Piecing Me Together(23)

On the way home, I tell Lee Lee what Sam’s grandma said about North Portland. “That’s why I walked her to the bus stop,” I say. “To make her grandparents comfortable.”

Lee Lee laughs. She says, “White people are a trip.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t believe her grandparents are scared to let her come over here. There are a lot of white people who live over here. Don’t they know that?” she asks. “And maybe they don’t know—but Northeast has its sketchy streets still. It hasn’t changed over there that much.” Lee Lee shakes her head. “How you gonna live in a ’hood but be afraid to come to another ’hood?” she asks.

We laugh about that the whole way home.





27


agradecido

thankful

For Thanksgiving, Mom and I do our annual tradition. This time E.J. and Lee Lee join us. We go downtown and volunteer at the Portland Rescue Mission. “We don’t have much, but we have more than a lot of other people,” Mom says.

I hope one day my family gets to a place where we can be thankful just to be thankful and not because we’ve compared ourselves to someone who has less than we do.

After we’re done dishing out turkey dinners with all the holiday fixings, we eat dinner at my house. Mom made ham with her not-so-secret ingredient of brown sugar, and all the traditional sides are spread across the table. Everything looks so good, you’d never know this wasn’t some fancy dining room table holding it all up.

As we eat, Lee Lee says, “My teacher Mrs. Phillips doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving. Can you believe that?”

Mom puts her fork down. “Why not? She doesn’t have anything to be thankful for?”

E.J. swallows and says, “Oh, Mrs. Phillips—I remember her. She’s that revolutionary-activist-fight-the-power teacher at Northside. I loved her class,” he says. “I remember her telling us that Thanksgiving should actually be a national day of mourning or something like that.”

Lee Lee nods. “That’s exactly what she says.”

“What does that even mean?” Mom asks.

E.J. answers, “Basically, we’re sitting here feasting and celebrating that our nation was stolen from indigenous people. Columbus didn’t discover nothing.”

All of a sudden my food doesn’t taste as good as before.

Mom wipes her mouth with her napkin. “I’ve never thought about it like that. Thanksgiving has always been a day for getting together with family, a day to thank God for my personal blessings. But, well, I guess your teacher has a point.” Mom takes another bite of food.

Lee Lee says, “Yeah, Mrs. Phillips is always asking us to think about other perspectives. Next week we’re having a cultural exchange with teens who attend a program at the Native American Youth and Family Center.”

“I think we went there, too.” E.J. says. “And they came over to the rec.”

I feel so embarrassed that I’ve never even thought about any of this. Never realized that there was a community center for Native American youth here in Portland. Mom, E.J., and Lee Lee keep on talking, comparing the experience of African Americans and Native Americans in the United States. I don’t even know what was said to make E.J. get all fired up. He’s talking like he’s in a debate. “I mean, I get all of that—the US has done some messed-up things. But I’d rather live here than any other country. Real talk. I feel what Mrs. Phillips is saying and everything, but at the end of the day, we still got a lot to be thankful for living here.”

Mom takes a bite of food, then says, “Jade, you’re mighty quiet over there. What do you think?”

“Me?” I take a moment to get my thoughts together. “I guess, well, you’re all right. I think the US has a lot to be thankful for and a lot to apologize for.”

The rest of dinner is more somber than usual. The mood doesn’t lighten up until Mom brings out the peach cobbler that Lee Lee and I made. It’s the first time we’ve ever baked anything from scratch. Mom dishes out cobbler for each of us. I watch her as she takes her first bite. “You like it?” I ask.

“Mmm-hmm,” she says, even though the look on her face says she wants to spit it out.

E.J. gets a spoon and scoops out a bite. “Let me taste,” he says. He blows on the spoon, all dramatic like it’s burning hot, and then he puts it into his mouth. He swallows and looks at Mom, who gives him her don’t-start-nothing look, and then he says, “No comment.”

Lee Lee hits him on the arm. “Forget you. Next time you make dessert.”

“Next time let’s just get ice cream from Safeway.”

We all end up laughing, and the night ends with card games and Scrabble, and I go to bed, full in so many, many ways.





28


las diferencias

differences

It’s the first weekend of December. The rain is steady and the air is cold. Maxine honks her horn for me to come out. I get into her car and am greeted by the blowing heat. It feels like a sauna in here.

We drive downtown, to the Portland Art Museum. “Have you been to a museum before?” Maxine asks.

“Does OMSI count?”

“Kind of. Well, not really. I mean, OMSI is interactive, so it’s not the same as traditional museums. That’s what makes it so unique. Where we’re going today is, like, well, I don’t know. It might be different than what you’ve experienced. Like, you can’t touch the art and you won’t be able to take photos, and it’s a really quiet space, so we’ll have to talk softly.”