Watch Us Rise(40)

I try not to say anything, I really do. I know my mom was raised super Catholic, and that she truly believes a healthy dose of Jesus (coupled heavily with guilt) in our lives is beneficial and makes perfect sense, I just don’t know if I can get behind it. It’s not that I don’t believe there’s some type of higher being, but I just don’t know who or what that higher being is, and besides, I’m so fed up with everything and everyone that I can’t take it anymore.

“Mom, what if God’s a woman?” I ask, piling my plate high with meatballs.

My father eyes me from across the table. “Don’t start, Chelsea,” he says. Mia nudges me. She’s heard this conversation before, and it never ends well.

“It’s completely fine if your God is a woman, Chels. Pass the spaghetti, please.”

She’s not gonna fight with me, so I try again. “But I mean, why does your God have to always be a man? If God is a spirit, then why can’t that spirit be embodied by a woman? And since a woman is the one that gives life, and not the father, which is what the Bible always tries to make us believe, then I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t say, ‘Our Mother, who art in heaven,’ especially since you’re a woman, and . . .”

“Enough,” my mother shouts, slamming her water glass on the table. “I understand you’re upset about your little club, but you do not have the right to pick a fight with all of us tonight.”

“My little club? It’s not a little club. It’s the Hotbed of Cultural Women’s Issues—the Nerve Center of the World, the Command Post of Politics Pertaining to the Pussy,” I shout. I can see my father trying not to smile, and it makes me even angrier. “I know you all think it’s some little joke that Jasmine and I are running, but it’s not. It’s a big deal, and it means something to us.”

“Chelsea, I hear you, but you can’t just go around starting fires, you can’t act like a child every time . . .”

“A child? I’m not acting like a child, Mom. Have you read any of our posts? Do you even know what we’re fighting for? It’s the same issues you couldn’t get over, because you were so obsessed with beauty and looking a certain way, and you ended up putting that on me, so that even when I was trying to not care about being pretty—because that’s what you told me to do—it’s all I could ever think about.”

“Don’t start this again, Chelsea,” my father chimes in, adding nothing else to the conversation.

“And you,” I motion to my dad, standing up now. “You’re both so concerned with us speaking our voices and standing up against injustices, but now, now that I’m really doing it, you’re telling me I’m acting like a child. Well, I’m just getting started. And we’re not going away,” I finish. I stab another meatball with my fork and shove it into my mouth before I head to my room. I figure the kitchen will be closed after the way I’ve acted tonight, and I don’t wanna have to run into my mom or dad again. I slam my door and start on a new poem.

Grown Up

No frilly dresses

or shoes that pinch. No candy,

lemonade, cartoons.

See me grown—my own

attitudes, opinions, thoughts

all mine, don’t disturb.

Who you think I am?

The woman I’m becoming

I’m already her.

Yes, adult enough

running up against 18

won’t you see the whole

me, a history

I’m crafting in front of you.

Writing down my dreams.

A map to lead you,

directions for who I am

free out in the world.





Fall is my favorite season. The crisp air is refreshing after four months of unbearable heat. I love watching the changing leaves and wearing sweaters that are warm enough to wear as a coat because it’s not really cold yet—not winter kind of cold. I throw on an oversize green sweater and head out to meet Isaac at the Schomburg Center. We’re going to view the Emory Douglas collection that’s on display. Dad has officially resigned, so there are no more special private viewings. The closer I get to the center, the slower I walk. I didn’t think going would be emotional, but with each step I take it hits me that Dad will not be in his office when I get there. My heart starts pounding once I get to the corner of 135th and Malcolm X Boulevard. Will Dad’s colleagues give me those sad “I know your dad is dying” eyes? I keep getting them at school from teachers, and it just makes me want to look down at the floor—anywhere other than in someone’s eyes.

I step inside, and instead of the sad eyes, my favorite security guard gives me a hug, like he always does. The pounding settles, and I go inside to find Isaac, who is sitting on a bench inside the lobby.

“Hey.” I tap him on his shoulder. “Have you been waiting long?”

“I got here way earlier than planned. No train issues, imagine that,” Isaac says. “You never know coming from the Bronx.” He stands and hugs me. “Glad you could join me for my last Brown Art Challenge outing. I know your dad said it won’t count, but I mean—it’s the Black Panther Party. I gotta get some points for this. Plus, he’s not the one who told me about it. I found out about this one myself, especially after seeing the exhibit on Puerto Rican Freedom Fighters at El Museo. It just blows my mind that all these communities of color were building off each other and making art to form this big resistance . . . ?together.” He laughs. “So you can see I’m into it. You ready?”