"I thank God for Gaby," says Casta Florido, embracing her daughter after church. Gaby credits her confidence to faith in God. (Lois Raimondo - The Washington Post) _____ About This Series _____ DAY 1 Teens Living on Sidelines: When Gaby Florido came here from Bolivia, she could not have imagined that one day she would be a candidate for homecoming queen at her Arlington high school and a senior headed for college. But Gaby is the exception: Even in schools where Latino students are the majority, most of them stay on the sidelines socially. * Immigration Researchers See World of Struggles * Faces in the Hall * Glossary * Photo Gallery DAY 2 Despite multifaceted efforts to bridge cultural and language differences, high schools have generally remained the same: Similar kids hang out together. Even in a school like Washington-Lee, where 66 percent of the students are minorities, it is a self-segregation trend that experts find alarming. DAY 3 They are immigrant teenagers, arriving here during the most awkward time of life. Some have lost a parent; others have seen war; few speak English. Teaching them is particularly tricky: How do you teach a new language while also challenging students intellectually with complex ideas? E-Mail This Article Printer-Friendly Version Subscribe to The Post

By Emily Wax
Washington Post Staff Writer
Monday, May 28, 2001; Page A01

First of three articles

She is standing under the stadium lights at the center of a football field, basking in an American moment she once thought would exist for her only on a flickering television in Bolivia.

Homecoming weekend at Arlington's Washington-Lee High School looks just like the one on "Beverly Hills 90210," she thinks, when it was dubbed in Spanish and broadcast to living rooms in South America.

Before her family immigrated to Arlington six years ago, this is the America she pictured. Hunky football players. Bouncy cheerleaders. Booming music and booming wealth. And here she is, part of it. At 18, one of the chosen.

"Gaby! Ganas!" her Latino friends call into the night air from the bleachers.

Gabriela Florido. And her ganas. A word her friends use to mean "You go, girl," a rallying cry of encouragement. Its literal translation: desire.

Tonight, as she stands there, her normally straight black hair curls gently over her shoulders. Her cheeks, her arms, her hair, her dress all shine with glitter. Viewed from across the field, she glows.

She is waiting to hear if she will win that American symbol of high school success: homecoming queen. Two weeks earlier, when she heard her name called over the loudspeaker as one of the finalists selected by the student body, she jumped up and down so high and so many times that she made herself dizzy.

"My brother ran home and told my mom," Gaby says. "I don't think she was sure what it meant. But I told her: 'Mami, they chose me to represent them!' I am so shocked! A Latina!"

Now, as she waits, her high heels sinking slowly into the muddy turf, her hands are clammy, her stomach weak.

Latinos outnumber Anglos at Gaby's high school, but those numbers don't necessarily work in her favor in the homecoming contest. To think so would be to assume that the Latino students will vote for something they feel is not a part of their lives.

At Washington-Lee, as at many diverse high schools across the country, Anglo students overwhelmingly run the student council, the yearbook, the honor society, the prom and - with the exception of soccer - the sports. They plan the school dances; they act in the school plays. If you're talking school spirit, they are the kids who supply it.

The gap in test scores, dropout rates and four-year college enrollment between white and Latino students has long been a subject of concern. But another divide haunts these teenagers, one that's harder to measure: a social gap, which academic researchers say has deep implications for a student's life and may be just as damaging.

"The Spanish kids often feel very left out of a lot of stuff going on," says Carla Gamboa, 18, who came here from Bolivia when she was in middle school. "You see the white students in the halls, but it's two different worlds. We should have more power. But we don't."

Census figures show that the Latino population is roughly equal to that of African Americans and that Latinos will soon be the largest minority group in the country. Some schools already reflect that: Washington-Lee's student body is approximately 37 percent Latino, 35 percent white, 15 percent Asian and 14 percent black.

Yet Latino involvement in the school remains marginal. Nationwide, the pattern is the same at schools with similar demographics. And it correlates with even more troubling signs of alienation: One in four Latinos drops out before graduation, and Latinos who quit are less likely than other groups to earn a general equivalency diploma later in life.

"I think we are realizing that the ownership these students feel in their school, their student life, is far, far more important than anyone realized," said Carola Suarez-Orozco, professor and co-director of the Harvard Immigration Project, which is studying the issue. "We need to start paying more attention to this. Otherwise, these kids are going to check out."

Cheryl Robinson, the Arlington schools' minority achievement coordinator, suggested that the social gap "is actually driving the test-score data. How can you expect a person to do well at work if they don't feel a part of their company? How welcome a student feels could mean how hard they will try in their classes."

In the Arlington schools, officials have responded with massive systemwide efforts, revamping the way schools handle language, culture and academic achievement. They're coming at the issue from a dozen different directions: a club that encourages Latinos to go to college, a Latino parents association, soccer practice held in Spanish.

"It's a huge challenge, and it keeps you searching for ways to meet the needs of all of the students in this school," said Marion D. Spraggins, Washington-Lee's principal. "It's definitely more difficult than having one curriculum and one solution for every problem."

This is familiar territory for Robert G. Smith, superintendent of Arlington schools. His 19,000-student school district is part of a national group called the Minority Student Achievement Network, made up of 15 districts, all searching for answers.

"The needs of the students are so diverse," Smith said. "We have different language groups, different immigrant groups - who have come here last week or who came here three generations ago - and we have African American students and we have white students. And somehow we want them all to feel a part of one school."

The melting pot is nothing new; it has long been an integral part of America's definition of itself. For two centuries, the route to success for immigrants has been assimilation: learn English, blend in, become an American.

But today's immigrant teenagers are a new chapter in an old American story, and Jeanne Osso, an English teacher, thinks that the assimilation model may not work for Washington-Lee's Latinos. She ponders this as she watches the students flood into school, carrying backpacks with "El Salvador" scrawled in ink across the back, rather than "Washington Redskins" or "Backstreet Boys."

"Do they blend into the school and just assimilate?" she asks. "Or is the school changed by their culture?"

Osso encourages her Latino students to vote for Latino names whenever there is a school election. "I know it sounds strange," she says, "but this way, I tell them, they can have someone with their background to represent them." As for homecoming, Osso wonders if there should be a second homecoming during soccer season so students from Latin America will show up, build the floats and compete for the titles.

Language is only part of the gulf that separates the students. In culture, in economics, in religious beliefs, in their perceptions of their place in society, many Latino students are as distanced from the mainstream as if they were still watching "90210" in Spanish.

"We are too shy to be the leaders," said Jimena Angulo, 17, who came here from Bolivia when she was 12. "We are even too shy to be the followers."

It's a sunny afternoon on an early-dismissal day - that sweet thing students call "half-day, half-play" - and Carla and Jimena are sitting at a table in El Pollo Rico, a Peruvian chicken restaurant on Washington Boulevard, with a half-dozen friends.

They are guzzling Inca cola - a Peruvian drink that tastes like liquid bubble gum - and talking about Gaby and her bid for homecoming queen.

They are not like Gaby, they say. They don't try as hard in class, and they don't try to fit in as much with the white culture at school. They admire her for it, but they can't even imagine trying.

Jimena, an outspoken girl whose friends affectionately refer to her as their "loudmouth leader," counts off several reasons why Latino students don't participate more. Some of them work and have no time for yearbook or sports or prom committees. Some have just arrived from other countries and have trouble simply coping. Some are afraid of being made fun of by white students and white teachers.

"It's like when some Spanish kids are smart but they are afraid to be in those higher classes," Carla chimes in.

Overall, Jimena says, the students lack the self-esteem, the confidence, to assert themselves in anything besides the Latino clubs.

One effort to change that is an annual day-long pep rally, held at George Mason University, for Latino middle and high school students. The students are excused from school, receive free lunches of Bolivian and Salvadoran food, and meet with Latino lawyers, activists and magazine writers. The speakers all have the same message: Don't let anyone get you down. Get involved.

"If you choose to do nothing, to say nothing, then you are making a statement that Latinos don't count," Teresa Martinez, a lawyer in Arlington, tells the students. "But you are living in a wonderful time. You are the perfect group. You are teenagers and you are Latinos and you can be involved.

"You may be the first Latino someone comes into contact with," she says. "They will think, 'This is what a Latino is like.' You don't just represent yourself, you represent a community. So get involved in your school."

At the end of the speech, Sarah Zeballos, 18, Gaby's best friend, rushes up to Martinez. "How did you keep your culture and still do this?" she asks. "How do you break through the crowds and be the only Latina in advanced classes or at Harvard?"

Challenge yourself, Martinez tells her. "Sometimes people will tell you, 'Latinos - they can't do it,' " she says. "Sometimes your family will say that. Sometimes a counselor will say that. Ignore them all." A tiny smile appears on Sarah's face.

"I was so happy that I didn't want to leave," she says later. "I never thought they would want a Bolivian girl like me at Harvard."

Spraggins, who was appointed principal of Washington-Lee this school year, is troubled by a statement like that. She has held meetings after school to let teachers know that she wants all students - including recent immigrants - to be encouraged to try for advanced classes, get involved in the talent show or the prom and apply to prestigious schools.

"For me, education was the road to a different kind of life. Education was the one thing no one can take away from you," says Spraggins, an African American who went to high school during segregation in southern Virginia.

Mickey Mouse himself welcomed a 13-year-old Gaby to the United States. She had gone to Disney World with her parents and brother Oliver for her sister Carla's 15th birthday. They ate soft ice cream and rode roller coasters and listened to "It's a Small World."

"I remember thinking, 'Wow, I love this country,' " Gaby says.

Her family never left. After the vacation, they moved in with relatives in Arlington. "We left everything - my dolls, my books, even our house - to stay," she says.

One of her first memories of her life in America is of sitting on her uncle's lap while he read "Cinderella" to her in English. He told her about the importance of ganas. And asked her to sit down and copy the book.

Which she did, "maybe 200 times," even though she couldn't understand a single word.

She can still remember almost every line.

"I remember feeling so good when I started to understand the words, and I thought, 'If white people can make it here, why can't we?'," Gaby says.

When she started school, though, she realized that many Latinos weren't making it. They weren't in the advanced classes, and they were not active in sports. No matter. She joined the tennis team, even though she was the only Latina. She played soccer and encouraged Latina friends to try out. She told her teachers that she wanted to be in advanced classes, even though she was nervous about taking those subjects without her friends.

She attributes her ganas to faith in God. Gaby sings in the church choir, leads prayer services and helps feed homeless people through a program at her church, Arlington United Methodist. She attends Spanish-language services every week with her family.

Their tourist visas have long expired. But they pay taxes and have work permits. And a recent law allowed them to pay a fine and apply for green cards.

Lockers slam. Students flood the halls. It's 2:30 on a chilly fall afternoon, and Gaby calls the first meeting of the Latin American Students Association to a noisy start.

"Vamanos, guys. Come on," Gaby says, standing in the front of the room.

In the front row, senior Nick Trujillo is slumped in his seat. He has been up since 5:15 a.m., and he is due at his 20-hour-a-week job at a supermarket in less than an hour. His eyes droop.

Even in this club, there are divisions. For instance, some Salvadoran students say they won't vote for Gaby for homecoming queen because she's from South America rather than Central America. But without much debate, the club elects Gaby president and Nick vice president.

After the meeting, a few students linger. Gaby insists that homecoming is going to be better this year, that Latino students are going to try to go to some of the planning meetings. They are going to help build floats, ask for salsa music.

"We are going to be, like, 'Come on, guys, you better play salsa,' " Gaby said. They all shake their heads - yeah, sure - and then ask each other who has time to go to a homecoming planning meeting after school next week.

Nick gets up. He announces that he's exhausted. He's going home. "They'd better play salsa at the dance," he says as he leaves.

"Well, I can't go to the meeting," says Marvin Guzman, a senior with a thin mustache and chubby cheeks. "I want to, but gotta work."

A few other students promise to go.

Social studies teacher Peter Vogel likes to keep his fourth-period sociology class lively. He loves to relate class discussions to everyday high school life.

Today, the class is talking about a Latino student who was ejected from the SAT for wearing a hat while a white student also wearing a hat was not told to leave.

This class is one of the few at the school - aside from physical education - that reflect Washington-Lee's population. And the students - white, black and Latino - in this elective class believe that minority students are picked on more than Anglos. They believe it's worse for Latinos because administrators think Spanish-speaking parents won't complain when their kids are punished.

"I feel bad and I think it's unfair that all my mom has to do if I get in trouble is talk to the principal or higher-level officials," says Lisa Henderson, 15, a white student whose mother is PTA president. "My mom has been working with the school system a long time. She knows all the channels."

Although school officials vigorously say they hope the students' perception is not right, some teachers say it doesn't matter in the end: Latino students still believe it is reality, which deepens their feeling that they are not a part of the school.

Even students as mild-mannered as Nick and Marvin worry that when some white people see a Latino student they think gang, thug, bad person.

W.E.B. Du Bois, the African American civil rights leader and writer, called it "double consciousness - a sense of always looking at one's self through the eyes of others, of measuring one's soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity."

Or, as Nick puts it: "Sometimes people just feel inferior. Sometimes . . . even if they try to participate, it's hard."

That's the frustration he feels on homecoming night. The Latino students get completely decked out for a fancy dinner at a fancy place. They heard white students planning similar outings and thought, "Why not?"

So here they are at the Chart House in Old Town Alexandria. Nick is wearing shiny black shoes. Lizeth Marin, his date, has a lot of hair spray holding her curls in place. Luz Carera is wearing eye makeup, a purple dress. They are the only Latino students in the restaurant.

The place is mobbed with white students, many from suburban schools in Fairfax County, waiting in long lines to get a seat. The Chart House is the restaurant of choice this year, and limousines linger outside with engines humming. Many of the students arrive with lots of cash or credit cards in their pockets; Nick and his friends arrive with an average of $20 each and no plastic.

The waiter brings a hunk of bread on a wooden block and a cream-colored dish that holds, as Nick puts it, some "dignified-looking butter," with scallions laced through it. When they open their menus, the prices make their eyes bug out.

"Whoa!" Nick calls out. Some entrees cost as much as $30. They decide to order appetizers. A frazzled waiter arrives, and when they tell him that they are going to order only soups and garlic bread, he gets upset. He asks if anyone at the table is going to order a full meal. They say no, but they are still waiting for a few friends to arrive. So the waiter asks them to please leave. They do, but unhappily.

A few minutes later, they are inside the food court across the way, buying Snapples and paying $4.95 for "some undignified-looking" Chinese food in Styrofoam containers.

"Was it because we were Spanish that we were asked to leave?" Luz wonders aloud.

Todd Jarvis, a manager at the restaurant, said he did not know of the incident and could not comment specifically on what happened. But he is sure that they weren't asked to leave because they were Latinos or because they were teenagers. The only thing he can assume is that they were waiting too long for more friends to arrive in a very crowded restaurant without ordering full meals and that a waiter suggested they make a decision to stay or go.

Months later, though, the memory still stirs emotion in the students.

Homecoming night. Gaby arrives with her mother. In the bleachers, people are already cheering. Sarah touches up Gaby's hair. Gaby, who is always calm, looks nervous.

The homecoming court lines up. There is silence. Then the principal's voice crackles over the microphone, echoing into the night air.

"Homecoming queen this year for Washington-Lee is Ariel Wagner."

Ariel Wagner, a white student and the class president, steps forward. All the girls on the homecoming court hug each other.

"It's okay, it's okay," Gaby says as she runs off the field and hugs Sarah, her mother and her sister. "Ariel is a sweet girl. She deserved it."

Some other Hispanic students gather around. Some congratulate Gaby on making it to the court. Others lament her losing.

But Gaby is still smiling. She keeps saying how just being on the court was a huge step forward. "I still have ganas," she later says. "Everything will be okay - come on, guys."

The next night is the dance. Gaby gets all dressed up again.

Little paper cutouts of moons and stars hang from the gym ceiling. The lights are so dark, people keep stepping on one another. There is thick pink punch and lots of sweaty people running around the halls.

Gaby and her friends - Marvin and Nick and Luz and Lizeth - arrive late. They sit at a table in the corner of the gym. And wait. They are listening for salsa, but all they hear is hip-hop and rock.

"Man," Marvin says. "I asked for work off to come to this - I hope they play it." Suddenly, he hears it. Gaby squeezes his arm: "See? They did it!" The entire group rushes onto the floor.

The salsa pulses. It throbs. Gaby's feet are twisting forward and backward so fast they blur. Marvin's hips sway, loose and curvy.

Some of the white students try to imitate them. Some roll their eyes.

But Gaby and Marvin are so good that a group gathers around them, clapping.

For a moment anyway, they have the floor.