Watch Us Rise(70)

“How about you just call me Isaac. For real. I mean, I don’t need a title. I’m not the mascot for Write Like a Girl. I think it’s ridiculous that the school is trying to silence your voices,” Isaac says. “I’m just a friend who has the same values as you.”

“So we’re just friends?” I ask this just as the cross light changes to Don’t Walk. We stand and wait for the traffic to pass. Chelsea and our crew are a few steps behind us.

Isaac says, “Do you want to be more than friends?”

“Do you have to ask?” And when I say this, Isaac leans in and kisses me. Right here on a New York City sidewalk in front of my best friend and a group of strangers. I have fantasized about what kissing Isaac would be like and never did I think it would happen on a chilly April day, after tagging sidewalks with feminist quotes. Never did I think it would happen when I was wearing jeans and a hoodie, no lipstick, no mascara. Isaac is kissing me. As I am.





When I get home Mom is sitting at the computer huffing and puffing, clicking the mouse, then typing, then clicking the mouse again. She exhales and buries her face in the palm of her hands. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

She jumps and quickly wipes tears away. “Nothing. I’m okay. I’m fine.”

“Mom.”

“It’s nothing. I forgot the stupid password again, so I can’t log on and I’m just frustrated. It’s—I’m fine.”

Mom is clearly not fine. Besides the obvious—her sitting here crying—I know she is not okay because she never uses words like “stupid” and she doesn’t get flustered this easily. I look at the computer. It’s on the home page for the bank. A red message is on the screen that reads Invalid Password. “Just, just take a deep breath, Mom, and think. You’ll remember.” I know this isn’t about the password. It’s about my dad. Ever since he died, there are moments when we start crying about the silliest thing. Last week, I put a load of laundry in the dryer, but it didn’t dry in time, so I couldn’t wear the outfit I wanted to wear. I held the damp clothes in my hands and started sobbing. This must be what Mom is experiencing right now. The book my grandmother gave me on grieving said it’s normal.

Mom sniffs. “This is so ridiculous. I can never remember the stupid word your dad created for this thing.” She types out another attempt. “Not our anniversary.” Then another. “Not your name or Jason’s.” A message appears that says for her protection, the account has been locked. Mom throws an epic tantrum like the ones Jason used to have when he hadn’t taken a nap.

“Mom—it’s going to be okay. Calm down. It’s going to be—”

“I hate that I even have to do this stuff now. Your father took care of all of this . . .” Mom gets up from the desk and grabs her purse and keys. “I’ll be back. I’m going to the bank.”

“Should I come with you? Do you want me to call Aunt Yolanda?”

“I’m fine. It’ll be fine.” Mom leaves.

I sit at the desk looking at the screen. I have so many questions that I know I can’t ask Mom, like why did Dad handle the money in the first place? I’ve never really thought about how dependent my mom was on my dad. But sitting here looking at this screen that has refused to let her log in, I start remembering how Mom would always call on Dad whenever the computer froze or the printer wouldn’t work. She waited for Dad to come home to fix something that was broken, to take out the garbage. Who is my mother going to be without Dad if so much of who she is was a part of him, because of him?

My phone buzzes. I pick it up and check Chelsea’s message. There are no words, just a row of the kissing lips emoji and then a row of red hearts. I text her back a smile.





The next morning, we are back at the Word Up–Write Like a Girl headquarters. Today, we are doing pop-up street performances. Eight of us show up. Chelsea and I decided to ask other poets and performers from the open mic to be the ones to speak out today. Like Leidy said, it’s not about us, and we don’t always have to be the ones at the center of it all.

We head out at noon, so we are sure to have a crowd. Our first pop-up performance is at the bus stop. The eight of us stand at the bus, not like we are together at all, just real low-key like we are strangers waiting. There are a few others waiting, too, and across the street at the park, there are kids playing and parents watching and taking photos. Pedestrians walk by, going both ways, zipping past each other, some saying hello, others walking fast and on a mission. Without any warning, Shalanda, a girl from Incarnation School, starts her poem. The first line is, “I’ve got to get these words out of me. Can’t hold them any longer,” and from there, she unleashes a poem that is so good people walking by have stopped to listen.

We do three more of these street performances at different places around the neighborhood. For the last one, we perform the group piece we put together. We each have a line and a movement we’ve contributed. Standing outside, under a shifting spring sky, we declare who we are, we speak up and speak out.





Spring break ends with a Women’s Only Open Mic at Word Up. The bookstore has the biggest crowd it’s ever had. Somehow, Chelsea convinced Leidy to close out the night, since we’ve never heard her say a poem. Leidy takes the mic and says, “These aren’t my words, but they are words I live by,” and she reads “won’t you celebrate with me” by Lucille Clifton. It is the perfect poem to end on. As soon as she says the last word, Nadine fills the space with music, and we all mingle. It’s so crowded it’s hard to move around and greet everyone. All the body heat has it feeling hot in here. I move through the crowd and walk to the door so I can get some fresh air. That’s when I see that Ms. Lucas is here too. She is in the back standing against the wall, and she leaves before I can walk over to her and say hello. I wonder if Chelsea saw her.