Say Her Name

by Stefani Deoul

  “Look,” Lolo exhales loudly, “we don’t have all the answers yet, and we may never. I can tell you, had these bodies been discovered in any other way, in virtually any other place, we wouldn’t even be this involved. Our rough estimate is we are looking somewhere around the year 1800. This means there is no current grieving family to assuage, there is no criminal prosecution to be made, and the harsh truth is there is no unique or compelling forensic interest, other than as . . .”

  Lolo stops again, letting the sentence hang there unfinished. She looks at the two of us, not unkindly, maybe even sympathetically, but then she finishes it, delivering it with a sense of finality. “. . . fodder for headlines.”

  Both Ari and I go into denial mode, but she raises her “talk to the paw” hand, forestalling an argument.

  “As I said, if you want to know who is buried there, the police will have our test results. But you need to understand this isn’t an episode of television. We do not have anywhere near enough manpower or budget to go around to even the grieving families who desperately need us. If you want answers, you’ll need to somehow find them yourselves.”

  SEVENTEEN

  We stand there watching Lolo turn away.

  Then we head out, saying nothing. But I know our quiet isn’t any kind of defeat. Nope. Our quiet is only a shared moment knowing we are both hearing Lolo’s voice echo, “you will need to find answers.”

  Our next destination is not our usual Platitudes, but rather back to school, where we are all set to meet up and grab pizza before Imani’s rehearsal begins at seven. And it’s already past five thirty. Ergo—hey, rule of three—we decide subway will be fastest, even though it will be rush-hour packed.

  We’re hustling our way down the stairs, left side clambering, and I know you would think I’d be rambling on about Lolo’s bomb of an answer and what we’re gonna do next, but surprisingly I can’t. Ari’s earlier comment keeps getting in my way, and not in a good way.

  “You know,” I say as we push through the turnstiles, “Ava’s not a bad person.”

  Ari looks at me, confused.

  “No, she’s probably not.” It’s an agreeably, cautious response. “Seems fine to me.”

  Now I’m confused. “But this morning you said you are so over her.”

  Ari gives me an “I did?” look, then suddenly laughs. “Sid, that so had nothing to do with her. It was all about you. When you’re with Ava, you’re not Sid. It’s like Sid goes off and sexiles herself.”

  We’re queuing up for the next train as best we can when our conversation is overrun by increasingly loud clatter. We wait for a non-stopping train to scream past.

  Ari uncovers her ears. “Where were we? Right. You were being all deference and stuff. Like some sort of big bad butch . . .” Ari pauses, her nose scrunching, “. . . coquette. And god, it wasn’t even mildly amusing. Well, that’s not fair. It was, for a while, mildly amusing.”

  Then, as if coming to her senses, she stresses, “A very short while. So, when I said I’m so over her, I wasn’t talking about Ava, I meant it about you, and how now you might go back to being you. I probably should have said, ‘thank god because I’m so over you.’ Because honestly you need to own this—not her.”

  I know. It’s pretty fugly. But then I drift back to the last time we sat, just the two of us, and talked on the High Line. Ari’s not being unkind. She just owns things. And she doesn’t pull punches.

  The pulling in of the train and the pushing of the crowd saves me from needing to answer, but once I’m aboard I look around until I find Ari’s multicolored head three people back. I get just enough movement to lean right and smile my thanks, or maybe just my acknowledgement. I don’t think I’m ready for thanks, but I want Ari to know I’m not mad. And I want her to know I kind of get it now.

  Ava needs someone I can’t be, someone born into her world, because she had to fight so hard to get it now she won’t risk having it taken away. And now I get it; that isn’t me. Which is kind of okay. But it’s not okay that I, of all people, didn’t have the words, the language, to tell her I couldn’t be that person, the person she needed, before I wasn’t.

  I somehow stay upright as the train lurches out.

  The pizzas, which I can smell as soon as we head down the hallway, are on a table in Mr. Clifton’s room with numerous slices already devoured. We dive in and bring everyone up to speed.

  “So, no guess?” Vik speaks everyone’s question.

  I shake my head, slumped deep in a sofa, my mouth filled with pizza. “Nope.” I pause and manage to swallow the oversized bite ripped from my folded slice, and even more importantly I catch the grease running off the back end before I am wearing it.

  “But we did get the name of the State Historic Preservation Officer a.k.a. the SHPO person, who we can track down tomorrow.”

  Note to self, way to shut up a room. It’s kind of like the anti-mic drop. So we all sit here, literally chewing on that for the next couple of minutes.

  “Okay,” Imani breaks the silence. “I have ten minutes before rehearsal. Anyone have any ideas?”

  “I have two incredibly loose thoughts,” I offer. “First, we have to all agree that since the bodies were all . . .” Wow, some things are harder to say out loud than when they were just thoughts.

  I gather up my voice, which is currently rebelling. “Since they were all chained together, they had some relationship. We don’t know what that relationship actually was, but we know it includes eight people. So, my first loose thought is the library. Well, kind of. My first loose thought is the newspaper. I thought we could start with The New York Times archives, but actually The New York Times didn’t begin publishing until 1851, which puts them outside the window.”

  And no. I did not know that offhand. I googled.

  “But there were papers. Other papers. And even better, in 1801, right in the center of our sweet spot, the Alexander Hamilton, of yes, Lin Manuel Miranda fame, founded the New York Evening Post, which is now the New York Post. Of course, I have no idea if that Post looks anything like our Post, which we all know loves a screaming headline, but if it did resemble it, it could hold a possible lead.”

  Hey. One New York Post, one Alexander Hamilton, and one Lin Manuel Miranda, Imani’s not-so-secret crush, lets me think there’s maybe a semblance of a good omen evolving.

  I know, as far as those ray-of-hope things go, it’s pretty dim. And pause for a cheap chortle. It’s sadly pretty much all I’ve got right now.

  “And there were earlier papers, lots of them. So, I’m thinking we head down to the stacks and start checking whatever newspapers we can find for eight missing people or eight murdered people or something with eight.”

  Suffice it to say, good omen thing or not, there is no applause following this.

  “So,” Jimmy looks up. “You said you had two loose ideas.”

  Before I can get started on what I know is an even less spectacular thought, Imani jumps up. “I’m late.” She leans over, kisses Jimmy. “Thanks for going, guys.” She looks over to me, “I’ll get details later?”

  I nod.

  “I know you got this.” And she’s gone.

  Leaving the four of us to polish off the remaining slices, clean up and, you know, make a plan.

  I go back to answering Jimmy. “I don’t know exactly. But somehow the census popped into my brain. I’m thinking something to do with the census. But I don’t know what. I did check. The first census was in 1790. So it is in our window. And they do it every ten years.”

  “So, we look at deaths for ten-year periods?” Jimmy’s confusion is plain to see.

  “Exactly. I just don’t know how, or if, it helps. So that’s a problem.”

  And with that we kind of just split up. Vik and Ari leave while Jimmy and I make our way through the halls to the theater. Outside the doors I reach over, stopping him before he pulls them open.

  I don’t hesitate. I just look directly at him. “Thank you.”

 
He gives me that small big brother grin. The one that says I am exhausting. Sadly, I know it well.

  “Just happy to have you back.”

  “Was I really that bad?”

  “Yeah. But we all love you, so it’s okay.”

  It’s the wink that lets me know he’s teasing. I shrug and we both reach for the double doors, opening them as quietly as we can. And the only voice we hear is Imani’s, coming from center stage.

  We stand there, at the back of the auditorium, hidden in the dark, watching, listening, as Imani pleads with Don Quixote.

  For anyone who might not have a Broadway Bound Bestie, here’s the short version: old would-be knight Don Quixote de la Mancha sets out with his would-be squire, Sancho, in a quest to restore the age of chivalry, to battle evil, and to right all wrongs. During their quest they come upon a self-described whore, Aldonza, who Don Quixote insists, repeatedly, is his “Lady,” Dulcinea. And before the show is over this crazy knight changes everyone’s vision of themselves for the better.

  As she sings, it’s amazing how the words and the music take on new meaning. I feel every note twist in my heart. She’s in sweats, flats, hair pulled back, but her face tells me and her voice gives me everything I need.

  He’s right. She’s right. They’re right. Cervantes is right. The goose bumps running up and down my arms, the chills running up and down my spine, are right. It is never too late to set out on a quest in order to right a wrong. To sally forth.

  And maybe, pause for a hat tip to Miguel Cervantes, you know, we are tilting at windmills, but they are our windmills to till at.

  Which is why I race home and spend my next two hours WhatsApp’ing with Ze, tilting and questing away as we build an app to combine the research and the leads in some way to get us to an end goal.

  And we shall call our new app Dulcinea.

  Yes, go ahead and roll your eyes. I will grant you it might be a bit cheesy, even maybe more than a bit cheesy, but I think calling it “The Quest” is even cheesier. And we don’t have all night to think about what to call it when we need to build it.

  In my mind I see one of those big maps they show in the movies where they stick pushpins in and Post-its on, and strings run all over the place.

  So, we agree on a map module, but just for Manhattan for now. And we can color-code for hypothesis vs. fact. This way, if we have either definitive information or someone has an idea they want to call attention to, it all begins here. And then we can add more colors as we need them.

  While we discuss, Ze is already speed coding, and without looking up nonchalantly says, “Sid, sometimes you think a person can be your person, but that doesn’t, and won’t, make you hers.”

  She may not be making eye contact, but I’m staring at the screen, surprised, even though I suppose I shouldn’t be. I only know Ze because ze and Imani went to boarding school together in France before Imani moved to the U.S. Imani would def have turned to Ze if I were being a useless friend. Which I was. So I can’t begrudge her that, but apparently I can still be pissed.

  Because I’m tired, tired of feeling like I’m somehow the punching bag in this equation.

  “You know what, Ze, that’s for me to find out. It’s not for everyone else to determine. Imani has Jimmy, Ari has Vik, and guess what Sid has? Oh yeah, nobody. Sid has nobody. So maybe, in all their coupledom, they could have spared five more minutes of generosity instead of judgement.”

  And with that a silence falls. I busy myself working on the home screen, which we have decided to do with icons.

  “Shit.” Ze stops chatting long enough to rewrite an apparently finicky strand of code. Finished, she casually changes subjects, “So, if thieves wear sneakers, and artists wear Skechers . . .”

  And I freeze. Codus Interruptus. Ze found a meme. It’s gonna be a long night. But I answer, because, well, because I can’t not answer. It’s a pun thang.

  “Plumbers wear clogs.”

  A brief moment as though there is thinking going on, but too brief to actually think. I know now, Ze’s been prepping.

  “UPS people wear Reeboks.”

  For a minute I think about it. Then I get it. Like re-box. Wrong spelling. So I’m not sure it should count. Before I decide, Ze interrupts.

  “Get it, Sid? Like UPS, like post office. Reeboks.”

  Ze is way too entertained by zir own pun. So just as I think I should be flagging it, I think again, and let it go. Let’s be real, I couldn’t play this in Chinese if my life depended on it.

  I’m in. “Okay, I’ve got one. CIA peeps wear Hush Puppies.”

  “Ooh. Good one.” Pause in the game for a moment of business. “I think we use flags for places we’ve been, but need to find more. You know, like we’ve flagged this one.”

  I don’t answer as I’m trying to finish this line before I lose track of it. And bracket.

  “And Sid,” Ze’s voice causes me to look over to my screen. “Would it really have changed anything with Ava if everyone was fake nicer about it?”

  I stare at zir, thinking about that. Probably not. But that’s not what I answer.

  “So, I’m good with the flags. But I’m not so good with the analysis. You know, sometimes it sucks being the fifth wheel. It’s like a bad version of Duck Duck Goose—Couple Couple Sid. And it was like I finally had someone, and I just think,” I pause and then let my anger fly, “they, my so-called friends, needed to be more something.”

  And I sit here, coding and stewing, angry with them, angry at myself for not being able to articulate my hurt better. More what? I don’t know, more supportive, more understanding.

  But they were more for a while. Imani came with me to learn sign. Everyone cheered us on during the post-roller derby makeout session.

  And suddenly I get it. Regardless of Joe trying, and Imani, and even Ari, I finally get it. Ava was doing what Ava needed to do to take care of Ava. I feel my heart ache, and I feel my head set free, all at once.

  “Hey, Ze. Movers wear Vans.”

  “Traitors wear flip-flops.”

  “Scholars wear oxfords!”

  This continues intermittently for the next few hours. Finally, Ze takes pity and says they would finish the timeline module without me. For which I am truly grateful. But before I go, I have one last meme to play. Hey, it’s me and it’s a word challenge. Don’t judge.

  “Funambulists wear New Balance.”

  The laugh echoes as I disconnect. I’m not sure if it’s because Ze got it or if it’s because Ze knew I wasn’t hanging up until I’d won. I’m good either way. I fake shadowbox. Quick extend two fists forward with two fingers pointing outward, shouting out to the Wonder Woman. Stretch the back; it is chuff time for me!

  Which I thought would be rapidly followed by sleep time, but guess what? I thought wrong.

  “You awake?”

  It’s Imani. It’s two thirty in the morning. And yes, of course I’m still awake. I had coding to do. Six hours of it, my crossed eyeballs tell me. I ping back.

  “My Dad said we should talk to the people at the New York African Burial Ground.”

  I google.

  The African Burial Ground National Monument is a monument at Duane Street and African Burial Ground Way in the Civic Center section of Lower Manhattan, New York City. Its main building is the Ted Weiss Federal Building at 290 Broadway.

  So, they would, I think, be all over this. And maybe they know stuff we don’t know, although maybe not yet anyway.

  The site contains remains of more than 419 Africans buried during the late 17th and 18th centuries in a portion of what was the largest colonial-era cemetery for people of African descent, some free, most enslaved. There may have been as many as 10,000–20,000 burials in what was called the “Negroes Burial Ground” in the 1700s.

  Some free. Most enslaved. I force myself to blink, text a response. “Okay. Adding a page in the app for them. Need to find out who we talk to. Maybe we can rule out burial ground like we have Seneca Village.”


  “’k.” With that, Imani signs off, but I keep reading page after page.

  The discovery highlighted the forgotten history of enslaved Africans in colonial and federal New York City, who were integral to its development. By the American Revolutionary War, they constituted nearly a quarter of the population in the city.

  New York had the second-largest number of enslaved Africans in the nation after Charleston, South Carolina.

  I keep reading that line over and over and over again. A quarter of the population. The second-largest number of enslaved Africans. In my city. And somehow I know nothing about it. Which doesn’t seem possible. I mean I know all about slavery and the Civil War and Robert E. Lee and Ulysses S. Grant. And Jim Crow. And carpetbaggers.

  How can I know virtually nothing about slaves in New York City? How is that possible?

  Maybe that’s harsh. I do know there were slaves in the early days of New York. I remember something about men on a ship who came with the Dutch West India Company. But, according to my less-than-steel-trap-brain that was even before New York was New York.

  EIGHTEEN

  School week finally ends, weekend comes, and we descend on the New York Public Library as soon the doors open.

  Now if this were a typical weekend excursion, I would be making my way toward Fifth Avenue, deciding which lion I’d greet today. Is it a day for “Patience” or a day for “Fortitude?” I would then approach the library from the now-deemed appropriate side, say hello, and race my way up the steps.

  Today I do believe I would say hi to Fortitude. Not that “Patience” wouldn’t be good, just that I’m sensing Fortitude would be better, more on target with our mission, but as I said that would be if this were typical.

  But today is not typical. Today there will be no hellos to lions.

  Instead, today I texted everyone to meet at the New York Public Library on Malcolm X Boulevard in Harlem, where we shall have an extravaganza at the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture. It has no lions. I am, however, fervently praying it has a huge light bulb, miraculously shining on a heretofore unknown document, giving us all the answers we need.