we’re still homeroom besties in our senior year.

It’s Thursday night, and tomorrow is spirit day. I have a sweatshirt with my school’s name on it. I’m not gonna wear it, though. It’s got the old nickname — Tornadoes. There were some deadly tornadoes in the Midwest last year, and we couldn’t cheer for the Tornadoes after we’d seen the damage that real tornadoes do. I signed a petition to change the name. We’re the Hawks now.

So, yeah. I don’t want to be a Tornado anymore. I’ll just wear my yellow long sleeve and my dark brown pants. I set them out on my bed so I can slip into them tomorrow morning.

Someone knocks softly on my bedroom door. “It’s Dad,” he calls.

“Come in,” I call back.

“Hey,” my dad says. He’s tall and thin, and he has a mustache. “Did you tuck Joey in?”

“Yep,” I tell him. (Joey’s my little brother. He’s in first grade.)

“I see you already picked out your clothes,” Dad says. “I hope you have a lot of fun tomorrow.”

“It’ll be a late night,” I laugh.

“OK,” Dad smiles. “Sleep well tonight, then.” He gives me a hug.

When I get to school the next morning, I lock my bike to the bike rack. There’s a sea of students, all wearing yellow and brown, heading inside to class. I’ve arrived on time for first period — political science with Mr. Vang.

“Hey, Mallory,” Brad whispers to me, as I sit down in my desk. Brad’s a big friendly guy with curly hair.

Soo-Jin, who wears glasses, has dark hair, and wants to be a political journalist, turns back from the desk in front of me. “Hey. Did you see that op-ed in the school paper?” they ask me softly.

“What op-ed?” I ask.

“The one that was posted yesterday. Everybody’s talking about it.”

Nobody told me, though. Before I can ask Soo-Jin about the op-ed, Mr. Vang starts class. Today’s lecture is about two former justices on the U.S. Supreme Court.

“Antonin Scalia was a conservative judge,” Mr. Vang explains. His voice is loud and clear, but gentle. “Scalia had a by-the-book interpretation of the Constitution. He advocated for color-blind legal frameworks that unfortunately maintained a status quo that oppressed historically marginalized racial groups. Ruth Bader Ginsburg had a different interpretation. She believed that ‘we the people’ now meant more than the property-owning men who wrote the Constitution two hundred years earlier.”

I quietly nod in agreement. Ruth Bader Ginsburg sounds like someone I’d get along with.

“They first met when they were serving on the D.C. Court of Appeals,” Mr. Vang tells us. “They didn’t agree on the important issues, but they both liked music, traveling, teaching, and the law. Every year, Antonin Scalia and his whole family would visit the Ginsburgs’ apartment to ring in the new year. In 1994, they went to India together.”

Mr. Vang shows us a photo of Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Antonin Scalia riding in a chair on the back of an elephant. I don’t know how they’re not falling off that elephant’s back.

“When Scalia wrote an opinion for a case, Ginsburg peer-reviewed what he wrote and helped him strengthen his opinion. Scalia would do the same for her,” Mr. Vang continues. “When Scalia died in 2016, Ruth Bader Ginsburg called him her best buddy. Ginsburg died four years later.”

Brad raises his hand. “Yes, Brad?” Mr. Vang calls.

“This reminds me of Matt Gaetz and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez in the House of Representatives,” Brad says. “Gaetz is a Republican, AOC’s a democratic socialist, and they worked together to ban lawmakers from owning stocks in companies. Gaetz said he respects AOC, even though they’re complete opposites politically.”

“You’re exactly right!” Mr. Vang agrees. I don’t know how Brad remembers everything he’s ever read. He’s brilliant.

“So what was that op-ed?” I ask Soo-Jin in the hallway, after the end of first period.

Soo-Jin pulls up the school newspaper website on their phone. “Check it out for yourself.”

Soo-Jin hands their phone to me, and I read.

Opinion: Homecoming — A Troubling Reminder

Our entire school is buzzing with excitement as homecoming weekend approaches. This Friday and Saturday, we’ll wear our school colors, cheer on our football team, march in the parade, and dance the night away in the gym. It’s a celebration of our school community. We are the New Horizon Hawks.

But we should be the New Horizon Tornadoes. We would be if our school’s nickname hadn’t been changed at the request of some easily offended students, teachers, and parents who decided that our nickname was insensitive, and in poor taste, because hundreds of people die, and thousands of homes are destroyed, in tornadoes every year.

This is a valid opinion, but the decision to change our name follows a national and international trend of institutions cracking down on anything that offends anyone. Whether it is a book that has been rewritten to fit current standards of inclusive language, or news outlets’ enforcement of ideologically-rooted grammar rules under the seemingly neutral guise of “style guidelines,” censorship is everywhere. All offense, regardless of context, must be purged.

As a New Horizon student, I’m still going to wear our colors on Friday and participate in homecoming, though I can’t truly celebrate a school that bows to political correctness in the way that we did.

“Wow,” I gulp after reading.

“It was published anonymously,” Soo-Jin tells me, as I hand their phone back to them. “I’d love to talk more about it, but right now, I gotta get to my next class.”

In the afternoon, I catch up with Brad and Soo-Jin on a bench outside the school. The autumn leaves flutter to the ground around us as we chat.

“I feel like whoever wrote that op-ed feels like the only one in the school who still wants to be a Tornado,” Brad says. “Remember, last year, we did the survey, and 70 percent voted to change the name.”

“I thought about all the natural disasters I’ve ever seen — which is a lot,” I remember. “Climate change is making these disasters more intense, and they’re happening more often. When I got the survey, I was like, ‘This is overdue.’ We weren’t easily offended. We weren’t bowing to political correctness. It’s like that Maya Angelou quote. ‘When you know better, you do better.’”

“Will we ever know who wrote it?” Brad wonders.

“Probably not,” Soo-Jin says. “At least whoever wrote it knows that everybody disagrees with them. That must be why they kept themselves anonymous.”

“Hey, Brad!” someone calls from across the parking lot. A big muscular kid, whom I’ve never seen before, is running over to us.

“Hey, Quan!” Brad says. “These are my friends.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, shaking his big, solid hand. “I’m Mallory Ennis, and she’s — sorry, they’re — Soo-Jin Chae.”

Sometimes I forget to use they/them for Soo-Jin, because they have long hair and dress femme. I need to remember more often.

“Cool,” Quan says. “Are you gonna watch me tonight?”

“You’re on the football team?” I ask.

“Yeah. I’m a wide receiver.”

“Then we’ll see you at the game,” I tell Quan. (I’m not really a football fan, but I’ve watched enough to know how the game is played.)

“Bye!” Quan waves to us as he hustles away.

I pull out my phone and open HawkTalk, the school chat app formerly known as TornadoTalk. There’s a link to the op-ed at the top of the chat, with more than a hundred comments. I start reading them.

Whoever wrote this should be suspended.

I hope a tornado destroys this kid’s house.

There’s one that’s no words, just two ax emojis.

I want to tell everyone to turn down the negative vibes, but I know that if I do, they’ll think I’m defending the op-ed, and they might even think I wrote it.

But I have to be part of the conversation. Everybody’s talking about this. I need to be like everybody.

So I like the first comment, and put my phone away.

A couple hours later, I’m sitting in the bleachers with Brad and Soo-Jin. The sky is dark. The lights are on over the field.

As I take a bite of the soft steaming pretzel that I got from the food truck, tonight’s opponents, the Easton High School Voyagers, dash out onto the field. Then, from the other end of the field, our own New Horizon Hawks charge out.

“We won last week at Gateway,” Brad tells me. “Let’s see if we can keep up our streak.”

Easton gets the ball first. They don’t score. When we get the ball, our running back scores a touchdown, and the extra point goes in. It’s 7–0, New Horizon.

In the second quarter, Easton boots in a field goal to make it 7–3. Then we kick a field goal, so at halftime, we’re up 10–3. In the third quarter, Easton scores a touchdown. It’s tied at 10 going into the fourth.

But the New Horizon Hawks won’t let this one stay close. When we score another touchdown to take the lead, the cheers are so loud that the bleachers vibrate.

I see someone holding a sign that says EASTON WROTE THAT OP-ED! Way to mess around with the other team, I think.

“Quan!” Brad roars excitedly, as Quan catches the ball in the end zone a few minutes later. We’re up by two touchdowns now.

Final score: New Horizon 24, Easton 10. The Hawks are soaring high.

When I get to school for the parade on Saturday morning, the parking lot is even more crowded than it was last night. I see the marching band, the cheerleaders, and a couple fire trucks. My crafty classmates have decorated a large banner that says MR. VANG’S CLASS — POLI SCI.

Brad’s holding up one end of the sign. He waves to me. “Hey, Mallory.”

“Hi!” Soo-Jin runs over. “You’re gonna pick me up at my place for the dance tonight, right?” they ask.

“Yup,” I nod. “What about you, Brad?”

Brad shrugs. “I guess I’ll just meet you there.”

The drum beat begins, and the parade starts on its way, out of the parking lot onto Burns Crossing Road. Our class is closer to the end of the parade, so it’s a few minutes before we get to go ahead.

As we march behind our banner, we wave to the neighbors sitting along the road in their folding chairs. When my little brother sees me, he stops eating his goldfish crackers and jumps up. “Hi, Mallory!”

“Hi, Joey!” I call back to him.

Forty-five minutes later, we’re back in the school parking lot. Brad, Soo-Jin, and I take pictures together. A couple of the football players ask us to get a picture of them with their NEW HORIZON HAWKS FOOTBALL sign.

After the players leave, I ask Brad, “Do you think the author of the op-ed stayed home from the parade, in protest?”

“Well, he said that he would still participate in homecoming,” Brad remembers.

Wait a minute. “How did you know it was a he?” I wonder. “Brad, did you write it?” I ask in disbelief.

Brad gulps. After a few seconds, he says nervously, “Yes, but don’t tell anyone.”

It’s like I’ve been struck by a lightning bolt. I look over at Soo-Jin, who’s as astonished and disappointed as I am.

I quietly ride back home with my family. I don’t say much. I’m still processing what I’ve just learned. As soon as we get inside the house, I tell my dad that I need a break.

I go up to my room and flop on my bed. I look at my phone. I have a message from Soo-Jin. Hi Mallory, are you OK?

Me: I don’t know.

Soo-Jin: I get it. I’m so sorry about Brad.

Me: Yeah. Do you still want to go to the dance tonight?

Soo-Jin: Yeah. I’ll be ready for you to pick me up at 6:30.

Me: I’ll be there!

I sigh. I go back to the school website and find the op-ed. I read it to myself again, this time fully aware of whose words I’m reading.

Changed at the request of some easily offended students. I’m not easily offended. I knew why we needed to change that nickname.

A school that bows to political correctness. Not a school that makes a careful and conscious decision to do better?

After a few hours of decompressing and doomscrolling, I open my closet and take out the clothes I’ve picked out for the dance: a light long-sleeve shirt, a pair of jeans with holes in the knees, and a denim jacket. I can keep it casual. It’s not like prom. Tonight, I’m gonna dance until I forget about Brad.

“You’re going now?” my dad asks me, when I come downstairs, all dressed for the dance.

“Yup. I might not be back until after 11:00.”

“You look great,” my dad compliments me.

“Bye, Mallory,” my little brother says, coming in to give me a hug.

“Aww. Thank you, Joey,” I say. I hug him back.

It’s dark by the time I get to Soo-Jin’s house. I park on the street outside and text, Hi! I’m out here now, waiting for you :)

A couple minutes later, Soo-Jin comes out the front door. They’re wearing a thin white jacket over a shirt that’s the same color. I let them in on the passenger side.

“Heyyyy,” Soo-Jin warbles, as they climb in.

“Hey. Sorry it’s a little past 6:30.”

“It’s only 6:38. You’re fine!” Soo-Jin assures me.

When we arrive at the school, we park in one of the only open spaces we can find. Soo-Jin and I take a selfie on the sidewalk, then head inside.

As soon as I open the door to the gym, I’m overwhelmed by the electro-pop music that the DJ’s blasting at full volume, while every kid in our school dances and sings along under the dim blue-purple lights.

There’s a refreshment table against one wall, stacked with potato chips, caramel popcorn, cookies, and a humongous party platter. Soo-Jin and I go to get some snacks.

“Hey! I remember you from last night!” calls Quan, as he comes over and helps himself to a few potato chips.

“I loved watching you play,” I tell Quan between bites.

“Thank you,” Quan says. “Our next home game is in two weeks, against Woodland Hills, if you want to come.”

“Thanks for the invite,” I say with a smile.

The DJ starts playing the Macarena, and Quan dances away. Soo-Jin and I start dancing with everybody else. “Remember when Mr. Vang showed us that video of Hillary Clinton doing the Macarena?” I ask Soo-Jin.

Suddenly, I stop and tap on their shoulder.

“There he is,” I whisper.

Brad’s about fifteen or twenty feet away. Before I can decide whether or not to go talk to him, he looks back at me. He quickly makes his way across the gym to where we’re standing.

“I was wondering if you were here!” Brad says. Then his smile fades as he notices the way I’m looking at him.

Brad lowers his voice. “Look, I’m sorry that my op-ed made everyone at our school angry, but I don’t regret a word of what I wrote.”

I’m not sure that’s a genuine apology.

“If you don’t want to be friends anymore, that’s totally OK. I completely understand how you feel,” Brad tells me. “It’s your choice.”

I stand still for a minute. I think about all the different parts of Brad that make him who he is, some of which I like and agree with, and some of which I don’t.

Soo-Jin puts their hand on my shoulder.

I look down at my feet, then up at Brad.

“I think what you wrote was hurtful. I think most people who have survived a tornado would agree with me,” I tell Brad firmly. Then I add, “You’re still my friend.”

Soo-Jin nods. “I’m with Mallory.”

Brad smiles. “I’m with both of you. Let’s go party now.”

Then we dance hard, and we dance together, late into the night.

And when we leave, we leave as a chosen family.