Watch Us Rise(39)
Here’s a quote by Reena Saini Kallat. Get to know her work and be inspired.
“Our ideas and understanding of the world are definitely shaped by who we are, and where we may be located on the planet, so I am certainly aware of how my experience of being a woman contributes and informs the work I make—even though through the work I try and explore ideas that look beyond nationality and other stereotypes.”
—Reena Saini Kallat, Culture Trip, 2015
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peaceandlove commented: I love the line “Because art is memorial, art is witness.” Agree!
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brandilux commented: thanks for including women of color on your blog. #inclusive #diversity hearmeroar reposted this
robincanton commented: Agree with brandilux! #representationmatters principalhayes commented: Great post, girls!
Chelsea, dinner’s ready,” Mia shouts down the hall. “Mom made your favorite—spaghetti and meatballs. You’re so spoiled,” she continues as I walk into the kitchen, which is only about five steps from my bedroom, so I have no idea why she’s even shouting.
“Well, at least that’s one thing that’s going in my favor,” I reply, and slide into my seat at the front of the table, which is right next to the oven and an arm’s-length away from the fridge, so I could basically fry an egg and pour myself a glass of milk all at the same time. Our apartment is on the small side, and when something happens to one of us, everyone seems to know.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” my mom says, shoving me to the side to pull a loaf of garlic bread out of the oven.
“Why does everyone keep saying that? It’s like women aren’t allowed to have any emotions,” I say. My mother closes her eyes and looks like she’s trying to meditate, something she does a lot lately.
“Chelsea, not everyone is out to get you,” she says, opening her eyes and starting to serve everyone.
“Principal Hayes is trying to shut us down, Mom. Completely and totally shut us down. Do you understand that?” I ask.
“Shut who down?” my father asks, closing the door behind him and slipping his shoes to the side. He’s clearly sweating as he takes his jacket off. He throws his satchel, full of student papers, into the closet. He’s a professor of education at City College, and this time of year is rough with grading lesson plans and helping students get better at teaching. “Jesus, it still feels like Indian summer out there. How’s that even possible at the beginning of November?”
Mia and I give each other a look. “Dad, you can’t say Indian summer.”
He moves past us to wash his hands, while giving my mom a kiss. It would be pretty idyllic if only the principal of our school wasn’t trying to silence the voices of women, and my dad didn’t just walk in the house spewing some old-fashioned, racist term.
“According to our People’s History class, there’re a bunch of terms and sayings that have super-racist origins. Like, the etymology of Indian summer was based on the idea that Indians were deceitful—as in—as crazy as summer in November. So even though you think it might be harmless, you just made a statement based on a historically stereotypical and racist statement,” Mia says, leaning back in her chair and smiling at me.
“Well said,” I say, already looking forward to taking that class my senior year. “You could just say, ‘Jesus, it feels like global warming out there,’ and then you’d really seem like you were socially conscious.”
“And it would also make you seem like you know a thing or two about science,” Mia adds. I love when she gets all social justice-y. “You two are the ones who sent us to the revolutionary high school.”
“I stand corrected and will officially never use that term again. Can I blame my stupidity on being old?” he asks. We shake our heads.
“Excuse me, could we refrain from saying Jesus in that way? Please,” my mom adds, glaring for a moment at my dad.
Jesus, I say in my mind, but I stop myself from rolling my eyes. “By the way, I wouldn’t say our school is so revolutionary,” I add, “especially since the school, or should I say the principal, decided that our women’s rights blog was too derogatory and was inciting incidents of unrest.”
“Incidents of unrest?” my father asks. “What do you mean?”
“She means that they’ve been writing some awesome poems and posts about women’s rights, racist teachers, and the basic takedown of systems of oppression. And truthfully, some people, no matter how woke—and I hate that term—”
“Right? I mean, I feel like if you say, ‘I’m so woke,’ it’s sort of like saying the opposite. Like I’m so with it and in the know, and whatever,” I add.
“They think they are, but they’re really just same old, same old. They can’t get with the system, and they definitely can’t get with it when a woman is behind it,” Mia finishes.
“Can we please pray before we eat,” my mother asks, clearly annoyed. “While I appreciate you all sharing your days with us, I’d like to eat, myself. It has been a long day for me.” My mom is a social worker, and it seems like all her days are full of other people’s problems, so when it gets to us, she’s already had enough. “Our Father, who art in heaven,” she begins, and she ends by asking God to watch over us and guide us in the right directions in the weeks to come.