Watch Us Rise(33)

I was still reeling from James showing up to hear me read, but now I’m even more in shock. People at other schools have been reading the blog?

“Most of us are fed up with the sexism happening in our schools. We’re also dealing with racist teachers, racist principals—it doesn’t stop. And what Jasmine Gray wrote told the truth, so I’m here to read it now for those of you who didn’t read it, and for those of you who still don’t get it. My name is Rachel Lewis. I’m a black girl who will not be put into anyone’s box. I am no Jezebel, Mammy, or Sapphire. I am my own woman, and I’ll act any way I want to. I am not . . .” She starts to read every description Jasmine wrote.

I look at the crowd; about fifteen people have their phones up and are recording the reading.

Isaac comes up behind me and says, “I think you and Jasmine have officially created buzz.”

An Almost Love Poem for James by Chelsea Spencer

You

my shine

galaxy

of breath & lungs

all of me a wave

crestfallen over you

the planets shift when you’re near

I count their revolve, a tremble

to know your heart bumps up against mine hope it will stay steady this whole long time.



WRITE LIKE A GIRL BLOG

Created by Nadine Abdul


Write Like a Girl Top 10 Playlist

1. “Respect”—Aretha Franklin

2. “Run the World (Girls)”—Beyoncé

3. “Doo Wop (That Thing)”—Lauryn Hill 4. “Cranes in the Sky”—Solange

5. “The Greatest”—Sia

6. “Queen”—Janelle Monáe

7. “U.N.I.T.Y.”—Queen Latifah

8. “Girl on Fire”—Alicia Keys

9. “Bad Reputation”—Joan Jett

10. “You Don’t Own Me”—Lesley Gore





This Halloween is the worst ever. I’m spending the night at the hospital with Dad so Mom can take Jason trick-or-treating. He was not at all impressed with the treats the nurses are giving out—small bags of apple slices, tiny boxes of raisins, black licorice.

The plan for Halloween was going to be me and Chelsea dressing up as Gloria Steinem and Dorothy Pitman Hughes. One day, when Chelsea was over and we were making buttons for our eighth grade end-of-the-year project, Dad overheard us talking and said, “You two are little versions of Dorothy Pitman Hughes and Gloria Steinem.” When neither Chelsea or I knew who Dad was talking about, he made us look them up, and that’s when we saw the iconic photo of the both of them holding up their fists, with a confident defiance on their faces. Chelsea and I promised each other we’d replicate the photograph for this Halloween. Although I wasn’t sure anyone would actually know who we were. Unless we walked around side by side all day with our hands in the air in fisted protest, I doubted we’d be easily guessed. I think this made Chelsea want to do it even more. She likes for people not to know who she is dressed up as. We decided to emphasize our hair and clothes—Chelsea would wear a long wig, parted in the middle, and I would wear my hair out in an Afro. We even went to the Goodwill on 135th in Harlem to find seventies clothes.

Now that I am not going, Chelsea said she’s not dressing up at all, which will be the first time ever in life that Chelsea has not been in a costume for Halloween. I’ve seen pictures of her as a baby dressed as a ladybug, a sunflower. Always something.

“You don’t have to stay, Jasmine,” Dad says. His voice is scratchy and weak.

“I know.”

“You’re going to miss your school’s dance,” he says. “And you already missed the open mic thing. And weren’t you and Isaac going to go to the Schomburg Center? You can’t keep missing everything because of me. You really don’t have to stay,” Dad tells me.

“I know,” I say. I turn the TV on, flip through channels trying to find something that isn’t depressing, like the news or one of those animal shows. I know I’m missing out on a lot of fun, but if I go, I’ll just wish I was here anyway. Plus, I’m really scared of something bad—really bad—happening while I’m away. I don’t know what I’d do if I was at some silly dance and my father died. And I know that sounds extreme, like what can I do anyway if I’m here? I’m not a doctor. But I am his daughter. His first and only girl. I need to be here.

When I turn to the station that shows reruns of classics, Dad says, “Leave it here.” A Different World is on. Dad and Mom swear this is one of the best shows ever to be made. They watch it for nostalgia’s sake, reminiscing about their college days at Clark Atlanta. Mom is always pointing out an outfit, saying, “I used to wear that back in the day,” or “That style used to be fly.”

Used to. Key words.

Dad reaches for the remote and moves the bed up a little so he can see the TV better. It’s weird to me that the controller for the television and the bed are all in one. “I was cool like Dwayne Wayne,” Dad says. He musters a laugh out; it is faint, but it is there.

“Dad, Dwayne Wayne wasn’t the cool one. Wasn’t his character considered a nerd?”

“Nerd or not, he got the girl in the end,” Dad says. “Just like me.”

I laugh.