Piecing Me Together(42)

53


para abogar

to advocate

When I walk into the classroom, Mr. Flores is eating lunch and watching a video on his lap top. I hear a voice saying, “Natasha Ramsey was released from the hospital this morning.”

Mr. Flores pauses the video. “Sorry, I forgot we had an appointment.” He pushes his sandwich to the side. “Come on over, Jade. Have a seat.”

“You can finish watching that, if you want,” I tell him.

“Oh, this? I was watching the press conference they had this morning on Natasha Ramsey’s case. But I can get to it later,” he says.

“I’d like to watch it with you, if that’s okay.” I sit at Mr. Flores’s desk. He touches the play button. We watch the doctor finish his statement, and then Vancouver’s mayor speaks. Someone representing the family ends by thanking the citizens of the Vancouver-Portland area for their support and prayers.

When the video is over, Mr. Flores says, “I’m so relieved she’s going to be okay. Physically, anyway. Who knows what the psychological damage will be?” He closes his computer. “Thanks for suggesting we watch it together,” he says. “So, ah, ?qué pasa?”

I hesitate. My problem seems trivial now after remembering Natasha Ramsey. There are worse things happening in this world. But if I don’t say it now, I never will. “I just wanted to ask a question,” I say. “I— I wanted to know why you didn’t think to nominate me for the study abroad program.” I look away, down at the floor, before I get a glimpse of his reaction.

“Well, Jade, that’s a good question.”

I give him my reasons why I think I deserve to go. “I have an A in your class. You always pick me to help people in the class who are struggling. And, you know, this is an opportunity to do volunteer work and service and that would look really good on my college résumé; plus, without the study abroad program, I doubt I’ll ever, ever get an opportunity to travel internationally.” Maybe I shouldn’t have said that last point, but it’s true. And he needs to know.

Mr. Flores’s face changes color like a mood ring. He is white, pink, red. He takes a deep breath. “You are right that, technically, you deserved to go, but, well, I wanted to be fair to the other students,” he tells me. “You have a lot of support and are in a lot of programs.” He pauses, then continues, “Jade, other students need opportunities too.” Then he wraps up the rest of his sandwich and puts it back into his bag.

“I’m not saying the students who were nominated shouldn’t have been. I’m saying I should have been too. Why am I only seen as someone who needs and not someone who can give?” I ask.

Mr. Flores doesn’t answer my question. Instead he says, “Don’t you realize you’re in those programs because we believe in you? We know you have potential. That SAT prep class you were in last year is going to make it easier for you when it comes time to take the test.” Mr. Flores sits forward in his seat, like he’s going to stand, like he’s ready to go and be done with this conversation.

I get up.

Mr. Flores stands, walks me to the door. “It’s my job to care about all my students, Jade. I have to be fair,” he tells me.

Fair? I can’t leave without telling him the rest of how I feel. I turn to him and make sure I am not raising my voice or talking with any attitude. It’s a sincere question. “How is it fair that the girl who tutors half the people chosen for the study abroad trip doesn’t get to go? You’ve given me an A plus every semester. Every semester. And you didn’t think it would be fair to nominate me?” I didn’t expect for the tears to come. First they are in my throat. My voice is weak, shaking. And I realize I am not just mad about all of this. I am sad. I face the door before any tears fall. “You don’t have to answer that,” I tell him. “Thanks for letting me talk with you.” I leave the room while I still have control over my emotions. I hear Mr. Flores say something. Maybe, “I’m sorry.” Maybe just, “Good-bye.”

I go into the bathroom, hide away in the stall, and let out everything I was holding in. I hear footsteps and flushes and running water, and I wait until I know for sure no one is here before I step out.

I doubt my conversation with Mr. Flores will change anything. But at least he knows how I feel. At least I spoke up.





54


la primavera

spring

Sometimes I just want to be comfortable in this skin, this body. Want to cock my head back and laugh loud and free, all my teeth showing, and not be told I’m too rowdy, too ghetto. Sometimes I just want to go to school, wearing my hair big like cumulous clouds without getting any special attention, without having to explain why it looks different from the day before. Why it might look different tomorrow. Sometimes I just want to let my tongue speak the way it pleases, let it be untamed and not bound by rules. Want to talk without watchful ears listening to judge me. At school I turn on a switch, make sure nothing about me is too black. All day I am on. And that’s why sometimes after school, I don’t want to talk to Sam or go to her house, because her house is a reminder of how black I am.

It’s the weekend before spring break. I promised to go over to sit with Sam while she packs for her trip to Costa Rica. She leaves tomorrow. Right now she is in the attic, getting a suitcase. I am in the living room with her grandfather. “So, what do you think of the Natasha Ramsey incident?” he asks.