I go to a diverse, inner-city public school with an almost all-white Advanced Placement program established within it. Most Garfield High School students say the races mix socially. The truth is there are visible divides. Many of my black friends who take difficult classes have told me how uncomfortable they feel in a classroom of white high-achievers. It wasn’t until I joined the Garfield track team that I truly understood how it felt to have to prove myself to people who do not expect me to succeed. As one of only two white girls on the varsity team, I was a minority for the first time in my life.
       
Early in my first season, the coach gathered the team to announce lineups. Asuba and Danielle, both black, were the fastest runners on the team—shoo-ins for the varsity spots. When I was called to race the 100-meter relay with them, startled murmurs spread through the group. They were as surprised as I was that a white sprinter had made varsity.
      
In a big mid-season race, my relay team beat the defending district champions. Thrilled, I bounded across the field to congratulate the other girls. I did my best to wedge myself into the huddle of celebration, but they ignored me. I felt awkward and invisible.
      
I never really became close with my teammates that year. My junior season, though, I was determined to earn their respect. I drove Asuba and Danielle nearly every day to practice. They talked to each other and I tried to comment and ask questions when possible. However, when we got out of the car each day, we were no more acquainted than if I had picked up a couple of hitchhikers.
      
On a rare sweltering day in Seattle, we had a meet at a wealthy school. The other team sat in the shade under shiny white tarp shelters. We had nothing like that. I suggested we make our own shelter using all we had: three purple umbrellas, a few blankets, and loads of medical tape. The tent’s coziness made it easy to talk. Asuba talked about how much she liked track. I said that I loved the purity of the sport, the feeling of flying. Talking about our love of running seemed to dissolve a bigger barrier. From there, we touched on the topic of race. As the discussion became heavier, people were careful to phrase their words delicately. We agreed we wanted to be friends with people who are different from us, but once we stepped out of our comfort zones, we felt vulnerable.
      
Another day in the car, Asuba put in a rap CD. The girls danced while I bobbed my head, pretending to know the songs. I had become more comfortable around them, so I tried to dance along. When they laughed at my lame attempt, I couldn’t help but laugh too. After that, every practice was full of laughter. We sang as we ran warm-up laps, told jokes as we stretched, and played pranks on our coaches.
      
As a junior, I volunteered to give a speech in honor of the graduating seniors at the end-of-season banquet. As I spoke, I looked into the eyes of each girl and saw tears. My voice grew shaky. I tried to keep my composure. It was impossible not to be affected by the overwhelming sense of belonging that had evolved. We had made true, lasting connections across the racial divide, and that was hard to do. I had been part of something rare and I didn’t want it to end. The long awkwardness turned out to be the most valuable discomfort I have ever experienced.

Sophie Monique Egan, Stanford University Class of 2009