Radical by Michelle Rhee

Teach For America Summer Institute. I thought it might be a mistake to completely eschew the ritual, but I joined it with a dose of skepticism.
    The group that convened was large. Too large. Clearly the leaders had decided to treat the first session like a tryout. A bit annoyed, but still wanting to prepare for the discussion of the case the following day, I dug in and participated during the group. I’d read the paper carefully and brought up a few insights.
    As the session was drawing to a close, a small Latina woman approached us.
    â€œHey,” she said. “My name is Layla. I’m in your section. Do you mind if I join your group?”
    Obviously, they did.
    â€œActually, I think the group is too large already,” one of the students replied. “I don’t think we have room. Sorry!” Everyone turned their heads to their papers.
    â€œWell, if we don’t have room for her, I think I’m going to join her and start a separate group,” I said quickly.
    â€œUh . . . ,” said the spokesman, having to calculate the benefits and risks quickly. “I guess one more person can’t hurt.”
    And with that, my friendship with Layla Avila took root. In my eyes they were judging both her and me on our race. They figured an Asian student could keep up, but a Latina might be a drag. They didn’t want her to join our group, because they didn’t think she’d add value.
    They ended up being wrong. Very wrong. Layla was brilliant. She and I got along so well that after that first semester—both of us still bitter from the interlude that brought us together—we decided to break off from the group and form our own. We always worked together and then picked up strays here and there, depending on the class and who might be left out.
    Layla and I could not have been more different on paper. She was born to a Mexican mother in East Los Angeles. Her father wasn’t in the picture, and her mom had multiple sclerosis. Layla spent much of her childhood taking care of her mom, often skipping school to do so. She lived in one of the toughest sections of Los Angeles and attended one of the most notoriously bad middle schools, Stevenson Junior High.
    It was there that a teacher, Don Mitchell, took notice of Layla’s undeniable intellect. He saw how easily she grasped concepts, how diligent she was when motivated, how well she completed her assignments. Mitchell also knew that if no one intervened, Layla would attend Roosevelt High School, the worst-performing high school in the city, where she’d likely become a statistic.
    He told Layla about a program called A Better Chance. It plucked kids like Layla out of the ghetto and sent them to private schools throughout the country. Mitchell knew this was Layla’s only chance. He convinced Layla and eventually her mom that she should apply. She was accepted into ABC and was placed at a private school in Colorado Springs, Colorado. Deciding to leave her sick mom was tough, but even back then she knew that if she got a great education, it would make all the difference—so off she went.
    Fountain Valley School of Colorado could not have been more different from East Los Angeles. Layla was one of the few minorities in the school and—as would become the pattern in Layla’s life—she was underestimated. When she arrived she heard murmurs of “affirmative action kids” who were taking spots away from other, more deserving students. But Layla did her thing, unfazed by the unwelcoming climate.
    She studied alone and kept to herself. She didn’t make many friends. She focused on proving everyone wrong. At the end of her first semester, she was ranked number one in her class. Her classmates were stunned.
    She remembers mumbling to her detractors: “Affirmative action my ass.”
    D ESPITE NEVER HAVING BEEN a great student, I found my stride at the Kennedy School. Layla and I took an almost