by Renée Watson
The theater fills with laughter. This goes on and on, the two of them on stage dancing and rapping when it is clear they are not good at either. I call out, “Freeze,” and take out Kyle, who is frozen with his arms stretched wide. I take on Kyle’s pose—my arms are stretched open, as wide as they can go—and realize I have no idea what to do, so I just go with the first thing that comes to mind and reach out to hug Isaac. “I missed you. Welcome home!” I plan on building a scene where Isaac is my son coming home from college break, but the way he hugs me back, the way he pulls me into him and holds on, I think he is making up another scene in his mind.
He lets go and says, “Baby, I missed you too. I’m sorry this job takes me away so much.”
I wasn’t expecting that. I mean, I’ve never heard Isaac talk like this. I don’t even remember hearing him talk about having a girlfriend. Ever. I have to go along, so I step back from him and say, “I don’t like it when we’re apart.”
“Me neither. I think I know how to solve that,” he says. He pretends to go in his pocket and pulls something out. He gets down on one knee. Isaac and I are frozen, looking into each other’s eyes, my hand in his hand. I have never noticed how brown his eyes are, so big you barely see anything other than his pupils. So serious, like he has something important to tell me. Sad, like he is holding so much in. Isaac proposes to me—well, his character proposes to my character. And when I say yes, he stands, holding my left hand like he is adjusting the ring.
“Freeze!”
It’s Meg.
I hear her voice before seeing her. She walks up to the front of the room and stares at us. “You can let her go now,” Meg says.
Isaac lets go of my hand; Meg takes his position. “Here’s a little piece for you, and the rest for me.” She breaks away from me and pretends to eat something.
I don’t get it. I just stand there.
Meg eyes me, egging me to play along. “Don’t you just love a good cupcake? Splitting was the perfect idea, since we’re both watching our figures.”
I really want to walk offstage, go back to my seat, and replay the moment that just happened with Isaac and me, but I know I have to go along. “Oh, thank you. This is . . . this is so tasty. And since we had salads for lunch, this is the perfect reward.”
Someone call freeze now, please.
We go on and on talking about vegan this, and salad that. This is the dullest scene I’ve ever been in. Just when I’m about to call freeze myself, Meg says, “I’m so proud of you for making this choice. Diets are hard, but we’re in this together. And please know that you’re beautiful, regardless of your size. Don’t let anyone tell you that you’re not.”
Is she serious?
I can’t play along anymore. “Who said I didn’t think I was beautiful? Why do thin people feel the need to give me compliments like my self-esteem needs a boost? Why do you assume people are telling me I’m not beautiful? You’re—”
“All right, thank you. That’s good, that’s good,” Mr. Morrison says.
I keep going. “I don’t need your fake compliments, your pity. I know I am beautiful. Inside and out.”
A few students start clapping. My heart is pounding, my hands sweaty. We stand for a while like stone statues.
“All right, let’s take a break,” Mr. Morrison says.
Meg steps away, sits back down next to her fan club.
I sit next to Isaac.
Mr. Morrison jumps up, grabs a stool from the corner of the room, and says, “I am very impressed with what I’ve seen today. I’d like to develop some of these characters that showed up. Especially yours, Jasmine.”
When he says my name, I am stunned.
Mr. Morrison continues, “You were giving us so much sass today. I think we should tap into that energy and keep going in that direction. I love your idea, Meg, of developing a scene around dieting and all the issues you young women face. And, Jasmine, your ‘Girl with an Attitude’ confidence is perfect,” he says.
Perfect?
I raise my hand. “I, um, I actually have something I started in my science class that I’d like to work on.” I tell the class about Henrietta Lacks. I tell them my idea of turning her story into a one-act or how I could do a solo piece. Only two people like my idea. And Isaac is one of them. I’m not sure if his is out of obligation.
Mr. Morrison says, “I think that’s predictable for you. We haven’t seen this side of you and, well,” Mr. Morrison looks around the room and says, “I think you may be the only one who can pull it off in such an authentic way.”
I can’t believe that after the variety of roles I performed, he is most enthusiastic about me acting sassy and being an angry and emotional woman. Even after he’s seen me perform Beneatha Younger’s monologue—which was all about why she dreams of being a doctor, how she believes giving people medical attention is one of the most powerful things a person can do, how it is the closest thing to being God—all that resonated was sass and anger. And today, after seeing me in the arms of Isaac, after seeing my hand in his, the syncing of our eyes, all that stood out was sass and anger?
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think this character would break any stereotype at all. It plays right into it. A big girl on a diet is the plot point for most movies, TV shows, and books. Why can’t I just be big and be a character in love? Or be big and be a scientist? I am not playing a role where the big girl has to focus on losing weight.”
Mr. Morrison doesn’t respond, so I just keep talking.
“Mr. Morrison, if we’re writing our own scripts, shouldn’t I have some say about the character I develop?”
“I’m not saying no to your idea. I’m saying I’d like you to consider exploring this new voice you discovered today. I think there’s some nuance we can build into that character. Plus we haven’t seen you sassy and angry—”
“Please stop saying sassy—”
“Yeah, isn’t that like, so offensive?” a freshman whose name I keep forgetting says.
“Thank you,” I say to the girl.
Isaac adds, “It’s definitely offensive.”
Having them have my back makes me speak up even more. “Mr. Morrison, I just, I don’t know. I’d rather play roles that are not stereotypical for black women. To be honest, I don’t even want to play the sad, depressed role this year. The type of character I’m talking about is bold and strong in a way that is less about her struggle but more about her standing up for others and telling their stories. I want to write some pieces that just celebrate and—”
Meg sighs loudly and says, “Oh my goodness, can we just move on? This is not a big deal.”
Another student says, “She makes everything about race.”
“This is the August Wilson Acting Ensemble,” I say. “Everything we do is about race. And it’s not just about race for me—I am not going to be the fat black girl playing the angry, sassy woman—”
“Well, lose some weight then,” Meg says.
The class erupts, some laughing, most sighing in disbelief that this is actually happening. Mr. Morrison stands. “Okay, all right. Listen, we are not going to be disrespectful here.” He walks over to Meg and says, “I think you need to apologize.”
I don’t know if she does or doesn’t. Before she opens her mouth, I’m out the door.
I am halfway to my locker when I hear Isaac calling after me. “Jasmine, wait up. Hold on.” He is running down the hall. When he catches up to me, his chest is rising up and down, up and down. He doesn’t say anything or ask any questions. He just walks with me to my locker. I open it, get my coat, close it. We walk, and I follow his lead to his locker. He gets his coat, puts his sketchbook in his backpack. We walk to the common area, where there are benches and murals and water fountains big enough for you to put your water bottle under the nozzle without bending it at all. We sit together, me swallowing tears I refuse to let fall. Isaac says, real low, almost a whisper, “I’m sorry that happened.”
My phone buzzes. It’s probab
ly Chelsea. Clubs will be out soon, and she’s most likely wandering the halls waiting for us to get out so we can hang out a bit before going home. I take my phone out.
It’s Mom.
“Sorry, Isaac, I have to get this.” I answer the phone and barely get hello out.
“Jasmine, your dad was rushed to the hospital. Not sure yet what’s wrong.” She is talking loud, raising her voice above the traffic and noise around her.
“Where are you?”
“I’m driving. On my way to the hospital. He went in an ambulance. Mount Sinai.”
“Where’s Jason?”
“With me.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“All right, okay.” Mom hangs up before I can say goodbye.
I stand up, put my coat on. “I have to go,” I tell Isaac.
“Your dad?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m so sorry, Jasmine. Of all the days.” He hugs me, holds me long enough to soften my stubborn tears. They fall quick, seep into his sweater.
I pull away—pull the sadness back in so that by the time I get to the hospital my eyes won’t be red. Jason will cry if he sees me crying. I zip my coat. “Tell Chelsea for me, okay? I’ll text you all tonight with an update.” That’s our routine. Every time Dad is in the hospital, I send a group text letting them know what’s going on.
Once I’m on the train, I take my notebook out and start thinking up ideas for our new club. Something where all the parts of me are respected and honored. A place where Chelsea can write the poems she’s passionate about, a place where I can perform roles beyond what is already imagined for girls like me. A club where students actually have a voice. A space where we can make good on what this school promises to be.
Ms. Lucas, a club consists of three or more people, so as long as you are here, and at least two of us, then we are considered an official club,” I say, repeating the line Ms. Hawkins used to keep the poetry club alive for so long. After Jasmine quit the August Wilson Acting Ensemble, we devised a new plan to start our own women’s rights club, figuring that even if it was just the two of us, they’d have to agree based on the rules of three’s a club. At least, we hoped that was true, and not just some nonsense that Ms. Hawkins made up.
“This is true,” Ms. Lucas says. It’s the end of the day, and she is cleaning up her classroom, straightening rows of desks, and sorting piles and piles of paper.
“And you are not currently an advisor to any other club,” I say, having already done some research on who best would fit as the advisor for our new club.
“Not exactly, but I do look over all the clubs and work as the coordinator, so I’m definitely still involved,” she says, then stops, leans on one of the desks, and looks at me and Jasmine, who have interrupted her at the end of the day. “What is it you’re looking to do?”
“We want to start our own club—a women’s rights club. A group that is dedicated to writing and creating work that supports women’s ideas. Our club will write poems, monologues, scenes. We’ll write essays and opinion pieces all about women, and get our thoughts and feelings out and into the world,” I say, realizing I’ve been needing this for a long while.
“Oh,” Ms. Lucas says, paying closer attention.
“Right now, the world is so focused on women—debating the issues of reproductive rights, paid maternity leave, women getting paid less than men, sexual discrimination issues, harassment, I could go on and on—and it feels like everyone outside of Amsterdam Heights is taking it very seriously, but here, it’s like we think the work is done . . . but it’s not,” Jasmine finishes.
“Well, those are excellent reasons to start a club. I commend you for thinking of this and pushing through with it, but you two are already in clubs that you love, right? I’ve seen you both on stage for talent night reading poetry and performing. Why would you want to leave your clubs?”
Jasmine looks at me, as if to say you go first, so I do. “Well, we have both had some issues with our clubs.”
“Oh, why is that?” Ms. Lucas asks.
“Just your average institutional racism and misogynistic attitudes about women and people of color, so—”
“Uh, well, what Chelsea is trying to say,” Jasmine interrupts, giving me the look that says stop talking, “is that we have a different vision of what the clubs can be. We want something that’s more in line with our ideas about women’s roles and how we see ourselves in the media. We want to talk about issues that matter to us, and we need a space to do it.”
I nod my head, understanding that complaining about our current advisors is probably not the best way to win over a future advisor. Also realizing that I should probably always let Jasmine do the talking. “And even though we both love poetry and theater, we weren’t getting the support for the kind of creative and activist work we wanted to do.”
“If you’d like to talk about this more, we could work with your advisors and come up with a plan. I would hate for you both to miss out on a solid, already-established club experience. You know, I’ve always thought that clubs are one of the best parts of Amsterdam Heights, and it’s tough to get one up and running, even with all your passion,” Ms. Lucas says. I can’t tell if she’s trying to get us back into our clubs because she really wants to fix things, or if she just wants us to leave her classroom.
“No thank you, Ms. Lucas. The club situations we were in will not work for us this year,” Jasmine states. “We want to start a new club. We would love for you to support our vision and be our advisor.”
We sit looking at Ms. Lucas, waiting for her next move.
“Well . . . okay then. I’m, um, I will, sure, I’ll be your advisor. Let me tell you, I am pretty busy with the coordination of the other clubs, so you two will really have to lead this club and take ownership over it. Do you think you can do that?”
“Yes,” I say, a little too loud, getting overexcited. “Yes, yes, we can do it. We’re small but mighty. Besides, isn’t this always the case—it’s only a small group of people who’ve ever changed the world. The majority is always—”
“Yes, Chelsea, thank you for your enthusiasm. But there are some logistics you need to know about before starting a club. Do you two have a little time right now to go through everything?” We both nod. “Okay, well, the other important thing to discuss is what you want the focus of your club’s blog to be about.” Ms. Lucas goes to her desk to grab a manila folder labeled: Club Rules and Guidelines. “As you both know, each club has its own blog connected to the school’s webpage. I know blogs can feel a little dated to some of you young people, but there have been clubs that really take it to another level, with videos, interviews, personal art, and things like that. There are ways to make them very cool spaces, and I’m sure you two have some ideas! Students or advisors are responsible for uploading essays, photos, upcoming events, and any exciting information about their club to share with the student body. You’ll have to post at least once a week. This is a student-led page,” she tells us. “I think for poetry and theater, the advisors mostly did the posting, but that’s not the case with every club. Some of them have more student authority, and this one definitely will since I can’t be at every single meeting. You two will need to set up your own posting schedule and manage the content.” She hands us each a sheet of paper and says, “Oh, and you need to sign this.”
CLUB RULES AND GUIDELINES:
Be kind to your readers and yourself: don’t post anything that you wouldn’t want the world to know. What you share on the internet will live in public space forever. Be respectful and try your best not to offend anyone in your posts. Please remember to do the following:
•Use appropriate language.
•Check your sources and do not plagiarize.
•Spell-Check and edit your work.
I acknowledge that breaking any of these guidelines could lead to any of the following consequences:
•a warning from my club advisor
•deletion of a
portion or all of the post
•temporary or permanent loss of blogging privileges at the discretion of my club advisor
Jasmine and I sign the paper, and then Jasmine says, “So what should we call our blog?”
Ms. Lucas says, “How about the Amsterdam Heights Collaborative Community School Women’s Rights Blog.”
Jasmine and I look at each other. My face can never lie. Um . . . no, I think.
“Um, well, I think we want something a little more . . . catchy,” Jasmine says, saving me.
“Oh, I see. The old lady will just excuse herself from this conversation.” Ms. Lucas laughs.
I stand and get a marker to write down our ideas on the dry-erase board. Neither of us can come up with anything much better than the one Ms. Lucas had.
We cross out all the ones we absolutely hate and narrow it down that way. It gets down to Our Words, Our Voices and Write Like a Girl. We decide on Write Like a Girl. “Because people are always trying to silence girls, tell us how to talk, how to act. You know how people say someone throws like a girl or fights like a girl? Well, we write like girls—we write about issues that matter to us,” I say.
“Yeah,” Jasmine adds. “And it’s not about stereotypical girl topics written in sappy, cliché ways.”
“Write Like a Girl. I like it,” Ms. Lucas says. “Yes, I like it a lot.”
I type in the school’s log-in page and start setting up our blog.
“So, just to do a quick brainstorm here, every club should have some themes, and I know you two have already been thinking about this. So tell me more about your ideas.” She grabs her notebook and pen.
“Well, we want to talk about how crazy movies and TV are, and how they show us in totally crappy ways. It’s all a bunch of stereotypes that magazines and shows are serving to us. I want to do a bunch of posts on commercials that just show women as housewives, cleaners, caretakers, and nannies. I want to talk about colorism and body shaming too. Also, I’m thinking about violence against women and social inequality—not necessarily in that order,” I say, taking a breath.
