Watch Us Rise(44)

This is what I’m talking about—live actions! I mean, that’s what we need to do, we need to be taking down crappy ads and media and men who are setting out to totally destroy our self-worth.

I switch trains at 125th Street, and along with the Poetry in Motion posters, which I so want to have one of my poems on someday, I see the ads for Thinx, the period underwear, which I love.

It says: Why Are There Period Ads Everywhere? And below, it says, The better question is, why shouldn’t there be? There’s a 1 in 12 chance that you’re on your period now, yet we rarely discuss menstruation outside of whispers from woman to woman. Today we can change this. I take my journal out and jot down some notes for later.

To the ads in the subway that try to tell me how to change my body— My body is a tornado. Nor’easter.

The eye of every storm. Yes, my body

a cacophony. Song. Hydrant of butterflies

Collective. Not meant to be revised or edited.

Just exactly right the way it is. My body

is a rallying, an assembling. It cannot be

shut down or silenced. Won’t be. We

live holy & raucous in our skin, we

are not made of fruit—there’s nothing sweet

about me. My body is a hurricane. Natural

earth moving & shaking—we who don’t shut up

or down other girls & the kinds of noise our bodies

make. We are a protest of bones & will not be shushed

or quieted. We’ve got our hands & mouths & teeth

& breasts & blood all the way up & shining

& blistering on up & into the great big blazing sky.

By the time I get off on 96th, I’m practically skipping. No one is gonna take us down. We have all the power. The shirts are ready as soon as I get to the shop. I take a few out and spread them on the counter.

“Very cool shirts,” Dave, the guy who’s working on the front desk, says. “My girlfriend would love the Frida Kahlo one. She’s into that kinda stuff.”

“I love them,” I say, unfolding a few to see which size would work for me.

“So, you have extra-small, small, medium, and large, and then a few of the men’s large as well. Does that work?”

“Yes,” I say. “Thank you.” I walk out of the store and hail a cab, since the shirts are way heavier than I expected. We ordered enough to sell next week. I haul the load into the taxi and text Jasmine that I’m on my way to Word Up, and that she should meet me there so she can help me unload the shirts.

Jasmine is sitting on the front stoop of the bookstore when I arrive. She has her journal out, so I know something’s already on her mind. I give her a quick kiss on the cheek, and we haul the boxes inside. The bookstore is still empty, since bilingual story time doesn’t start until one p.m. It’s just Derrick, one of the grad school volunteers who works the checkout desk, and Leidy, who is setting up in the back. She’s setting out notebooks and pens, and is clearly way more ambitious this week, since she has nearly a dozen laid out on the tables. We say hello, and I instantly read my poem to Jasmine, who loves it, and thinks we should make a video this week. I pour all the shirts out.

“So cool,” I say.

“A reminder that class is about to start, so please respect the space,” Leidy says, eyeing the shirts, “but I am loving these shirts. Nice job!”

“Thanks, and you know nobody ever comes to class, Leidy. It’s like every week it’s our special one-on-one,” I joke.

“Well, I am hopeful. So please think about someone other than yourself, dear,” she replies, and walks to the back of the store.

I roll my eyes, then notice Jasmine, who is studying the tags on each shirt. By the look on her face, I can tell something isn’t right. “Did they get a quote wrong? I knew I should have checked them all before I left. What’d they mess up?”

Jasmine looks at me. “You didn’t check them?”

“Oh, I mean, yeah, I looked. They looked great to me, but . . .”

“And you checked the sizes? I mean, you ordered these sizes?”

“Yeah, they’re all there. Jeez, I thought you meant the quotes were wrong, but yeah, the sizes are all here. I got ’em all.” I smile. “We are really doing this.”

Jasmine is silent. She pushes the chair back and folds her arms.

“What?” I ask.

“You really don’t know.”

“Catch me up, Jasmine, because I have no idea what the problem is. I mean, I spent all last week helping Isaac with the design, and then the whole freakin’ morning going downtown to pick these up, and now you’re annoyed—so what’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is that I can’t wear any of them, Chelsea.”

I look down at the shirts and see that Jasmine has laid out all the tags on the women’s sizes. “You didn’t even think about me, which means you didn’t consider anyone who doesn’t fit into the standard sizes, which is messed up.” She whispers that last part so Leidy doesn’t hear us arguing.

“Oh, crap,” I say, gathering them up to look at all the labels. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t even, I just . . . ?I didn’t even think about getting the bigger sizes, or the plus sizes, I mean—”

“Well, you should have, and if you looked at anything other than your favorite magazines, then you’d know there’s a whole market for curve models, and women and girls who occupy space with their bodies in different ways.”