by Renée Watson
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t . . .”
“Nothing to be sorry about. They’re cool with me, they just couldn’t work it out with each other. And my mom hates the city—can’t stand the noise and all the people—anyway she likes all that space. She’s always telling me I need to spend more time in nature. Always telling me what to do—kinda reminds me of you,” he says.
“So you mean she’s awesome,” I say. James starts to laugh and nods his head. “I think our moms used to be on some Parent-Teacher Association together before your mom moved. My mom thinks your mom is really cool.”
“Yeah, your mom’s Italian, right? I feel like they were probably swapping recipes for sauce or something.”
“You’re probably right.” I start to laugh. “But yeah, she’s Italian, and I gotta say, she’s a pretty amazing cook.”
“Ah, that’s cool. Maybe you’ll invite me over to eat sometime?”
I smile to myself, imagining James sitting around the table with my family—how awkward it would be.
“Uh, yeah, maybe,” is what I say.
“And what about your dad?”
“Irish. All the way. And my dad’s actually a pretty good cook too. And they’re both way too religious for me, but that’s a whole other story,” I finish.
“Ah, I didn’t know all that,” James says.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I say. “Could I get a small mango?” I ask the man scooping ice into small paper cups.
James pulls a five-dollar bill out of his back pocket and orders a coconut. “I got this.”
“No, no, you don’t have to . . .”
“You can just get it next time,” he says.
“Ah, there’s gonna be a next time?” I ask, feeling confident.
“Yeah, I mean next week when we run again.” He looks at me. “What did you mean?”
“What? Um, no, yeah, that’s what I meant,” I stumble through.
James looks right at me. We sit at the edge of the playground and eat our coco helado while watching people walk by. In my head, I can’t believe I’m actually sitting next to a crush I’ve had for almost two years—and mostly can’t believe we got the chance to talk—more than I’ve ever talked to him. I also can’t really believe that our legs are touching, and that I haven’t passed out from the electricity. I have no idea if he’s even feeling anything at all. I have no idea what’s in his head, and I want to so badly.
“Race you back?” he asks, and we both throw our cups out and run.
On my way home from school, I send Jasmine a slew of texts:
First of all, my legs are insanely sore, because I ran (walked) two miles.
And do you know who I ran/walked with?
JAMES BRADFORD
That’s right. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am in love with him. Who knows!?
Where are you? We gotta talk.
Come to my apartment on your way home from after-school.
I have plans. Big, big plans.
She texts that she’s on her way but says nothing about my confession, and this is exactly why I didn’t tell her. I didn’t want her to judge me for falling for some jock like James.
My dad is home early from teaching, and I can already smell roast chicken in the oven when I walk in. “Smells so good,” I call out, unraveling myself from my jacket and book bag. “Jasmine’s coming over.”
“And hello to you too,” my dad says, coming over to watch all my things pile up in the closet. “Is Jasmine staying for dinner?”
“No clue. We have work to do, though.”
“Work? Ah, I see, I will stay out of your way,” he says, starting to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“Chelsea, nothing. You are so sensitive, you know that? I was just thinking that it’s nice that you are so focused . . . all the time.”
“Yeah, we have to be, and sensitive is a good thing. It means I feel things.”
“Yes, yes, you’re right. You go. Work. I will stay out of it. Don’t bother your sister, though. She had a rough practice.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s in the shower,” my dad says.
“Are you kidding? Living with one bathroom is the worst situation of my life, ahhhh.”
“Really? It’s the worst situation of your life?” my dad asks.
“You know what I mean.”
“Listen, kid, when you grow up and get your own apartment in New York City, you can get all the bathrooms you want.”
“Ha-ha,” I say, heading for the remote control and the couch. I watch two terrible episodes of the Real Housewives of L.A. Mia joins me for the second, and we laugh at the fights the women get into, and then hate ourselves for getting caught up in the ridiculous drama. Jasmine shows up just as we’re about to start our third episode.
“Tell me you’re not watching this trash,” she says, always taking the high road.
“It’s research,” I say. “It’s so I can make sure we rage against the system so that no one ever has to see a Botoxed face ever again.”
Jasmine laughs, teasing me. “But you do see that you’re watching it, so that’s sort of like telling the network you love it, and you always say that you have to consume the world the way an activist does, and that we need to support the kind of projects that show women in powerful positions, and . . .”
Mia joins in, “And you also always say that this kind of misogynistic dialogue is exactly what puts women at odds with each other. This is the kind of garbage that paints women in a very unflattering and superficial way,” she finishes, smiling at Jasmine and making room on the couch.
“Oh my God! Shut up, both of you,” I say. “I don’t need to hear myself repeated back to me. I sound like the worst.”
“Not the worst. It’s just . . . it’s all complicated,” Jasmine says.
“Yeah, this kind of women’s rights stuff is real,” Mia says. I look up. Mia hardly ever stays around when Jasmine comes over. It’s not that she doesn’t want to hang with us, but I never think she’s interested in the kind of things we are. “Today at practice, Coach Murphy gave us all a talk about playing overseas and in the WNBA. I mean, she basically said that if we wanna go pro, we’re gonna make a fraction of what the men make, and you can’t make any money unless you put your whole life on hold and play in Poland or Germany or something. I mean, nobody even respects women—and if the WNBA can’t respect us, then . . . I don’t know.”
“Yeah,” I say, “that’s exactly what I’ve been thinking!”
“Last year in our Battle of the Sexes unit, I learned that in most careers women make less money than men and aren’t put into positions of power nearly as much. The percentage of CEOs who are women is like one percent or something ridiculous like that,” Jasmine adds.
“This is what I’ve been saying.”
They both look at me.
“I know I go overboard sometimes, and I know I talk too much, but somehow I just feel like women’s issues and women’s rights are just getting buried at Amsterdam Heights. It’s like the whole world is focused on women’s rights now, and sexual discrimination and sexism, so why is it that our classes aren’t talking about it? Our school is more focused on basketball—no offense, Mia—and freakin’ music and dance, and a poetry club that is rooted in the eighteenth century,” I say. I’m on a roll, so I decide to push ahead. “That’s why I’m thinking we quit all our clubs, and . . .”
“You already quit yours,” Jasmine interrupts.
“No, I know. But what if you quit yours too, and we start a women’s rights club? And we talk about the things we want, and we write about the issues that matter to us. How has Amsterdam Heights gone this long without a club specifically for women?”
“We did have the Equal Rights for Everyone class,” Mia says.
“Yeah, but that was for . . . everyone. You’re right . . . there hasn’t been anything,” Jasmine says.
“Dinner’s ready,” my dad calls o
ut, totally messing with my persuasive flow. “Jasmine, are you staying?”
“Oh, thanks, Mr. Spencer, but I can’t tonight. I gotta get home. My dad’s cooking,” Jasmine says.
“You tell him I’m thinking of him,” my dad replies.
“I will, thanks. Chelsea, we’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay? Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
When I walk into science class I notice that Mrs. Curtis has rearranged the room. She’s put the desks into a circle, and on the walls are big sheets of chart paper with words in the middle: Ethics, Race, Poverty, Research, Cancer. There are more words on the other side of the wall, all having to do with the unit we are studying, “The Use of Human Subjects in Medical Research.” We’ve been listening to interviews and reading excerpts from The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks for the past few weeks to learn about the story of Henrietta Lacks, a black woman whose tissue was used for medical research without her consent.
Mrs. Curtis gives us each a marker and asks us to move around the room to respond to the words on the walls. “This is a silent activity,” she says a few times. “As you write your responses, please take a moment to read what your classmates have to say.” I look at the sheet that says Race, and I write: a social construct with real disadvantages and advantages.
I step back and make room for others to write. I stand for a moment and read the other comments.
HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH HENRIETTA
LACKS. THIS WAS ABOUT CLASS.
I hate checking boxes that I don’t quite fit in.
Racism exists everywhere, even in hospitals.
Under the word Cancer, I don’t write anything. All I can think of is my dad. I read the words on the sheet. My grandma had cancer. The word “had” stings my eyes, and I walk away without reading the rest.
“Okay, finish the last word you’re writing on and come take a seat,” Mrs. Curtis says. “I wanted you all to connect to these words in personal ways, not just the scientific ways that we read about.” Mrs. Curtis joins us in the circle. “I’d love to know what you are thinking and feeling about the story of Henrietta Lacks. Anyone want to share an excerpt from the book that stood out to you?”
Corrine says, “Black women save this country over and over and never get the credit. That’s what I think.”
“Word,” Monty says. “So true.”
“This isn’t about race to me,” James says. “It’s about class, right? They didn’t care about this poor woman, and so they didn’t treat her body with respect—”
Nadine cuts James off. “Except it was the nineteen-fifties. So just about everything was about race back then, and I’m pretty sure if she was white this would not have happened.”
Mrs. Curtis says, “Well, let’s name what happened. We’re kind of talking around it. Can someone give a recap just so that we’re all caught up and on the same page?”
I definitely feel like this is Mrs. Curtis’s way of making sure those of us who didn’t read the book can at least have some clue of what’s going on. I look at Remy, who I know never does the assignments, and raise my hand. “Henrietta Lacks was being treated for cervical cancer. While on the operating table, a sample of her cancerous tissue was taken for research without her consent. She died not knowing her cells were used for research,” I say.
Mrs. Curtis asks, “And why is this a big deal? What did that research lead to?”
A girl named Rose says, “Well, because of her cells the medical field had major breakthroughs, like the polio vaccine, chemotherapy, and the creation of drugs that treat leukemia, influenza, and Parkinson’s disease.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?” James asks. “I mean, one woman’s body made it possible for so many others to have treatment. The greater good is—”
“The greater good?” I ask. “No, what they did was rob this woman of her humanity. And they were able to do that because in this country poor black women didn’t matter,” I say. “I mean, the woman who was assisting with the autopsy even admitted that at first she didn’t think of Henrietta Lacks as human.”
“No she does not. The book doesn’t say that at all,” James says.
People start reaching for their books, turning pages fast to find the section I am talking about. A girl named Lily raises her hand. “Right here. I found it. It’s that part about her seeing Henrietta’s red toenail polish.”
“Read it, please,” Mrs. Curtis says.
Lily clears her throat. “Okay, it says right here, ‘When I saw those toenails. . . . I nearly fainted. I thought, Oh jeez, she’s a real person . . . it hit me for the first time that those cells we’d been working with all this time and sending all over the world, they came from a live woman. I’d never thought of it that way.’ ”
“See,” I say.
I’ve set off a whole debate now. Half the class thinks the assistant was just saying that working on bodies for the sake of science can desensitize you and that even if Henrietta was a white woman, the assistant would have said the same thing.
Mrs. Curtis says she’ll take one more comment and calls on me. “I am not saying it was only about her being a black woman, but I believe that was a part of it. You can’t erase her blackness from the story.” When I say this, James looks at me like he is hearing me for the first time.
Mrs. Curtis says, “I’d like you all to do a personal response now. Think of the passages we’ve read and respond to it in any way you’d like. It can be creative—a poem, a visual response. It can be a traditional essay. However you want to respond, I’d like you to do that now.”
I think about the conversation we just had. How it took red toenail polish for a black woman to be considered a real person, how she wasn’t real just from the fact that she was once a human, a daughter, a mother. I open my notebook and start writing.
Red: A Pantoum for Henrietta Lacks
by Jasmine Gray
1in case you need proof of black women’s humanity
2know that we bleed too, red.
3our bodies are not for your experimentation, exploitation.
4we cry and laugh and create and sometimes, we paint our nails. Red.
2know that we bleed too, red.
5know that we get sick and feel pain, like you.
4we cry and laugh and create and sometimes, we paint our nails. Red.
6black women are made of flesh and tissue and cells.
5know that we get sick and feel pain, like you.
7we breathe and die and leave loved ones behind who adorn our graves with red flowers.
6black women are made of flesh and tissue and cells.
8this is just a reminder
7we breathe and die and leave behind loved ones who adorn our graves with red flowers.
3our bodies are not for your experimentation, exploitation.
8this is just a reminder
1in case you need proof of black women’s humanity.
After school, I go straight to the black box theater. My favorite space in this whole building. It is a place of possibility. I have created so many worlds here, in this room. I have shed myself, put on someone else’s truth, and filled this space with my voice, acting as Rose from Fences, Camae, the angel in The Mountaintop, and Lady in Blue from For Colored Girls. I have worked up tears buried somewhere deep within me, tears I didn’t even know I had. Somewhere in me there must be profound sorrow since it doesn’t take much for me to play the roles that call for heart-wrenching wailing. Somewhere inside me there must be an inherited wisdom from my ancestors since I can muster up the ability to play roles that offer guidance and strength. Dad and Mom have seen me perform, and afterward they always say, “Where did that come from?” and “We didn’t know you had it in you.” I love releasing all that emotion on stage, but I am ready to release more than sadness and pain.
That’s why I get so excited when Mr. Morrison says, “This year, I’d like you all to write your own theater pieces, which includes creating one-acts and solo performances.�
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When he says this, I think maybe I can turn the poem I wrote for Henrietta Lacks into a monologue or maybe write a solo show about black women—our bodies and the stories they hold. And not just poems of sorrow or angst. I want to write a solo show that has monologues where black girls stand up and speak out. Maybe I’ll write something about what happened on the train. But instead of moving to another seat, my character will tell the man to stop licking his lips at women like we’re pieces of meat. She’ll turn to the other men on the train and ask them why aren’t they saying anything, why are they letting a grown man disrespect a girl.
I’ll have my characters say the things I couldn’t say in the moment.
Mr. Morrison keeps talking. “Now, I know writing your own material can sound daunting, so I wanted to get some creative ideas going by doing a few improv exercises. Hopefully we’ll find some inspiration in these spontaneous scenes and can use them to build from.”
We are sitting on the floor in a circle, and Mr. Morrison asks us to open the circle so we can make a stage area at the front of the room. Mr. Morrison tells us, “We’re going to do a few rounds of Freeze Tag.” Most of us get excited about that. It’s an improv exercise where two actors are acting in a scene and someone from the audience calls out, “Freeze!” The actors turn to statues, and the person who called out comes in and tags the actor of their choice. Then, a new scene is created, inspired by the body positions of the actors.
Several rounds go, and then Kyle and Kou, two freshmen who are twins, end up in a scene together. They aren’t identical, so there’s no problem telling them apart. They are working at a construction site, and Kyle is playing a character who is concerned about his immigration status. Both Isaac and I call out “Freeze” at the same time. I tell him to go. Gives me more time to think.
Kyle is frozen as a worker digging a hole with a shovel; Kou has his hands cupped at his mouth. He was yelling that it was lunchtime. Isaac comes in and takes out Kou. He cups his hands in the same way and then starts a new scene. “Yeah, yeah, yeah—here we go, here we go,” he chants like he’s a rapper and moves around the stage hyping the crowd. Kyle turns his shoveling arms into a wild dance.
