In the world after affirmative action what are young people finding to be the major sources of inequity in their personal lives and how are they overcoming them? Caille Millner, an 18-year-old African American from San Jose, Ca., is keeping a journal on her experiences as she navigates her way through Harvard University where she is completing her first semester. Here are the second two entries in her journal. Millner writes for YO! (Youth Outlook), a newspaper by and about young people published by Pacific News Service.

THE TOKEN BLACK IN AF-AM 101

CAMBRIDGE, MASS. -- My section for African-American Studies class has a very interesting problem.

There are no African-American students in there.

Well, there's me, of course. And there are two other black girls in my section, both of whom follow the tacit rules of femininity at Harvard and keep their mouths shut in class. The rest of the class is filled with white males. Thirteen, to be exact. And one very nervous white female teaching fellow.

The first day I walked into my section of Af-Am I almost cried. For two weeks I'd been enthralled with Professor Cornel West's lectures, and the class -- one of the largest in the undergraduate division, with about 400 people -- is filled with black people. In fact, almost everyone I know is taking Af-Am. Somehow I pulled the lucky number and got a section with people who are true novices to the struggles of black people.

I guess my above statements sound pretty racist. But it's difficult to be patient in a section where no one understands the implications of the Dred Scott decision, and no one has any understanding of the "one-drop rule" (one drop of black blood makes you black). I try to be as helpful as possible, but I went to college to get away from being the token black kid.

When we were discussing W. E. B. DuBois' masterpiece "The Souls of Black Folk," one of the men in my class mentioned that he didn't understand why DuBois would describe life as a black person as a "veil." The teaching fellow asked the three of us women to explain, saying, "Perhaps you could shed some light on the subject?"

I can't explain black America. I don't have special expertise that makes me any better than someone else at shedding light on the problems of black people. So why did I get placed in a section full of people who look to me as an expert?

I suppose I should be happy that there are so many white people taking Af-Am. After all, I've said for years that most whites are ignorant of black history. So why do I feel so uneasy going into section? Why do I inwardly groan when some guy says, "I don't see the reason why Sethe killed her baby in "Beloved" (the novel by Toni Morrison)?

It's a testament to the queasy state of race relations in America that none of us is comfortable with the class. The men look at the women as threats to their masculinity, their pride, and their intellectual capacity. They refuse to look at us whenever some atrocity is brought up, like they expect us to turn around and say, "It's all your fault!" Meanwhile, we look at them with disgust for being ignorant of phenomena -- like oppression -- they haven't experienced. We should be resources for each other in this class, helping each other grow. Instead, we are locked in our own battles of buried anger and latent fear.

It's difficult to be in a situation where even your own history doesn't feel like your own. Sitting in a class full of white men, white men whose ancestors may have done detestable things to my ancestors, I can't feel the joy of DuBois' narrative or sympathize with Sethe in "Beloved." I can only shift in my seat and feel strange, full of ecstasy for the knowledge and sadness for those with whom I am sharing it.

A CALIFORNIAN'S ISOLATION IN A BLACK-WHITE WORLD

In California, something about the racial demographics lets you know that you're not alone as a minority in America. Indeed, California is besieged by minorities -- blacks and Latinos, East Indians and East Asians. In a few years, whites will cease to be the majority in my home state. Being bilingual -- at least -- is practically a prerequisite to apply for citizenship.

It's not that way here in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

I came here with the knowledge that things would be different, that my identity and consciousness as a black person would be radically altered. Boston is a city as old as white America itself, with no history of Aztecs and Mexican heritage continuing to affect the way the people live. I expected race to be a polarizing issue, even more so than in multiculturally-mad California.

What I didn't expect was the feeling of isolation.

Race is truly a black and white issue here.

Yesterday, at a meeting for the on-campus publication "Diversity and Distinction," a Latina got up and spoke about how alone she felt. A native of Texas, she had arrived at Harvard to find out that only one in thirteen students here look anything like her. I watched her, transfixed. It had been three weeks since I had seen a Latino.

In Boston there are chiefly two racial groups and have been for centuries -- blacks and whites. Everything is construed in these terms, all "racial strife" falls between these two groups. And it's true. There aren't many Latinos here, not many East Indians, not many East Asians. The fight is between two groups of people. Judging from the signs of tension here, it's going to be a long, cold fight.

I miss the presence of other minorities. I miss them not only because they are constant reminders of what it means to fight the war against racism in America but also because they truly add richness to my existence. Walking down halls and hearing only the pidgin English spoken by young adults when I am accustomed to the resonance of smooth caramel Spanish and sharply beguiling Asian tongues is a hollow, empty experience. Learning the way others respond to oppression on a day-to-day basis, watching and responding in solidarity, is an experience I miss.

And there will be oppression. There will be problems. Minorities make up about 35 percent of Harvard's population, mostly blacks and Asians. Harvard has no multicultural center, no Ethnic Studies concentration, shabby coverage of Asian studies and Latino studies and no network of support for alienated young minorities here on campus.

In many ways I feel as though the other minorities here are even worse off than I am. For once I have the support of several hundred black people around me. The Latina in my meeting yesterday doesn't have that. She has no way of finding it.