Watch Us Rise(69)

Something about being suspended has made us even more bold.

We have planned an action for each day of spring break, and we’ve spread the word to all the poets of the open mic. We’ve taken ideas from the book Leidy gave us and spent the weekend prepping for our week of protests.

Today, our first action is to do sidewalk art with chalk. We will write quotes, names of women, and statistics all around our school’s neighborhood. It is still chilly and gray outside; spring is taking its sweet time getting to us. Leidy brought us muffins from Esmerelda’s and has packets of instant apple cider and hot cocoa for us to make. Before anyone else shows up, Leidy says to me and Chelsea, “So after this week of taking action, what’s next?”

“We’re not sure,” I say.

“Well, what do you girls actually want?” Leidy asks. She doesn’t wait for us to answer. “I mean, besides getting your club back, what do you want?”

Before we can even answer, Leidy says, “You two need to figure out what it is you want out of all of this. If you really get your principal’s attention and he asks you what it is that you need and want to make the school better, do you have an answer? Are you prepared to hand him a written statement of the things that need to change?”

I speak slow and with hesitance. “We know what we want,” I tell her. “And we’ve made a bunch of notes, but we haven’t made it anything formal.”

“Well, get to it. You two are making quite a bit of noise, so make those notes into something significant,” Leidy says.

Just then Isaac and Nadine come in. Not too long after, more students from our in-person meetings show up. Rachel, the girl who read my blog post at the open mic, is here. She brought two friends with her. Plus, two of the volunteers from the bookstore join us. Leidy is relieved we’ll have adults with us. There are nine of us who head out, taking different corners.

Isaac stops at the corner, right at the crosswalk, and begins to write something, but then his chalk breaks. I walk over to him. “Here,” I say, “you can have mine.” I hand him the oversize green chalk.

“It’s okay—I can work with this,” he says. “If you give me yours, what will you use?”

I take my phone out of my pocket. “I’m going to document everything,” I tell him.

“Good idea,” he says.

“Yeah, we’ve got to take video and photos every day so we have this on record,” I tell him. That’s mostly why I gave him my chalk. But also because kneeling on the ground is uncomfortable. I look at the others, how they are sitting crossed-legged or on bended knee writing, and I know I can’t sit like that. Sometimes this body is limiting, makes me feel like I am in a prison.

Isaac writes, #SayHerName near the curb while no one is walking by. Then, in front of the bodega, he writes, “Your silence will not protect you.” —Audre Lorde.

We walk down the block, stopping every few steps for him to write something. Chelsea is across the street writing on the ground. I cross the street so I can take a photo. She’s taken one of her poems and written the words in different sizes to add emphasis. For some of the words she’s gone over it a few times to make it bold. The pink chalk stands out bright against the gray cement. A few people stop and stare as she writes, others pass by quickly, like they don’t even see us. There’s a woman sitting at the window of the apartment building, about five flights off the ground. Her wrinkled face is smiling as she watches Chelsea, and it makes me wonder what battles she fought, what opposition she’s faced.

The eight of us make our way down the block, around the corner, and get to Amsterdam Heights. We make sure there are chalked statements at each main entrance. We’re just about done when a man walks up to Isaac and watches him write a quote by Sandra Cisneros. The man waits till Isaac is finished, then says, “So whose pants are you trying to get into?” He laughs and walks away before Isaac can respond. Halfway down the block, he turns and yells, “You girls better be careful. He’s a slick one.” He laughs again, so amused at himself.

“What a jerk,” Chelsea says.

One of the girls who’s joined us shakes her head. “No one asked for him to comment. I mean, how do you think it’s okay to come up to someone and say something like that?”

Isaac wipes his hands on his jeans, which leaves green streaks from the chalk. He brushes it off and walks away. I follow him, walking fast to catch up. The rest of the group walks behind us, close enough to be with us but far back enough to give us space.

I ask Isaac, “Are you okay?”

“I’m good. Not about to let some ignorant stranger ruin my day.”

“Just making sure.”

“You don’t believe him, right? I mean, you know I’m for real about all of this.”

“Of course,” I say. “You’ve been our honorary feminist since middle school.”

Isaac gives a laugh that sounds more like a duty than a genuine reaction.

“What? You don’t like it when we call you our honorary feminist?”

“Not really,” Isaac says.

“Well, what do you want us to call you?”

“Isaac.”

“Well, of course. But I mean, you know, when we talk about how down you are for all of this—what should we call you? Chelsea hates the word ‘ally’ because it’s so overused. We could call you—”