Watch Us Rise(43)
I look away from Dad, stare at the yellow pillow lying on the floor that Isaac threw. Focus on the brightness, try my best to hold on to its light.
Once everyone is gone, Dad comes back into the living room and sits on the sofa. “So I see you and Gloria Steinem have gathered your troops.” He smiles, but it looks painful on his face, not like his normal, joyous smile.
“So much is going on at school, Dad. Every day it’s some new drama with our club.”
“Sounds like you all are figuring it out. I read what you wrote for the blog.”
“You did? Do you think I was disrespectful?”
“Now you know I would have said something to you if I did,” Dad says. He shifts his body, getting more comfortable against the throw pillows. “I think you stood up for yourself, and that was brave.”
I walk across the living room and sit next to Dad on the sofa.
“You’ve definitely got the Gray gene,” he says. “Speaking up, standing up for what you believe in. That kind of courage runs in your veins.” I know Dad is thinking of his father, who was a preacher, and his grandfather, who was a community organizer who worked on voting rights. Dad turns the television on. We watch Family Feud and yell out answers at the TV. We get more right than either team. Something else that runs in our genes, I guess.
Dad falls asleep before the final round. I lay my head on his chest, like I used to do when I was little. I can hear Dad’s heart beating. I listen to his drum beat on and on. He is my favorite song.
It’s Saturday. The one day of the week when I can sleep in, so I take full advantage and roll over again. I’ve been trying to get the image of Mr. Gray out of my mind ever since I saw him a couple of weeks ago. Try to forget how thin he is and how he moves so slow. I try to see him the way he was before the cancer, making loud jokes and dancing in the living room with Jason and Jasmine. I used to love going to their house after school. They used to listen to music during dinner, which I thought was so cool. When I tried to attempt it at my house, my mom shut it down right away, saying there was too much noise in her life, and she needed some quiet at the end of the day. I remember Mr. Gray’s laugh the most, and while he still tries, I can feel the tension. I miss the way it used to be.
When I finally pull myself from the covers, I see that Mia has flung hers onto the floor, and she’s already up. When I get to the kitchen, she’s eating the most massive bowl of Fruity Pebbles I’ve ever seen.
“That’s disgusting,” I say, grabbing the box and reading how many grams of sugar are in one serving.
“Shut up,” she mumbles, “I don’t have time for your food justice this morning. Besides, you know you want some.”
I pour myself a bowl. “Where is everybody?”
“Mom went to yoga. She’s gotta manage some of that anxiety with some meditation. I forced her to go. And Dad’s grading papers at the library.”
We eat in silence. The to-do list in my head is growing. Shower, get dressed, finish my poem for afternoon workshop—Leidy Blake teaches a class called Radical Acts for Beginners at Word Up every week, and I’m her best, and sometimes only, student—pick up the shirts from T-Shirt Express on the Upper West Side, and then head to workshop. I can’t wait to see how they look. Isaac pulled a couple of all-nighters last week to finish our original designs—he’s a total champion for the cause. We chose five powerhouse women who’ve changed the game. It took hours to decide, so we had to use a massive chart to make sure we were inclusive of art forms, ethnicities, and work for and about women. They had to truly represent womanist/feminist interests and ideals. We got into a pretty heated argument about Janet Jackson and Beyoncé, but we had to pull it back because we wanted to have more history and less pop magic, although I’m still gonna try to get Isaac to make me a shirt that says, “No, my first name ain’t baby, it’s Chelsea,” and on the back, “Ms. Spencer if you’re nasty.” That would be sooo awesome.
“You have basketball practice today, right?” I ask Mia, who’s slathering a bagel with extra cream cheese.
“Yup, two p.m. at the gym. I gotta go for a run first.”
“Okay, cool, you think I could drop off some of those shirts I was telling you about? Maybe the team would wear them next week to school?”
“Sure, I can definitely let them know it’s for my little sister and her crew. I think they’d do that for you, and all your little weirdo friends.”
I show her a couple of designs. Isaac has used a composite of the women and highlighted their faces on the front along with their names below. On the back it says Woman Warrior and an awesome quote from each of them—this is who they are and what they say:
And at the bottom, just a little smaller it says Write Like a Girl—Join the Conversation. It’s just radical enough, I think. I take a gulp of Mia’s orange juice and get in the shower.
I run to the train downstairs and jump on the A, studying the ads right away. There’s one that’s particularly gross—an ad for plastic surgery where one woman holds oranges in front of her breasts with a super-sad face, and another woman right next to her holds melons in front of her breasts, and of course on her face, there’s a massive smile. Every time I see that ad I get so depressed about the state of the world, but when I get up closer, I see that someone has written across the top, “Or love yourself, and donate to breast cancer instead.” Yes, I think. I take my phone out and snap a shot to send to Jasmine. I compose the text: