Watch Us Rise(41)

“Ready.”

We go inside and enter the exhibit room on the main floor. I feel small walking past these massive posters, so big you have to stand back to see it all. The first poster I see has a young boy holding up a newspaper that says All Power to the People in one hand, and The Black Panther in the other. The boy’s mouth is open, like he is shouting something out. There’s a white square next to the print that explains more about the image. It talks about the Black Panther Party and how art was used as a means to get their message across. I am sure to take notes in my head because I know Dad will ask me what I learned when I get home.

Isaac is standing in front of a print that is a collage of different patterns all making up a hat that sits over a black child’s face. The rims of his glasses have other children in them; in the left lens, a woman holding a little girl’s hand; in the right, a group of children eating at a table. There are so many little details hiding in this one big poster. The longer I stand there, the more new things I see that I didn’t catch right away, like the words at the very top that say We Shall Survive. Without a Doubt. I am struck by the confidence in that statement. I take a photo of the poster, making sure I get the top. I want to keep that saying at the forefront of my mind this school year, and always. I will survive. Without a doubt.

Isaac shakes his head and says, “Did you read this?” He points to the summary next to the poster. “Did you know the FBI tapped Emory Douglas’s phone? That’s how powerful his art was. They thought of it as combative and too critical of the U.S. government. That’s like, a whole new level of what it means to be an art-ivist,” Isaac says.

We keep moving through the gallery, but as slow as we’re going, I doubt we will see the exhibits upstairs. We can only stay for an hour. I stand at the next poster forever just looking at the bold blue background and the brown faces emerging from the left side of the page. People are holding signs that say Freedom Now and U.S. Gov’t Stop Killing Black People Now!!! “This could have been made last week,” I say.

“Yeah. That’s so messed up. These posters were made in the seventies. We’re still holding up the same signs.”

I keep walking; Isaac stays behind. He sits on the floor, takes his sketchbook out, and starts drawing. Just like he does sometimes at school, in the hallway, leaning up against his locker during lunch. His pencil moving fast across the page. His eyes glancing up at the poster, then back down. Isaac notices me staring at him. “Come join me,” he says.

“I can’t draw,” I remind him.

“Write something,” he says. “Pick one of these images and just . . . write.”

I hesitate and then join Isaac on the floor. I lean against the wall that has no art and take my notebook out of my bag. I focus on one of the smaller framed images. It looks like a comic, except there is no color and the squares aren’t connected. There’s a story linking all the drawings together. A story about the conditions of living in the projects. It’s called Public Housing USA. Each tenant speaks, and Emory Douglas’s art amplifies the words. The story starts off as a letter and goes into all the things that need to be tended to in the projects—rats, stopped-up toilets, leaking sinks, nowhere for children to play. The first line says Hello, Public Housing Authority. This is a tenant of your slum housing calling you again. The word “again” stands out to me. I start writing.

We sit together, drawing and writing, as people walk by. Isaac says, “I don’t even care about the Brown Art Challenge anymore. It was just nice to come and do this.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“I’ll have to tell my dad. He’ll want to come see too. The Young Lords were inspired by the Black Panther Party. He’ll love this exhibit.”

“Can I read what you wrote so far?” he asks.

I hand him my notebook and take his sketchbook. We take each other in. I think how if I had to plan out a perfect first date, this would be it. Maybe lunch or dessert afterward, but when this is over, we’re meeting up with Nadine and Chelsea. Maybe friendship is enough. Maybe I want more.

If I take Chelsea’s advice, I should just say something to Isaac. Stop waiting for him to make the first move. I don’t know why women are taught to be pursued, chased. What’s the worst that could happen if I tell Isaac that I have feelings for him? I think about telling him right here, right now.

“What are you thinking about?” Isaac asks.

“Oh, nothing. Just, just taking all this art in,” I say. He doesn’t know I am referring to him when I say this.





Isaac walks home with me so we can meet up with Chelsea and Nadine. My house used to be the hangout spot, but it’s kind of hard to enjoy movies or game night with the soundtrack of Dad vomiting or moaning in the background. The whole house feels sick. No matter how much Mom and I clean, or light candles, or water the plants, or display bright-colored throw pillows on the sofa, there’s a sadness and staleness that hovers here.

I hate that Jason is growing up in a home so unlike the one I had in elementary school: a home with Dad standing over the grill in the backyard, drizzling his special secret sauce over chicken or steak. A home with bedtime stories read radio-theater style, with Mom and Dad acting out all the voices. Jason won’t have memories of dyeing Easter eggs and being so jealous of Dad who knows how to mix colors and create one-of-a-kind designs. He won’t remember Saturday mornings eating Mom’s french toast—the rare time we eat as a family at the dining room table. None of those things happen anymore. But today, I asked Mom and Dad if Chelsea, Nadine, and Isaac could come over, and they said yes.