Watch Us Rise(8)

“We do study that, Chelsea,” Ms. Hawkins interrupts, gesturing toward her books by Nikki Giovanni and Amiri Baraka.

“No, I know, but we could look at how they influence the work today, like the Dark Room Collective with Tracy K. Smith and Kevin Young. We could look at June Jordan’s Poetry for the People and think about how the work from the past informs the work today, now, that’s happening currently,” I add, to make sure I’m getting my point across.

“Well, you know what I say,” Ms. Hawkins cuts in, “you have to know your history to even think about understanding your present.”

“That’s the whole point,” Jacob says, sitting up in his seat. “Clubs at Amsterdam Heights are about learning our history.”

“We’ve learned it,” I shout, surprising even myself. “Sorry, I just . . . ?I feel like we’ve been really pushing the classics in here.”

“Because the classics are what define language and history, they . . .”

“I understand how you feel,” I say, lowering my voice just a little. “But to be honest, I don’t even know if I agree with all the classics anyway, especially considering that the canon, whatever that means, was created by white men, who published other white men, and basically kept women and people of color out of the conversation as long as possible.”

“Oh, please,” Jacob says, interrupting me for the second time. “The classics are classics for a reason, okay?” he says, reaching out his hands and holding onto my shoulders like he’s trying to school me.

“Yeah, a racist reason. And by the way, stop talking over me,” I say, staring directly at Jacob and pulling my arms away.

“Excuse me,” Ms. Hawkins says.

I keep on. “Unlike you and Sonya, I don’t wanna spend all my time writing super-vague poems about forests and animals and pain,” I say. “I wanna write poems that matter, that fight for something.”

“So dramatic,” Jacob says. “And if you don’t wanna be part of the club, or do the kind of work we’re doing, then why are you even here?” Jacob asks.

“Yeah, I don’t even . . . ?I don’t know. I—you’re right. I quit,” I say, packing up my bags and stumbling as I gather my journal and drop a copy of Living Room by June Jordan that I was going to share with everybody. I pull my hat off the seat behind me. I can’t believe I wore a floppy straw hat to school again. I can’t believe I just quit, and most of all, I can’t believe I just blew up in front of a bunch of people who are now gonna spread the word that Chelsea Spencer has lost her freakin’ mind, and even more I can’t believe that I still care so much about what everyone else thinks.

“Ms. Hawkins, I’m sorry.” I swing my backpack on and walk out. I make it as far as my locker before I burst into tears. “So stupid, so stupid, so stupid,” I whisper to myself. I hear a basketball bouncing behind me, and I look up, panicked, since I didn’t realize anyone was in the hallway.

“You okay?” James Bradford is standing behind me. He’s only the hottest guy in our class. At six feet tall, he’s smiling down at me. I look up at his face, perfect teeth, perfect skin, and he’s just started to grow his hair out and is wearing it in a short Afro. Meanwhile, my skin is broken out everywhere . . . again . . . and I’m crying and carrying a journal full of six-word memoirs—not cool.

“Oh, I’m—I’m totally fine, I just, I—I quit the Poets for Peace and Justice club,” I blurt out.

“There’s a poetry club?” James asks, starting to smile. “That’s cool.”

“Yeah, it is cool, or it was cool. I mean, poetry is awesome, it’s a way to rage against society and . . .” I look up and see James laughing. “Shut up,” I say, pushing the basketball against his chest and walking away. My crush is the worst.

“No, it is cool! It’s cool, Chelsea,” he calls after me. “See ya in gym tomorrow. See, gym? That’s actually cool.”

I smile to myself but don’t look back. He doesn’t deserve it. But he knows we have gym together. Maybe he’s even checking for me in gym class. I love it. I hate myself for loving it, but I love it just the same.

When I get home, I collect all my six-word memoirs and write one whole poem. None of it makes me feel any better.

Rage Against the Myth of Beauty

Love the way you look, always.

Love your wild hair and lungs.

Love your hips and each thigh.

Love your crooked teeth, wide smile.

See your face in the mirror.

See the way your nose erupts.

Call your face a beautiful carnival.

Don’t ever read beauty magazines alone.

Who are beauty magazines for anyway?

Trust and know who you are.

Being a teenager really sucks sometimes.

Sometimes quitting is the only way.

To figure out what comes next.





Dad has good days and bad days. Sometimes he is in bed all day and can hardly keep food down and we all walk around the house whispering and the lights are dim because we don’t want to wake him, we don’t want to make his headache worse, don’t want him to feel left out of all the fun we are having or the great meal we are eating.

But today is different. Today the curtains in the living room are open and music is playing and the kitchen is a symphony of lids trembling on top of Mom’s best pots, the faucet goes on and off, on and off, and the timer dings. It’s seafood night, and Mom is making her special crab boil: crab legs, corn on the cob, andouille sausage, crawfish, jumbo shrimp, and small red potatoes. We haven’t done this in six months. We used to have the crab boil on the first Friday of every month. It’s tradition that Chelsea, Isaac, and Nadine come, and after we eat the four us hang out for a few hours. The last time we had everyone over, we had an epic karaoke night. Dad and I impressed everyone with our favorite duet, “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.” It’s one of the few songs we both know all the words to.