by Renée Watson
“Your turn,” Ms. Hawkins says. “Show me who you really are!”
I look around again to see if I can catch anyone’s eyes, but they’re already writing. I look at the blank page in front of me. I can’t think of anything of write. I try out a bunch: Hearts and minds are my poetry. Um, no, that’s pretty much what I just made fun of Ms. Hawkins for writing. I am a big jerk sometimes. No, too obvious. From New York, likes to write. Yuck.
“Okay, time is up,” Ms. Hawkins says as her small timer buzzes. “Who wants to share first?”
The two freshmen shoot their arms into the air, as if they’ve been waiting their whole lives for this moment. I roll my eyes, but then catch myself.
“Puerto Rico lullabies me to sleep,” one of the freshmen, whose name is Maria, says first.
“Lovely, beautiful,” Ms. Hawkins says. “It tells me something about where your heart is and shows who you are. I can’t wait to hear more. Next?”
The class goes one after the other: Always dreaming of my next meal, we all laugh. High rise honey, NYC all day. Illusion is a concept I adore. I have no idea what that one even means. Born and raised in Washington Heights, and Boogie down Bronx—my first love. Both solid. I look down at mine one more time.
“I’ll go,” Jacob says. “For this assignment, I chose to do a haiku instead.” He looks around the room. I really roll my eyes this time. “A haiku,” he continues, “is a poem composed of three lines, each line containing a different number of syllables, five-seven-five to be exact. Generally, haiku are focused on the small changes in nature. For my example, I chose to do it my way. Here’s mine:
Whirr of the subway
The doors open to my life
A train jets away”
“Oh, wow. These are just wonderful,” Ms. Hawkins says, standing up and moving to her whiteboard. “Just wonderful and unique. I love them, and I know you will love our standout poets that we’re going to study this year.”
I raise my hand. “Uh, Ms. Hawkins, I didn’t go yet.”
“Oh my goodness, Chelsea, I am so sorry I forgot you. And you are like an open book, so I know yours will reveal something.” She smiles in my direction.
“Um, so my six-word memoir is: Rages against the myth of beauty.” I look up at Ms. Hawkins, ready for her to compliment my line.
“That is a good start, Chelsea, and I want to push you even more to take more risks in your writing, and think about the details, the specifics. You are a veteran in this group, so keep that in mind.”
“But that is specific,” I say, not meaning to start an argument, but annoyed that mine was the only one that got a critique, “and it says something about what I want to push against in the world. I mean, I think that’s the whole point of Poets for Peace and Justice, right? That’s why we’re all here.”
“I thought the club was called Peaceful Poets,” Maria says, looking at her friend Amaya.
“It doesn’t really make a difference what it’s called,” Jacob says. “It’s the poetry club . . .”
“What? No, uh, it matters, and it’s called Poets for Peace and Justice because we want to use our art to disrupt society and push against what’s happening in the world,” I say.
“No, that’s what you want. The only reason we came up with a name is because you pushed for it so much. No one except you calls it that anyway.”
I look up at Ms. Hawkins, who looks uncomfortable and is writing on the dry-erase board. “Ladies and gentlemen, can we please focus on the writing activity for today. No fighting in the poetry club.” She has written “William Carlos Williams” and “Emily Dickinson” on the board.
I sigh—loudly.
“Is there an issue, Chelsea?”
“There’s always an issue with Chelsea,” Sonya Pierce says, leaning toward Jacob, her coconspirator.
“No, there’s no issue,” I say, glaring at Sonya. “It’s just that I thought we could look at some more modern poets this year and think about how they are writing and how we can use those poems as models . . .” No one says anything, so I keep going. “I was thinking about the Nuyorican Poets—I mean, we should definitely take a field trip downtown because we could do an open mic night or the Friday night slam, and learn about Miguel Piñero and Miguel Algarín, or we could study the Black Arts Movement . . .”
“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.
I don’t know if Dad will be up for hanging out with us after dinner, but at least he’s feeling well enough to do this. He is standing next to Mom, making his garlic-butter concoction for dipping. “Do you have enough bags?” he asks me.
“Plenty,” I say as I tear a brown paper bag at its seams and spread it out on the dining room table like a tablecloth. I layer the table and make sure every inch is covered. As soon as the food is ready, Mom will dump it on the table and we will feast.
Jason is helping me tear the bags. “Like this?” he asks.
“Yes. But tear the other side too,” I tell him.
He rips the bag and hands it to me.
Dad brings his garlic butter to the table. “Is Isaac coming?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, giving him a look that begs him not to start. He’s asked me twice already.
“I really like that young man,” Dad says.
“I know you do.”
He laughs when Mom says, “I think someone else really likes him too.”
“Mom—”
Jason sings, “Jasmine’s got a boyfriend . . . Jasmine’s got a boyfriend.”
“I do not. Isaac is not my boyfriend.”
Jason tears another bag. “He’s a boy and he’s your friend, so yes you do!”
“Jason, leave your sister alone,” Mom says. But she is laughing when she says it, so how serious can he take her?
Jason walks away from the dining room table and goes into the living room. He grabs the remote control so he can play his video game. “Okay, Mommy. I’ll leave Jasmine alone.”
“I won’t,” Dad says. “What’s up with you two? I feel like I don’t know anything that’s going on with you.”
Tears immediately rise in me, and I push them down. He doesn’t know what’s going on with me because we hardly talk anymore—not about me. I know he wanted things to stay the same, but how can they? Most of my interactions with Dad aren’t conversations at all. Just me coming into their bedroom to adjust the pillows to help him get comfortable or me waking him up every four hours so he takes his pain meds. He asks me about my day, but I just answer with fine because usually everything feels so trivial once I am standing in his room, looking at his face that still has life but won’t soon.
The buzzer sounds. Chelsea, Isaac, and Nadine are here. Jason runs from the table and opens the door to let them in, and Isaac does what he does every single time he sees my brother. They stand back to back, and Isaac says, “Man, J—you almost as tall as me!”
Jason is an ocean of giggles.
Mom and Dad come from the kitchen to give hugs to everyone. “You all are just in time,” Mom says. “I’m about to set everything on the table. Honey, can you get the crab crackers?” she says to Dad on her way back to the kitchen. He follows her, walking slow, but he doesn’t make it to the kitchen. He pulls a chair from the dining room table and sits down. He catches me watching and forces a smile. He silently mouths, “I’m okay,” but we both know he’s not. I go to the kitchen, get the crab crackers and extra napkins.
We all gather around the table to have our Friday night feast. The first five minutes there isn’t much talking, just the sound of shells cracking and mouths slurping. Then Nadine blurts out, “Oh, I missed this!”
Leave it to Nadine to state exactly how she feels. She’s always admitted when she’s sad or angry or jealous. One time, in middle school, when Chelsea and I were debating if we were going to a slumber party or not, Nadine said so matter-of-fact, “I’m not going. I don’t like hanging out with those girls.” I remember thinking that I’d never just say that. I’d make up a reason why I couldn’t go or cancel at the last minute saying I was sick . . . but not Nadine. She’s always been honest about her feelings and truthful about what she wants.
Dad says, “I missed you all too.” He wipes his hands on a napkin. “And I hope you all don’t think that just because I’m missing in action means you can stop with our Brown Art Challenge.”
“I got you, Mr. Gray,” Isaac says.
“What do you mean by that?” Nadine asks.
“I mean, I’ve been going out and learning about artists of color.”
Nadine looks suspicious. “Where’s your proof?”
“In my sketchbook,” Isaac says. “You already know.” Isaac gets up from the table and gets his sketchbook out of his backpack. He hands it to me first. I open it and scoot closer to Dad so he can see too.
After we all ooh and aah over Isaac’s drawings, Chelsea says, “One of the bonus places I went to was the Bronx Documentary Center. I wrote a poem based on their exhibit Spanish Harlem: El Barrio in the ’80’s by Joseph Rodriguez. It’s not finished yet. But I’m working on it.”
“I’d love to hear it when you’re finished,” Dad says as he leaves the table, kissing me and Jason on our foreheads and Mom on her lips. “You all enjoy the rest of the night. I’m going to go rest.” Dad goes back to his room, and I see worry spread all over Mom’s face. Worry and sadness.
“We’ll clean up, Mrs. Gray,” Chelsea says. “Thanks for having us over.”
Mom joins Dad in their bedroom.
Jason washes his hands and runs back to his video game in the living room. “Want to play with me, Isaac?”
“Of course,” Isaac says.
The day sky has shifted now. It isn’t dark or light, somewhere in between. Usually, this is the time of day Mom gets the house settled for the night—giving Dad his evening meds, putting away the dishes, closing the curtains. But I leave them open.
The weekend goes by too fast, like always. Monday is dragging. After lunch we’re walking to our classes, and Chelsea keeps complaining about her club. “Jasmine, I’m serious. I don’t want to go back to the All-We-Read-Are-Dead-White-Poets Poetry Club. B
ut there’s no other club I want to be in. What am I going to do? Ms. Hawkins says I have to decide soon.”
“I don’t know, Chelsea, what about Justice by the Numbers?”
“You know how much I hate math,” she says as we climb to the second floor.
“But isn’t it about learning statistics and understanding how those stats impact Washington Heights and other neighborhoods in New York?” I ask. “I think they talk about redlining, gentrification, and—”
“You lost me at statistics,” Chelsea says. “Maybe we can start our own club?”
“We as in . . .”
“Me and you.”
“I’m already in a club!” I say. “Besides, what would our club be about?”
Chelsea shrugs. “Aren’t you tired of dealing with Meg? You could quit the ensemble, and we can do our own thing.”
We get to my science class and stop at the door. James enters the classroom, and when Chelsea sees him all of a sudden she is no longer interested in a new club. She whispers to me, “James Bradford is in your class? You get to spend an hour with James Bradford every afternoon?”
It is so funny to me that Chelsea says James’s whole name like he is a celebrity or a president, or someone important enough to be called by his full name.
“Why didn’t you tell me James was in your class?”
“I didn’t know you’d care,” I say.
“Well, ‘care’ is a strong word. I’m just, I don’t know. I didn’t realize you had a class with him too,” Chelsea says.
I give her a look.
“What?”
“Um, does Chelsea Spencer have a crush on someone and isn’t telling me?”
“I, no. We’re just friends—I don’t, I don’t even know if we’re friends. It’s just that I have a class with him, and I didn’t know you two had a class together too. That’s all.”
“If you say so,” I tease.
“Jasmine—”
“Payback for all the comments and jokes you’ve ever made about me and Isaac.”
“Oh, please. You and Isaac are perfect for each other and just need to admit your feelings. James Bradford and I? We barely know each other.”
