Watch Us Rise(74)

It feels like a big performance project, so I start to say some of my poems out loud—the ones I have memorized. I am standing on the corner of 182nd and Audubon with all the women of the school, and we are raging and rallying and celebrating together. The whole crowd feels electric and energized.

I run to Jasmine as soon as I see her walking out.

“We did this,” I scream, and hug her. “We did this,” I say again, and I can feel the lights from the camera at our backs.

“Excuse me, ladies, we understand you’re the two behind this movement,” the camera operator says.

“We prefer womyn. W-O-M-Y-N. And yes, it’s us.”





Dad told me once that most people don’t change because they want to, but because they have to. “People start living healthier lives after a health scare. Laws change because the people demand it and add pressure to our leaders. Most times the things that change happen after a lot of pain or strife.” This is what I am thinking about as I listen to Principal Hayes make the morning announcements. Just when we think he is finished, he says, “And I’d like to end by apologizing to the entire student body and specifically to Ms. Lucas, Chelsea Spencer, and Jasmine Gray. After much consideration and after a lot of soul searching and reevaluating our protocols with our staff and key members from our Parent-Teacher Association, I have decided to reinstate the women’s rights club and the Write Like a Girl blog, effective next fall.” I don’t even know what happens next, because the class starts screaming and clapping. Isaac just keeps repeating “wow” over and over.

Before I can even let it sink in, Chelsea is at the door waving me outside. My teacher nods and lets me step out into the hallway. As soon as I close the door, Chelsea swallows me in a hug, squeezing me tight and rocking from side to side.

“Chelsea. We did it.”

“We did. We did,” Chelsea repeats over and over, like a favorite song.

All day long school doesn’t seem like school because people keep stopping us and saying “congratulations,” and “you two should run for president of the United States,” and all kinds of things that let us know that our message got out, that our peers are with us.

After school, Chelsea, Isaac, and Nadine come over. On our way, walking from the subway, I notice a restaurant that’s just opened. The Coming Soon sign has been up so long, we got to thinking maybe it would never be open. But here it is. Something is always coming and going in this city. There is always something being born, something dying. We walk under scaffolding while our city is under repair—always. Maybe we are all like that, always a work in progress, always complete and lacking at the same time.

Isaac holds my hand; our fingers find home in each other. We turn onto my block, walk up the steps, and sit on the stoop.

May’s sun shines a gentle warmth, and we sit and people watch, saying hello occasionally to neighbors passing by. The four of us are quiet, just sitting and watching. The wind chimes mingle and talk with one another every time the wind blows. Finally, Chelsea says, “Why is everybody so quiet?”

Nadine laughs. “I knew you’d be the first to talk.”

We all laugh at this, and I remember those days when we used to play the silent game. “Who can be quiet the longest?” one of us would call out.

Chelsea never won. Not once. She has always been full of words, always one to speak them. “But for real, why is everyone so quiet?” she asks. She leans back on the edge of the step.

“I’m fine,” Isaac says. “I’m just thinking about what’s next.”

Nadine turns around. “Next? We won. It’s over.”

Chelsea says, “It’s not over—”

I finish her sentence. “We’re just beginning.”





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

What luck to be in this world with so many brilliant & beautiful people who have helped me to rise up.

Thank you to these collective families: Hagan, Dawson, Bazaz, Sferra & Flores for all the ways you have nurtured me—especially my parents: Gianina & Pat Hagan, who embraced my feminist ways from early on. Thank you to this community of people: Aracelis Girmay, Lisa Ascalon, Marina Hope Wilson, Parneshia Jones, Caroline Kennedy, Kelly Norman Ellis, Mitchell L. H. Douglas, Kamilah Aisha Moon, Dana Edell, Rob Linné, Lisa Green, Moriah Carlson, Rajeeyah Finnie-Myers, Nanya-Akuki Goodrich, Andrée Greene, Catrina Ganey, Cheryl Boyce-Taylor, Vincent Toro, Grisel Acosta, Andy Powell, Tanya Gallo, Lindsey Homra-Siroky, Melissa Johnson, Kevin Flores, Danni Quintos, Nykeira Franks, Alondra Uribe, Megan Garriga, Lisa Roby, Kelly Wheatley, Becca Christensen, Kate Carothers Smith, Britt Kulsveen, Brandi Cusick Rimpsey, Leslie Blincoe, Michele Kotler, Berry, Ellie Clark, Alecia Whitaker, Stephanie Dionne Acosta, Jessica Wahlstrom, Will Maloney, Kate Dworkoski Scudese, Pete Scudese & Cindy Uh for all the ways you have held & propelled me.

Thank you to Renée Watson—what a supreme honor to work & vision & build & create with you.

& to Sarah Shumway Liu for your stunning editorial eye—I am so grateful. & to Bloomsbury for the care & love you’ve given to us.

& especially & always for David Flores—walking through this world with you is such blessing & balm.

Thank you to these spaces that honor voices in such profound ways: The Affrilachian Poets, Conjwoman, girlstory, DreamYard, Global Writes, Sawyer House Press, Kentucky Governor’s School for the Arts, Northern Manhattan Arts Alliance, VONA/Voices of Our Nations Arts Foundation, Northwestern University Press, The Girl Project & WHEELS: Washington Heights Expeditionary Learning School.