by Renée Watson
Dad leaves, and I really want to follow him, want to hear everything Mom is saying about having Braxton Hicks, whatever that is. I want to listen to Mom’s voice, see if there is any worry there, any fear.
Aunt Tracey comes over to me, says, “Don’t worry. I had false contractions with Ava. It’s normal. Your mom is okay and the baby will be healthy.” Aunt Tracey scoots closer to me, and just having her next to me makes me feel better. A little.
I don’t feel like eating my banana pudding, but I don’t want to waste food, either. I eat a spoonful. Dad calls me upstairs. I take the phone, go into Aunt Tracey’s room, and close the door. I look into Mom’s face. The first thing she says to me is, “I’m okay. I’m fine.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. The baby is okay,” she says. “How’s our secret challenge going?”
“Not good,” I whisper. I tell Mom about dinner and about the walk home from the coffee shop. “This is going to be harder than I thought,” I tell Mom.
She says, “If anyone can bring those two together, it’s you.”
12
The next morning Dad is out of the house before Grandpa Earl makes our oatmeal. He has a breakfast meeting and then a site visit at the NBA store. Grandpa Earl says, “I can call your cousins and see if they can take you out today. They’re on midwinter break. I’m sure they need something to do.” Grandpa Earl might be the only person I know who has a landline. He picks up his phone and dials the number from memory. He must have the volume as loud as it goes because I can hear every word they’re saying and it doesn’t sound good. “Grandpa, we don’t feel like babysitting,” Ava says.
“You’re not babysitting, Ava. You’re spending time with your cousin. She’s here all the way from Oregon. Don’t you want to get to know her?”
“We just hung out with her all night last night.”
“I want you to come over and spend some time with her. Isn’t your momma at work? You two don’t need to be sitting up in the house by yourselves all day.”
Nina must have grabbed the phone because now she is talking. “Grandpa, we’ll be there as soon as we finish getting dressed.”
Grandpa Earl hangs up the phone and then says, “They can’t wait to show you around.”
Does he really think I didn’t hear them?
Within the hour, Nina and Ava are ringing the doorbell. They hug Grandpa Earl, and the way he lights up lets me know they are two of his favorite people. He doesn’t look at me that way, but how can he? He doesn’t know me.
“Hi, Amara,” Nina says to me. Her hair is a whirlwind of curls. The thick black coils fall to her shoulders. Ava doesn’t say anything; she walks straight to the kitchen and goes into the pantry, taking out a box of Nilla Wafers. They’re both dressed like they’re going somewhere special, not just sightseeing. Their faces are painted with makeup, and their clothes look like they were put together by a professional stylist.
Me on the other hand? I don’t know the first thing about putting on makeup—not that Mom would let me wear it anyway. I’m wearing jeans and a T-shirt with the Nikes Titus gave me. And, of course, once we go outside I’ll have on a hoodie under the winter coat Mom got just for this trip. Their coats are what Mom calls “cute but not practical.”
Grandpa Earl walks over to the door and grabs a key off a hook that’s hanging under a mirror. He tells Nina and Ava, “Here, take the spare key so you can let yourselves back in. And just stay near the house. Take her over there to 125th and let her see the Apollo.”
“Grandpa, no one wants to see the Apollo,” Ava says.
“Yes, I do,” I admit.
Ava doesn’t think I see her rolling her eyes. “What about going to Times Square or someplace like that?” she asks.
Grandpa Earl shakes his head. “Just stay close to home.”
Grandpa gives Nina and Ava a lecture about looking out for me and making sure I have a good time. “We got it, Grandpa. We got it,” Ava says. She mumbles to Nina, “Grandpa acts like we’ve never been nowhere before.”
We walk outside. “Let’s walk down to Lenox and then we can head over to 125th,” Nina says.
We walk on 129th, and when we get to Lenox, we turn left. I look at the street sign and notice that it’s also called Malcolm X Boulevard. “Can we stop so I can take a picture of the sign?”
“What sign?” Ava asks.
I point.
“You want a picture of that?” Ava looks all kinds of confused.
I take my phone out and zoom in so I am sure to get the full name. I take the picture and think how I will include this somehow in my suitcase. We make our way down Lenox Avenue. Every now and then Ava turns to me and says, “Stop looking like you don’t belong here,” but I don’t know what she means by that so I just keep walking.
The streets aren’t as crowded as I thought they would be. The sidewalks are wide, and even with a few vendors on the edge of the sidewalks, there’s still plenty of room to walk. I am thinking maybe Mom was exaggerating about how busy New York is, with its bustling streets, but then we get to the corner of 125th and Lenox. There’s a crowd of people crossing the street going both directions and cars forging their way through and whizzing by. There’s a Starbucks on the left and a subway station on the corner. I want to take a picture of the subway entrance, but I know Ava will think I’m making a big deal out of nothing, so I just act like it’s not a big deal that there’s an actual entryway to an underground tunnel. I wonder what it’s like to be underground, to have a whole world moving above you. I think about the fact that we are walking on top of people who are moving around under us having a whole different experience than we are.
There is so much to look at, I don’t know where to put my eyes. I look up at the street sign and see that 125th is also called Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard. I wonder why streets here have one name and then another, like there are two worlds here, two ways to go. I want to get a picture of where Malcolm X and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevards intersect, but the light changes and we need to cross.
We turn right onto 125th. It is full of people, some moving quickly, some walking slow, others standing and watching it all. There are vendors set up on both sides of the street selling everything from purses to black art to incense and perfume, to jewelry, to gloves and scarves. A long line is in front of the cart across the street where people are waiting to buy a hot dog, pretzel, or roasted peanuts. I stop and pull out my phone so I can take a picture. A woman bumps into me, and Ava goes to fussing at me while Nina apologizes to the woman. “You can’t just stop in the middle of the street,” Ava says. “And what is there to take a picture of anyway?” she asks.
“Come on,” Nina says. “We’ll stop at the Apollo, and you can take a picture there. But other than that, we have to keep it moving.”
The more we walk on 125th, the more people there are to navigate through. The sidewalks are too crowded for the three of us to walk side by side. Nina and I walk next to each other. Ava is in back of us. “Ooh—H&M. Let’s stop in here,” she says.
Nina shakes her head. “We are not shopping. We’re supposed to be showing Amara around Harlem. She doesn’t want to shop at H&M.”
Nina is right.
Ava huffs and walks faster. “Well, can we at least go on the way back after she sees everything?”
“Yes,” Nina says.
“Well, come on, then.” Ava leads the way, and we follow. She is walking so fast and so far ahead she doesn’t hear it when Nina says, “Let’s stop here so she can see the statue.” Nina has to call out to her twice to get her attention. We stop in front of a statue of a man with his coat jacket swaying in the imagined wind. He looks like he is moving, going somewhere and looking straight ahead with a determined face.
“Are we going to stop at every little thing?” Ava asks.
Nina gives her a look, and Ava gets quiet, and I think maybe later I will ask Nina how to give the Big-Sister-Stare-Down in case I’ll need to use it on my baby si
ster one day.
Ava walks back and joins us in front of the statue. “This is Adam Clayton Powell,” Nina says. “He was a politician and fought for—”
“He was a preacher,” Ava cuts in. “That’s what Grandpa told me.”
“I think he was both,” Nina says, not at all masking that she is irritated with her sister. “The point is, he did a lot for Harlem. He organized rent strikes and fought to integrate places of business so that black people could work anywhere and get fair pay.”
I take a few pictures, then take a photo of the silver pillar he is standing on. There are words written on the side: Keep the Faith, it says. Sitting on the benches that wrap around the statue are groups of people eating and talking on their phones and blowing into their cold hands. Three drummers entertain a small group of people who’ve crowded around them. They tap and hit the African drums, their hands moving fast and dancing in the air. A few people have their phones out and are recording; others sway from side to side. And then there are people who walk by as if they don’t hear the beat of the drum at all, as if it’s normal to have an African drum session in the middle of the sidewalk.
I lift my arms up high and take a photo of the whole scene. “Nothing like this happens in Beaverton,” I say.
Nina says, “Maybe we’ll visit one day. My mom is always saying it’s a shame she doesn’t see her brother much.”
“I’ll show you around if you come,” I tell them. And I won’t be annoyed when they notice how instead of tall, tall buildings stretching to the sky there are pine trees standing tall like ladders you can climb into the clouds. And when they want the car to slow down so they can take out their cameras and capture Mount Hood towering over the city, looking close enough to touch, I’ll understand. And every time they say, “It’s just so clean here,” I won’t sigh or huff and puff. I know I can promise this because this is what Titus said when he first moved to Oregon, and I never—not once—made him feel bad for noticing how different our worlds were.
We keep walking, and then I see marquee of the Apollo just ahead of us. I try to act like it’s no big deal, especially since Nina and Ava don’t seem to care at all. Once we’re standing under it, I realize there are other people out here taking photos, so at least I’m not the only one. “Have you ever been inside?” I ask.
“A bunch of times,” Ava says.
I can hardly hear her because there’s a man not too far away speaking into a megaphone about Jesus being the white man’s god, and not too far from him, there’s a man yelling out, “Got your gloves right here, right here. Got scarves, got hats. Cold out here. Got your gloves right here.”
I take a few pictures of the marquee, and all I can think about is all the stories I’ve heard about Michael Jackson and James Brown singing at the Apollo, how performers would rub the wooden stump for good luck.
I swipe through all the photos I’ve taken so far, choosing one to send to Titus. Titus replies to my text with a photo of his math book and a message that says, Nothing exciting happening here.
Nina looks at my phone. “Who’s that?” she asks.
“My best friend, Titus.”
“Your best friend is a boy?” Ava sings. “Does your mom know you have a boyfriend?”
“No, he’s not my boyfriend. He’s my best friend.”
“Mmm-hmm, okay,” Nina says.
I put my phone in my pocket.
“Come on, let’s go down Frederick Douglass.” Nina leads the way and once we are at the corner, I see the two street signs at the top of the pole. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard and Frederick Douglass Boulevard. I stop to take another picture. I say to Nina and Ava, “Can you imagine what it would be like if Frederick Douglass really met Martin Luther King on a corner? I wonder what they would say to each other?”
Nina says, “That’s a good question.”
And I think maybe Nina has an answer to give, but Ava interrupts, shrugging her shoulders and saying, “Let’s turn here. You’ll probably like this street.”
We turn left onto Frederick Douglass, and Ava was right. I do love it. There are restaurants and stores block after block, and then I see a statue of Harriet Tubman in the middle of the street, in its own sectioned-off space. Like Adam Clayton Powell, she looks like she is in motion, looks like she is running. I don’t even have to ask to stop to take a photo. Nina and Ava cross the street, and we stand at the statue taking it all in. Now that I am closer, I see roots are coming from her back, digging into the ground.
I take pictures. “I think I’ll print these and put them in my suitcase,” I say. I tell them about the Suitcase Project, and Ava says, “Oh, so that’s why you’re taking pictures of everything,” like my homework assignment is the only reason why I want to capture the place where my dad was born, the place that raised him. I take a few of the whole statue, making sure I get some close-ups. First, the face. She is not smiling, but she doesn’t look angry. She looks determined, courageous. I walk around her, look at the back of the statue. There are footprints stamped around the bell of her dress, and faces carved in the bronze. I take close-ups of the faces and footprints, think about how many people she led to freedom. Then there are the roots. They are brown and thick and intertwined with each other, anchoring the statue into the cement. I take a picture of the roots, get real close.
Ava reaches for my phone and says, “You want to get in one of the photos so you can send it to your boyfriend?” She smiles when she says this, and Nina laughs, but I don’t think it’s funny, and even though I do want to be in the picture, I don’t want her to take it. I give my phone to Nina and say, “Let’s take a selfie.” We pose in front of Harriet Tubman, and I am starting to understand why Big T is always saying there’s no place like New York. No place else that constantly reminds us that we are important, that we come from a people who sacrificed and fought and protested for us to be able to walk these streets free. What is it like to be reminded of this every day?
In Oregon, I only see stuff like this in museums when there’s a special exhibit up that celebrates black history. But here—right outside in the middle of street—there’s a reminder. I wonder if the people who live here ever stop to take it in. Do they ever stand here, say a prayer of thanksgiving?
“Can we please walk back now?” Ava says. “I just want to look in H&M for a little bit. I promise I won’t take long.”
We head back to 125th Street toward the store. The whole time I’m walking, I am thinking about those statues. Adam Clayton Powell and Harriet Tubman in motion. Eyes fixed on something far, far away. Feet rooted and grounded.
I want to feel like that. Like I am connected to something, like there’s a history keeping me moving, living. Like the journey I am on has many footprints, many stories coming with me.
We spend an hour in the store because Ava is trying on outfits and can’t make up her mind about what she wants. “Why aren’t you trying anything on?” she asks.
I shrug as if I don’t have an answer. I wish I had the boldness to tell her that I did not come all the way to New York to shop at a store that I can shop at in Oregon. Ava tries on another dress, then after talking with the woman at the counter she says, “Let’s go to the one in Times Square. They’re holding this in my size.” She holds up a hunter green dress.
I look at Nina. “But Grandpa Earl said—”
Before I can finish my sentence, Ava tells me, “Grandpa is probably taking a nap. He won’t even know that you’re still gone.”
Nina is quiet and then says, “Okay, but we’re only going to H&M, and then we’re back on the train.”
We walk out of the store back onto the crowded street and make our way to the subway. To my left a woman stands begging for money. A few people drop coins in her paper cup. When we get underground, Nina says, “We need to get you a MetroCard.” She walks over to the vending machine. “Wait right here.”
I stand with Ava, who doesn’t seem to notice the man pop-locking just a few steps away from her. The
music is only in his head, and he’s dancing hard like he’s on a stage performing. Part of me wants to laugh, but I also feel sadness for him. Two kids go under the turnstile, not paying their fare. I see an elderly woman watching them, shaking her head.
Nina walks over to us and hands me a thin plastic card. “Don’t lose this,” she says. She shows me how to swipe it, and the first time I do it too fast, so when I try to walk through the turnstile, the metal pole hits my leg, doesn’t let me in. I try it again, slower this time, and walk through. When we get on the platform the first thing I notice is that there are rats running along the tracks. Not mice. Big, fat rats. Even though they are below us, nowhere near me at all, I step back farther from the edge and try not to look at them. Nina notices and laughs at me. “They don’t have rodents in Oregon?” she asks. “Come on, let’s walk down so we can be at the back of the train.”
We make our way to the end of the platform. The tiled walls have colorful mosaics of black activists, musicians, and artists flying through the sky. I take a few photos. I say to Nina and Ava, “For my project, I have to interview family members. Can I interview you?” I don’t have Mr. Rosen’s questions with me, but I already know what I want to ask, already know I don’t need to write down their answers. I’ll never forget anything about this trip.
Nina and Ava say I can ask them anything. I begin, “So what is it like living here?”
“I don’t know,” Ava says. “It’s like this.” She points out at the crowd on the platform. There’s a woman walking down the concrete stairs carrying a stroller. The baby inside is bobbling up and down as its mother makes her way to the platform. A man wearing something that looks like a dress, but is not a dress, runs over to help her. “What is it like in Oregon?” Ava asks.
And all I can think to say is, “It’s not like this.”
Now all of a sudden they are interviewing me. Nina asks, “Where else have you been?”
