First I need to tell you about lunchtime. Monday lunch hour was when the SAS Club got together. That’s the Students Against Segregation Club. I had told Paul that I would join, and although there are various other ways I screw up, I am always a man of my word. Besides, I was grateful that there was a group of like-minded people in my school unwilling to accept the status quo. I found Paul in the cafeteria, and we went to Mr. DeVaney’s room, where the meetings were held.

“I didn’t think you’d actually join,” Paul said as we left the cafeteria. “I figured you were just saying you’d join to be polite.”

“When have you ever known me to be polite?” I asked.

“Good point.”

Mr. DeVaney was a popular teacher. He taught woodworking and ceramics, and apparently saw his real job to be molding shapeless high school minds into things of beauty. Or at least things that were marginally useful. There were about twenty kids in the room. Some of them I knew, some I didn’t, and some I’m pretty sure didn’t exist before last week.

I wanted there to be more members. I had imagined standing room only. I suppose there were more kids who supported desegregation, but didn’t support it enough to join a club. It made me wonder how many important causes were crushed not by opposition, but by lukewarm support.

And also by useless measures.

Today’s discussion was about a proposed bake sale “to raise money and awareness for desegregation.” One girl was planning to make black-and-white cookies, but someone else argued that the very nature of black-and-white cookies reinforced segregation, and that led to a full-on debate about the symbolic nature and unintended messages of desserts.

“Uh . . . excuse me,” I said, because no one seemed to notice me raising my hand. “I’m sure the cookies will be delicious regardless of their symbolism—but do you really think a bake sale is the best way to go about this?”

All eyes turned to me, and I realized I had nothing. No ideas, just complaints about theirs.

Mr. DeVaney took control of the situation with practiced calm. “We’ve been planning this for quite a while, Ash,” he said—his way of reminding me that I was a new voice in the room. But as a new voice, maybe I had a fresh perspective.

“What if we did bigger things,” I asked the group. “We could . . . I don’t know . . . hold a school walkout. Or we could pack a city council meeting and demand justice—you know, something that would get in the news and might convince others to do it, too. I mean, a bake sale’s fine if you want to raise money for a dance—but . . .” And since I had nothing past the “but,” I shut up.