What about all of the oppressed minorities in the US? How do these minorities bear on the notion of American exceptionalism?

Marquis waited in eager anticipation for the director to read the cast list. The director stood in the middle of the dimly lit stage, surrounded by a circle of a hundred or so aspiring actors. Much to Marquis’s annoyance, the director started with the never-ending list of smaller roles. Name after name rolled off his tongue. Each name was accompanied with a shriek of delight and a hug for the director. Eventually the list came to an end, and the director began to read the assignments for the main roles. At this point, there were about ten actors left on the stage. Only five actors would receive a main role. Those who did not get called were effectively cut from the production.

Marquis surveyed the remaining actors. They were huddled in a loose circle around the director. Some of the actors were fidgeting nervously; others listened intently at each prophetic word that came out of the director’s mouth. Keith stood slightly removed from the group, running a few fingers through his silky gold hair, seemingly bored by the whole casting ordeal. For a second, Keith’s electric blue eyes met Marquis’s and a mutual feeling of resentment passed between them. Throughout the auditions an enmity had developed between the two.

Keith was NOT a good actor. He couldn’t memorize lines and he certainly couldn’t deliver them with proper emotion. To make up for his lack of skill, Keith tossed his golden mane back and forth, flashed a charming smile or two, and pouted his beautiful blue eyes. With thick black curls, dull brown eyes, and mahogany-colored skin, Marquis couldn’t simply rely on charm to act. Instead Marquis acted with a professional charisma, unmatched by any other actor at the audition. Time after time, fellow actors would express their amazement at his talent. Even the director would praise Marquis’s performances.

Yet, during auditions, Marquis was always cast as the secondary role, while Keith took the lead. Now that the final cuts were being made, Marquis did not expect anything different. The director read out the assignments, and inevitably, Keith was designated as the lead. Marquis waited for his own name to be called as the supporting role, but was shocked when the director announced that the list had come to end. Marquis stood completely still, arms limp at his sides. His name had not been called at all. Marquis looked at the director for an explanation, but the director was busy talking to somebody else. The lights of the stage glared in Marquis’s eyes, blurring his vision; the temperature in the theatre rose a couple of degrees. Marquis felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning around, he looked into the mocking eyes of Keith.

“Congratulations” said Keith.

Marquis’s hands started to tremble as anger welled in his chest. Without thinking, Marquis swung one fist at Keith’s smug face. The impact left Keith clutching his face on the ground. Everybody in the theatre stopped, shifting their attention to Marquis.

Marquis didn’t care, he kept walking. He walked straight out of the theatre exit, into the city streets. He was going home, away from these sickening people. Behind him the director pleaded “Marquis come back, you don’t understand. Let me explain...”. Marquis didn’t take heed; the words were meaningless echoes in his head.

Outside, it was a cold autumn afternoon. The sky was covered by a thin coating of grey clouds. Behind the clouds, the sun shone lightly. Occasionally, a breeze would whistle through the air, piercing through Marquis’s skimpy sweatshirt. Marquis did not notice, he continued to walk towards his house, thinking about the recent events. It was because he was black. He was the only black actor in the entire production. Of course they wanted to cut him. As he walked, the quality of the neighborhoods continued to worsen. The luxurious, modern storefronts of the city were replaced with ramshackle convenient stores, squeezed together in a crowded mess. On the street corner, a circle of hooded black teenagers huddled around something. One teenager broke off from the group, and approached Marquis. The kid’s cocaine-lit eyes peered into Marquis’s face. With his hands, the kid motioned to a small bag of white powder in his inner coat pocket. Marquis looked at him and thought, is this what was left for a black kid? Disgusted, Marquis shoved the kid aside and continued walking.

Eventually Marquis reached his house: a small, dirty-white ranch. Marquis fumbled with the lock, before opening the door. When he entered, his mom was sitting in the cramped living room, tears pouring down her face. Marquis’s heart sped up rapidly.

“What’s wrong Ma” sputtered Marquis.

His mom pointed to a letter lying on the tea table. “It’s from your director”

Apprehensively, Marquis picked up the letter. In bold lettering, the heading read “Congratulations on Your Acceptance to New York University Tisch School of Arts”. Marquis’s heart fluttered as he continued to read. Not only did he get accepted into one of the most prestigious performing art programs in the United States, Marquis got a full scholarship because of his financial circumstances.

A couple hours ago, Marquis’s entire life was going downhill. Acting was the only thing Marquis really had in life. It was the only thing he had pursued with honest dedication. When Marquis was cut from the play, it appeared as if the white man had taken acting from him too. 

America had always been touted as an exceptional country that upheld the dreamer and the hard-worker. As Marquis's mother put it, “The good guys always win here”. When Obama was elected President, Marquis believed in that idea. When Trayvon Martin was killed, Marquis questioned it.

A couple hours ago, Marquis had definite questions about American exceptionalism. Though with one simple letter, Marquis’s faith was strongly reaffirmed in the exceptional America and the beautiful dream it offered.