Watch Us Rise(46)

Jason says, “My pit was not getting chocolate milk at lunch today because they ran out.”

“And your peak?” Mom asks.

“Chips for dinner!”

“You have to eat your sandwich first,” Dad says.

Mom shares about her day. “My pit was the looong line I had to stand in at Whole Foods, but my peak is sitting here, eating dinner with you all.”

Dad drinks from his glass of water and says, “Your mom and I have the same peak tonight, I guess.” Then he looks at me, “My pit is that something’s upset my daughter.” When Dad says this, I smile—which is kind of strange. I have never felt joy after someone shared their bad thing. Dad prays over the food, and we eat. Mom compromises with Jason, telling him as long as he eats two squares of his sandwich he can have some chips.

After dinner, I go to my room. I am finally in a better mood and am able to get my homework done. Just before I go to bed, there’s a knock at my door. “It’s me,” Mom says.

“Come in.”

She doesn’t step into my room. Instead, she talks through the half-opened door. “You don’t have to tell me, but I just want to make sure you’re talking to someone.”

“I’m fine, Mom. Just a misunderstanding with Chelsea. We’ll be fine.”

Mom’s shoulders relax. “Okay. Just, just checking. I love you.”

“I know you do. I love you too.”

Mom closes the door.

I lie in bed, trying to fall asleep, and I think for today’s peak I could have said Mom and Dad.





Our shirts are a hit. There are nearly thirty of us who show up in all the different designs. I wear Maxine Hong Kingston, and Jasmine wears Ruby Dee. Isaac and Nadine got some of the people from their clubs to wear them, and then Mia got the entire girls varsity basketball team to come in rocking our Woman Warrior T-shirts. I watch them all walk in together—a whole mix of the women on their shirts—and see the surprised look on the security guard’s face.

“These look nice,” Ms. Sanchez says, eyeing all the designs as we walk in. She stops me to admire the quote on the back. “Wow, I love these! Where did they come from?” she asks.

“We designed them,” I say. “Well, I mean, a bunch of us did. Isaac, Jasmine, and Nadine—we all figured it was about time people celebrated revolutionary women,” I finish.

“You kids did this, huh? I love it. Let me get three of the Sandra Cisneros shirts, please. For my granddaughters. They know how radical I am. They will love these. You have to teach ’em when they’re young,” she says. “We came here from the Dominican Republic, and once you arrive, they try to take all your history away from you. Whitewash it all. Maybe put Julia Alvarez on the next batch.”

“We’re on it,” I say, unloading three shirts for her right then and there.

Who knew Ms. Sanchez was so political. And by second period, I am getting text message requests for shirt sizes and styles. We beg Ms. Lucas to use her classroom, and then we post on her bulletin board that we’ll be selling some of our shirts, and if we run out, or need different sizes, then we’re taking any future orders during lunch. We get to the room to set up—unfolding the shirts that Jasmine and I packed up in our backpacks in neat piles. We each brought twenty-five shirts in all different sizes to make sure we had a variety for everyone. We didn’t know if people would want them or not, but we wanted to be prepared. As soon as the bell rings, kids come filing in and we don’t stop the whole time. We sell all fifty shirts. Lots of folks love the women we have chosen, but others come in with special requests: Shakira, Tina Charles (from one of Mia’s teammates), Gloria Steinem, bell hooks, Gloria E. Anzaldúa. And then there are requests for everyday women warriors. They tell us stories about women who make life better—moms who wake up early to make sausage and eggs for their kids, and aunts who show up to school plays and make clothes, sisters who help with algebra homework. When Meg and her best friend, Michelle, walk in to buy a shirt, I know the mood in school has lifted.

“Can I get two shirts? Uh, the bright yellow one and the hot pink one . . . the one you’re wearing.”

“All sold out,” Jasmine says, not looking up.

“But we could take an order,” I add, nudging Jasmine while in my mind trying to figure out why Michelle would even want to be a part of our movement. “This is Audre Lorde, and I’m wearing Maxine Hong Kingston. If you don’t know them, you should totally look them up,” I say.

“These are . . . ?I really like the shirts,” Meg says, pulling her wallet out of her bag. “And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. We really were just joking.”

“Thanks for that,” I say.

Jasmine doesn’t say anything at first, then as Meg walks away she calls out, “If you’re going to wear these shirts, you really should look up these women. You could learn something.”





By the end of lunch, Ms. Lucas is as excited as we are. “I’m just overwhelmed . . . ,” she says. “Did you hear how many people shared stories about the strong women who make them who they are?”

I take out a sheet of paper before we leave and write: To join the revolution, visit Write Like a Girl, and jot down the website for our blog before pinning it to the bulletin board.