by Renée Watson
“I know Mom loves me. But she’s always saying she doesn’t know whose child I am, like I don’t even belong to this family.” I didn’t even know how upset I was until I say it out loud. Now I am sitting here like a baby with tears falling down my cheeks.
“Amara, your mom and I love you. She doesn’t mean anything by that. She knows whose child you are—you’re our daughter, and you have so much of both of us in you.”
“Like what?”
“You’re smart like your mom. You have her discipline and courage to try new things. You’re caring like her, too.” Dad kisses me on my forehead. “And from me, well, your mom probably hates to admit it, but you get your fashion sense from me.” He smiles, and my tears dry and I sit up straight. “But you’re creative like both of us, actually, and I hope you have my compassion and integrity. At least, that’s what I try to be in the world,” Dad says. “No matter what. You are our everything, and whether you prefer heels or sneakers has nothing to do with our love for you.” We sit for a while, and then Dad says, “You know who else you are like?”
“Who?” I ask.
“Your grandma Grace. Sometimes I look at you, and it’s like she is standing in front of me. You have her smile, and you’re so thoughtful and kind—just like she was.” Dad shifts and leans farther back on the bench. “You have all of us in you, Amara. You are all of us.” Then Dad says, “You know, you should talk to your mom. Tell her how you feel. I promise you, she has no idea your feelings are hurt. I think she just wants to bond with you, and making clothes for you is her way of showing you how much she loves you. She isn’t trying to make you be someone you’re not,” he tells me. “You two just need to talk. Something your grandpa Earl and I never did.”
“Well, you can talk with him now,” I say.
“It’s not that simple, Amara.”
“You should read something to him. Just pick a poem from your notebook and start reading. Don’t you think things are different now? Don’t you think he’s changed?”
Dad doesn’t answer.
I don’t say more. I’m not sure it’s my place to tell Dad what Grandpa Earl told me, so I just keep quiet and sit with Dad and watch people come and go until he says, “Okay, let’s walk by my old dorm and then we’ll head back uptown.”
We leave the park and walk to the building where Mom and Dad met. Dad’s face lights up with a smile as he tells me stories of when they dated. We take the subway back to Harlem, and by the time we come up from underground the evening sky is creeping in.
We walk home, and when we get to Grandpa Earl’s block, I ask Dad, “Do you still write poetry?”
“The last poem I wrote was, well, it was for your grandma Grace. I wrote it for her funeral.”
Twelve years ago.
“Did you read it at the funeral?”
“No. Your grandpa Earl wouldn’t let me. He, ah—refused to put that nonsense, as he called it, on the program. So I didn’t go.”
“You didn’t go to Grandma Grace’s funeral?”
Dad shakes his head. “Haven’t talked to my dad since, really.”
Just before we walk up the steps to the stoop I ask Dad, “What did you do with the poem for Grandma Grace?”
“It’s in my wallet, always with me.” Dad opens the front door, and we go inside, take off all our layers. Before I go upstairs, Dad says, “Tomorrow the family is going to go to one of my favorite Harlem restaurants, Amy Ruth’s. Anything else you want on your birthday?”
This trip to New York has been the best birthday gift ever. Can I really ask for something else? I take a chance, say, “For my birthday I want to hear you read one of your poems.”
Mom and I FaceTime like we do every night. When the phone rings, Dad says, “She doesn’t know about your solo excursion,” and walks out of the room.
And I think Dad not telling Mom about me wandering around New York by myself might be the best birthday gift ever.
I fill Mom in on my time with Dad and tell her about going to Amy Ruth’s tomorrow. She talks to Dad for a while, and when he brings me my phone back he says, “Titus called while I was talking to your mom.”
I call Titus back. When Titus answers the phone, he jumps right into the conversation. “Are you ever coming back to Beaverton?” he asks.
“I haven’t been gone that long,” I say. “And the way things were going this morning with my cousins, I kind of wished I was already back home.” I tell Titus about my argument with Ava. “I came here to get closer to my family, not argue with them.”
Titus laughs. “Every family argues. I fight with my cousins all the time,” he says. “Doesn’t mean I don’t love them. Nobody’s family is perfect.”
He is so much like his dad, so matter-of-fact and to the point. Titus starts filling me in on everything I am missing. Most of it is pretty boring, predictable stuff except the part about Ms. Sutton being absent for the past two days. She is never absent. Titus is telling me a very detailed, animated version of how the sub talked and acted and how he doesn’t think the sub even knew anything about math. The whole time Titus is talking, I am thinking about what he said about loving family. I am thinking about how love looks so many ways and isn’t easily broken.
I am thinking about how even though my grandpa and my dad aren’t really talking, they still love each other. I just know they do. I can tell by the way Grandpa Earl says Dad’s name, how he stares at him sometimes when he thinks no one is looking. How Dad’s eyes change, become warmer, whenever Grandpa Earl says “son.”
I am thinking about how Mom shows me her love by making me clothes and massaging coconut oil into my hair. How the bundles of lavender in my closet are a symbol of her care.
I think about Ava and Nina and how even though we are just getting to know each other, there is love there. How Ava looked more scared than she’d admit when they thought I was missing. How Nina just bundled me in, like another little sister.
All the cards and phone calls from Grandpa Earl and Aunt Tracey.
And then there’s Big T and Titus buying me shoes, and Aunt Sofie not caring that she is not real family, but family just the same.
I have people who love me. I have people to love.
17
Today is Friday, my birthday. When I wake up I think maybe I am not awake, maybe I am still dreaming. There are metallic silver and gold balloons all over the bedroom. The floor is covered. But then Dad opens the door and says, “Happy birthday, Amara,” and turns the phone around the room, showing Mom how he decorated the room. I hear her voice saying happy birthday to me, and then Dad turns the phone to face me, so I see her face. It is good to see her brown eyes, her smile. Dad says, “Okay, babe, one, two, three …” and they both serenade me with the “Happy Birthday” song. After they sing, Dad hands me the phone.
“I miss you,” Mom says.
“I miss you, too. How are you feeling? Is the baby okay?”
“I’m on bed rest, and Sofie is taking good care of me. So tell me, how’s your dad? How’s Grandpa Earl?” and I know what Mom is really asking.
I tell her, “I’m working on it.”
“Well, today’s going to be a tough day for them, I’m sure.”
Grandma Grace.
“It’s tradition for Grandpa Earl and Aunt Tracey to visit the grave site every year. I know your grandma Grace would want your dad there. Make sure he goes. No matter what,” Mom says.
“I will,” I promise, even though I don’t think I can make Dad do anything he doesn’t want to do.
After we eat breakfast, Grandpa gets up from the table and says, “Well, I guess I better get dressed. Going to visit my Grace today. Tracey will be here in an hour. You two are coming, right?”
“Yes,” I say before Dad can say no. “Dad and I will be ready in time.”
When Grandpa Earl goes into his bedroom, Dad says to me, “So you speak for me now?”
“It’s my birthday. We’re spending it together, doing whatever I want to do. You promised
.”
Dad gets up from the table, rinses his bowl, and puts it in the dishwasher.
Thirty minutes later, he is back downstairs dressed and ready to go. Nina rings the doorbell, and when I open the door, she says, “My mom didn’t want to look for parking, so she had me come get you. She’s circling the block.”
Grandpa Earl walks behind me, Nina, and Dad. Aunt Tracey’s car has two back rows so there are enough seats for all of us. We get into the car—me and Nina all the way in the back, Dad and Ava in front of us, and Grandpa Earl in the front passenger seat next to Aunt Tracey.
I say hello to Ava, and she says hello back, but we both know we need to say more than that. We drive awhile, the whole way singing along to the radio, but then once we exit from the freeway, the car gets quiet. I look out the window; I see tombstones rising out of the ground like flowers, except these stone flowers don’t sway in the wind, don’t give off a sweet fragrance. Aunt Tracey parks, and everyone gets out of the car except Dad, so I stay, too.
I am standing on the sidewalk next to the car. His door is halfway open. “Amara, go ahead,” Dad says.
“I’ll wait for you.”
“It’s okay. I’m going to stay in the car.”
I can’t even imagine what I would do if I ever, ever had to say goodbye to Mom or Dad. Just thinking about it makes me dizzy and nauseated and every bad feeling I’ve ever felt. I stand closer to Dad, as close as I can get, and I take his hand. I don’t know what to say, so I just don’t say anything and think maybe the words will come. Or maybe it’s okay to not always have the words.
We stay like this for a while, and I think about how I’ve never been to a funeral, but in just one week I have stood on top of someone’s ashes and now I am at a graveyard. I think about how peaceful it felt, how powerful it felt standing on top of the cosmogram at the Schomburg Center. How powerful it felt to take in the spirit of Langston Hughes, honor him. And I think maybe these memorials have nothing to do with the person who left us, but instead are all about the people who stayed. Maybe Mom has it all wrong. Dad shouldn’t be here because Grandma Grace would want him to, but because he needs to.
The wind is whispering, chilling the sky with its breath. I try one more time to convince Dad to join everyone else. “Dad, don’t do it for anyone else. Do it for you.”
Dad gets out of the car, closes the door, and we walk along the path, joining Grandpa Earl, Aunt Tracey, Nina, and Ava. They are all standing there, looking at the headstone, not saying a word. After a long silence, Aunt Tracey says, “I love you, Mom. Miss you every day.” Nina and Ava say their I love you’s, too. Then Grandpa says a prayer.
They all start to walk away, except Dad.
I stay with him, holding his hand. And then, Dad takes his hand away from mine, goes into his pocket, and pulls out his wallet. He takes out a folded piece of paper that has a thick crease down the middle, unfolds it, and begins to read.
Grandpa Earl, Aunt Tracey, Nina, and Ava stop walking, turn, and listen.
SON TO MOTHER
after “Mother to Son” by Langston Hughes
Momma, you climbed
those splintered stairs
even when there was blood, bruises
from the boards torn up, you kept climbing.
You were light, always.
Sometimes dim, but always
you shined.
Momma, you climbed.
I saw you out of breath, saw you striving
sometimes fast, sometimes slow, but all the time
you kept climbing.
Me, right behind you,
exacting your footsteps
stumbling but never falling,
held up by your faith.
Life for me ain’t gonna be the same
without you. But I’ll keep on.
And I’ll pass you down
to my children, and they will climb too.
They will keep on and on
because of you.
18
Dad wants to make sure we get some daddy-daughter time before dinner tonight, so once we get back to Grandpa Earl’s, we leave to explore more of New York. We ride the 4 train into the Bronx. At first we are underground, and then all of a sudden, there is daylight and I see buildings flashing by fast, like someone is shuffling a deck of cards.
“Whoa.”
Dad smiles. “Pretty cool, huh?”
“Really cool.” I stare out the window, look at the graffiti on the sides of buildings up so high it makes me wonder who could have the nerve to get up there and not get caught.
“So, about yesterday,” Dad says.
Here’s the punishment. I knew it was coming.
“You need to make things right with Ava,” Dad tells me.
“I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings. She was being so rude and mean, and I’m tired of her treating me like a baby.”
The train stops at Yankee Stadium, but this looks so different from yesterday. I see signs for the D train and realize there are many ways to get to and from a place in New York. It’s all so confusing. We walk down the stairs, and once we’re outside, I can tell we’re not in Harlem anymore. The streets feel more crowded, and instead of brownstones there are majestic buildings that look like old castles taking up half a block. We walk over to Concourse Jamaican Bakery, and on the way Dad says, “The sign of true maturity is when you’re able to end the argument first, to forgive a person even if they haven’t asked for it. You know, Amara, you keep saying you don’t want to be treated like a baby, so you have to stop acting like one.”
I know Dad is talking about me and Ava. And I know he’s right. “I’ll talk to Ava,” I tell Dad. “But does this mean you’ll talk to Grandpa Earl?”
Dad doesn’t say anything.
“Dad, you said forgiving is—”
“I know what I said, Amara.”
“So are you going to talk to him?”
“Amara, it’s not that simple.”
“But it could be. It could be as simple as you telling Grandpa Earl that you love him, that you forgive him. And then, I don’t know, just see what happens.”
“Like I’ve said before, you definitely have my persistence.”
We get to Morris and 167th, and in the middle of the block, next to a grocery store, Dad opens the door that I barely realized was there. “This is it?” I ask.
“Sometimes less is more,” Dad says. We enter the tiny restaurant that doesn’t even have tables for you to stay at and eat. It’s hard to see who’s ordered already and who hasn’t, but Dad seems to know. He goes up to the counter and orders two beef patties and two ginger beers. He sees the expression on my face, says, “It’s soda. Like a really strong ginger ale.”
“Oh.” I smile.
Dad laughs.
Dad didn’t describe what a beef patty was, so when I see the golden brown pastry, I am surprised. It is stuffed with meat and spices and is officially the best thing I’ve eaten since being in New York.
We walk around the Bronx, eating our patties and drinking our ginger beers. My soda is too strong, burns my throat. I give it to Dad, who gulps it down in a few swallows. On the way back to the train, Dad says, “Okay, now what’s on your list? I’m yours all day.”
“All day?”
Dad smiles. “Go easy on me though.”
I take out my phone, show him my list in Notes. I know we can’t do everything, so I narrow it down: Top of the Rock, Canal Street, Strand Bookstore.
“All right,” Dad says. “Let’s get to it.”
Dad and I head back to Harlem for dinner. “Sorry we didn’t make it to all the places you wanted to see.”
“It’s okay. I saw a lot of places that weren’t on the list. Places I didn’t even know about.”
“We’ll have to come back one day. I definitely want to take you to see a Broadway play.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
I really don’t know how the day has gone by so fast. I have never
walked this much in my entire life. My feet are aching from all the walking Dad and I did. It is already time to meet Grandpa Earl and the rest of the family at Amy Ruth’s. We don’t even have time to drop our shopping bags off at Grandpa Earl’s. When we get to the restaurant, everyone is already seated and waiting for us. Aunt Tracey looks at the bags in our hands and says, “You two are going to need to buy more suitcases to fit all this stuff.”
Dad laughs. “She got that shopping gene like Momma.”
Nina asks, “What did you get?”
“I bought a few souvenirs but mostly things for my Suitcase Project.” I show them the map I got at the Strand, a used picture book that Dad said was his favorite as a kid, and some of the T-shirts I bargained for on Canal Street. “But only this one is for the suitcase,” I say, and hold up the I Love NY shirt. “I want you all to sign the heart.”
“Oh, I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Grandpa Earl says.
We open our menus and start figuring out what we want. Every item on the menu is named after a black legend. Dad and I order the Rev. Al Sharpton, which is chicken and waffles. Grandpa Earl gets the Ruby Dee—fried catfish with yams and greens for his sides. Aunt Tracey asks the server for the Gabrielle Union—smothered pork chops. Nina and Ava take forever to decide, and finally Nina gets the Michelle Obama, fried whiting, and Ava asks for the jumbo chicken wings, which is called the Ludacris.
When the food comes, we all swap pieces and share spoonfuls and split the corn bread, and there isn’t much conversation. Grandpa Earl says, “Well, this must mean the food is good since no one is talking.”
I take this as my cue to say what I need to say to Ava. “Um, I’d like to say something.” I take a deep breath and look at Ava. “I want to apologize to you, Ava, and the reason I am doing it in front of everyone is because everyone knows what happened … what I said. So, I think they should all hear that I am sorry. And to you, too, Nina. I am really, really sorry for what I said.”
No one is eating now. We’re all just sitting at the table with a Whitney Houston song blasting from the speakers.
