Watch Us Rise(16)

Nadine cuts James off. “Except it was the nineteen-fifties. So just about everything was about race back then, and I’m pretty sure if she was white this would not have happened.”

Mrs. Curtis says, “Well, let’s name what happened. We’re kind of talking around it. Can someone give a recap just so that we’re all caught up and on the same page?”

I definitely feel like this is Mrs. Curtis’s way of making sure those of us who didn’t read the book can at least have some clue of what’s going on. I look at Remy, who I know never does the assignments, and raise my hand. “Henrietta Lacks was being treated for cervical cancer. While on the operating table, a sample of her cancerous tissue was taken for research without her consent. She died not knowing her cells were used for research,” I say.

Mrs. Curtis asks, “And why is this a big deal? What did that research lead to?”

A girl named Rose says, “Well, because of her cells the medical field had major breakthroughs, like the polio vaccine, chemotherapy, and the creation of drugs that treat leukemia, influenza, and Parkinson’s disease.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” James asks. “I mean, one woman’s body made it possible for so many others to have treatment. The greater good is—”

“The greater good?” I ask. “No, what they did was rob this woman of her humanity. And they were able to do that because in this country poor black women didn’t matter,” I say. “I mean, the woman who was assisting with the autopsy even admitted that at first she didn’t think of Henrietta Lacks as human.”

“No she does not. The book doesn’t say that at all,” James says.

People start reaching for their books, turning pages fast to find the section I am talking about. A girl named Lily raises her hand. “Right here. I found it. It’s that part about her seeing Henrietta’s red toenail polish.”

“Read it, please,” Mrs. Curtis says.

Lily clears her throat. “Okay, it says right here, ‘When I saw those toenails. . . . I nearly fainted. I thought, Oh jeez, she’s a real person . . . ?it hit me for the first time that those cells we’d been working with all this time and sending all over the world, they came from a live woman. I’d never thought of it that way.’ ”

“See,” I say.

I’ve set off a whole debate now. Half the class thinks the assistant was just saying that working on bodies for the sake of science can desensitize you and that even if Henrietta was a white woman, the assistant would have said the same thing.

Mrs. Curtis says she’ll take one more comment and calls on me. “I am not saying it was only about her being a black woman, but I believe that was a part of it. You can’t erase her blackness from the story.” When I say this, James looks at me like he is hearing me for the first time.

Mrs. Curtis says, “I’d like you all to do a personal response now. Think of the passages we’ve read and respond to it in any way you’d like. It can be creative—a poem, a visual response. It can be a traditional essay. However you want to respond, I’d like you to do that now.”

I think about the conversation we just had. How it took red toenail polish for a black woman to be considered a real person, how she wasn’t real just from the fact that she was once a human, a daughter, a mother. I open my notebook and start writing.

Red: A Pantoum for Henrietta Lacks

by Jasmine Gray

1in case you need proof of black women’s humanity

2know that we bleed too, red.

3our bodies are not for your experimentation, exploitation.

4we cry and laugh and create and sometimes, we paint our nails. Red.

2know that we bleed too, red.

5know that we get sick and feel pain, like you.

4we cry and laugh and create and sometimes, we paint our nails. Red.

6black women are made of flesh and tissue and cells.

5know that we get sick and feel pain, like you.

7we breathe and die and leave loved ones behind who adorn our graves with red flowers.

6black women are made of flesh and tissue and cells.

8this is just a reminder

7we breathe and die and leave behind loved ones who adorn our graves with red flowers.

3our bodies are not for your experimentation, exploitation.

8this is just a reminder

1in case you need proof of black women’s humanity.





After school, I go straight to the black box theater. My favorite space in this whole building. It is a place of possibility. I have created so many worlds here, in this room. I have shed myself, put on someone else’s truth, and filled this space with my voice, acting as Rose from Fences, Camae, the angel in The Mountaintop, and Lady in Blue from For Colored Girls. I have worked up tears buried somewhere deep within me, tears I didn’t even know I had. Somewhere in me there must be profound sorrow since it doesn’t take much for me to play the roles that call for heart-wrenching wailing. Somewhere inside me there must be an inherited wisdom from my ancestors since I can muster up the ability to play roles that offer guidance and strength. Dad and Mom have seen me perform, and afterward they always say, “Where did that come from?” and “We didn’t know you had it in you.” I love releasing all that emotion on stage, but I am ready to release more than sadness and pain.