by Renée Watson
It be like knowing that without you
planted and watered and nurtured
the world can’t go on.
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bronxbeauty commented: It really be like this! Word.
harlemgirl commented: This poem is giving me life. And I mean that literally. It gives me something to look forward to. It’s making me think about how being a girl affects me.
jeremiahbbox commented: My new favorite blog.
lizfreeman commented: The world can’t go on without us women! Yes.
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wonderworld19 commented: This part right here “fact-checking your truth.” Girl, yes.
sugarhillforever commented: Why can’t I like this a million times? So good.
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jrock commented: I hope you all do something with these poems and posts and not just let them store up online. These words need to be spoken out loud.
WRITE LIKE A GIRL BLOG
Posted by Jasmine Gray
Playtime for Fat Black Girls
I
Mom wouldn’t buy me Barbies because there weren’t many black Barbies to choose from, and the ones that were painted brown had white girl features and hair, fake girl bodies. Mom made dolls instead, gave me brown cloth dolls with big brown eyes. Dolls that looked like my aunties and the women who sat at the window of Harlem brownstones. Dolls with twists and dreads, pressed hair and hair wrapped in fabric with African print. Dollies made just for me, black. But none of them were fat.
II
The only fat doll I had was a white baby doll that I got from a sidewalk sale. It was something to play with when pretending to be a mommy, something to feed and rock and lay down gently in a crib. The fatness was cute in a chubby, rosy cheeks kind of way. I knew it was okay to be a chubby baby but not a big-boned girl, a fat teen.
I knew my body was not normal.
Not even in make-believe did girls look like me.
III
I was never called on for stick ball. Maybe because I am a girl, maybe because the other kids at the park didn’t think a big kid like me could run fast. Maybe that’s how I got so good playing by myself in my journal, in my bedroom, in front of a mirror putting on shows for my teddy bears. My imagination was my playground.
IV
I pretended to be Storm and all the women who saved the day in the reruns my grandma watched—Bionic Woman, Wonder Woman. I did not pretend to be princess, in my make-believe I was queen.
V
I played make believe.
I made myself believe.
I believed what I made.
I made me.
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mslucas commented: Just so good to see this perspective, Jasmine. Thank you!
magicalme commented: So for real. This is my story. Thank you for putting words to my experience.
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sydjohnson commented: “I made me.” I am thinking about this statement. How do we make ourselves and stay true to who we want to be?
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jokelly commented: You two make me cry every time!
Come in, come in,” Ms. Johnson tells us. I am walking, reluctantly, into my STEAM lab, which is my least favorite class. Science, Technology, Engineering, Arts, and Mathematics—um, only one of the words in that sequence is interesting to me. I am an artist—that’s who I am, and that’s my role in the world. I am definitely not going to be an engineer or create a start-up tech firm and not because I’m a girl, but because I don’t like science, technology, engineering, or math. Period. Besides, in the next week, we have an open mic to plan for, and the big Halloween dance, which I cannot wait for. Also, our blog gets hundreds of visits every day. Ms. Lucas said it’s easily the most visited and commented on blog in Amsterdam Heights history, and she’s serious. She asked us to start thinking about a chapbook or zine component and said she’d help us raise some funding for it. My mind is on Write Like a Girl all the time, so I don’t have much energy for STEAM.
Ms. Johnson motions us to take a seat in the big circle of chairs set up around the room. This is not your average room design. I take a seat next to a couple of other juniors.
“Please take a seat anywhere in the circle. There will be one less chair than we have people. I will actually be playing our first game with you all, so just go ahead and sit, and I’ll be the first one in the circle.” Great, I think, a game. Ms. Johnson is forever trying to make her classes fun, which usually backfires big-time. We all take our seats—there are about twenty-five of us, all looking around the room wondering what’s next.
“First, let’s keep talking about why STEAM actually matters. I want you to continue to open your minds about this class. This is about dialogue, critical thinking, and using our information to take thoughtful and exciting risks in our work, to engage in experiential learning and begin to really collaborate and push each other to become twenty-first-century learners.”
“Boo,” Ramel calls out, laughing. Ramel is one of James’s best friends, so I feel like I’m at least one degree from James.
“Ha-ha,” Ms. Johnson says, giving Ramel a look. “All I ask is that you keep pushing yourselves in this class. Now, today we are going to break down misconceptions and stereotypes about the tech industry and really take a look at gender and race within these fields. We are gonna take it all apart and figure out how we can fight against these issues.”
Now this is interesting. I didn’t really think about any issues of gender or race in the tech industry, so I sit back and let Ms. Johnson explain the game—besides, I’m all about women getting more jobs and elevated roles—actually becoming CEOs and bosses. And since my semi-fight with Meg, I’ve been thinking more and more about what I could have said differently, how I could have changed her mind about stereotypes and where they come from, and who they benefit and who they hurt.
“So, this is how the game works. It’s called—Do You Love Your Neighbor.”
“Yes, but only if she’s hot,” Ramel calls out.
“Enough, Ramel. And also, that’s a sexist statement, so cut it.” She gives him a serious look this time.
“Ah, sorry about that,” he says, and sits up a little taller.
“Everyone will have a chance to stand in the middle of the circle, and once you’re there, you will share something that is true for you, and if that’s true for anyone else in the circle, then you will jump up and switch chairs. The person without a chair is the next one up. Make sense?” We all nod. “I’ll go first so you can see. And you start it like this. Get ready . . . I love all my neighbors who love science,” she says. About five kids actually admit to loving science. They stand awkwardly, and then when Ms. Johnson steps out of the circle and removes a chair, they realize it’s a game of death and start rushing to other chairs so they don’t have to stand alone in the middle. Alex Perkins, our resident science fanatic, ends up standing.
“What do I do now?” he asks, looking around.
“Think of something that is true for you, Alex, and something that’s related to STEAM—let’s keep thinking of bringing it back to that, yes?” Ms. Johnson says. “And I have an added challenge. This can’t be anything that people can see on the outside. It has to be something on the inside—something that we don’t know by looking at you. I want you all to use this game to reveal yourselves. That’s what this whole class is about. It’s finding out things we didn’t know existed, and unearthing things we didn’t kno
w were there.” She smiles. It’s clear that this is the class of Ms. Johnson’s dreams, and the more she talks, the more excited I am about it.
“Okay, so, I love all my neighbors who like to play video games,” he says. All the boys get up to move, and a couple of the girls. I stay seated.
“Interesting. Keep an eye on who moves. Did you all notice that more boys than girls moved on that question? Let’s keep thinking about gender roles when we think of technology, and also how it starts,” she adds.
Everyone gets a chance in the middle. Ms. Johnson pauses after each one to ask us who moved, what that means, and how we can shift our perceptions. She tells us that this game is about breaking down assumptions, and that we should get to know each other rather than making snap judgments. After class I stay to ask Ms. Johnson about sexism in the tech industry, since I think it might be something we could write about.
“Chelsea, please just google ‘sexism in Silicon Valley,’ and see all the madness that comes up. You will be shocked,” Ms. Johnson explains, setting the chairs back up for her next class. “I am so glad you and Jasmine have started the women’s rights club—I mean, it’s about time! You know, what happens is that people think that there’s equality—women can vote, feminism is a hot trend, equal rights for all—and then they gloss over it or think there’s no need for a club or for pushback. That’s when things start to go off the rails, you know? That’s when people stop thinking about harassment and sexism in different sectors. Well, let me tell you, we will be talking all about it this year. There’s a big push in tech for women to be telling their stories and raging against the status quo.”
“The status quo?”
“The existing state of affairs—the way things are run, basically. And in the tech world, things have been mostly run by men. And it’s very problematic. Read the Google memo that went out to all the employees that suggested that women aren’t suited for tech jobs for ‘biological’ reasons, and that they’re prone to ‘neuroticism’—higher anxiety, lower stress tolerance.”
“What?” I say. “You’re kidding me. Is that for real?”
“Yes, and no I’m not kidding. Try reading Gizmodo for a week. I bet Alex Perkins is reading it. Get in there, Chelsea. The only way to change things is from the inside out.”
At the end of the day I find the Google memo. I can’t even believe it’s a real thing. I choose the most bizarre section, print it out in the computer lab, and start an erasure poem, a poem where you cross off lines to make a completely different point. I love the results, so I decide to post it on our blog.
WRITE LIKE A GIRL BLOG
Posted by Chelsea Spencer
James Damore’s Google Memo—An Erasure Poem
Personality differences
Women, on average, have more:
•Openness directed toward feelings and aesthetics rather than ideas. Women generally also have a stronger interest in people rather than things, relative to men (also interpreted as empathizing). vs. systemizing).
oThese two differences in part explain why women relatively prefer jobs in social or artistic areas. More men may like coding because it requires systemizing and even within SWEs, comparatively more women work on front end, which deals with both people and aesthetics.
• Extraversion expressed as gregariousness rather than assertiveness. Also, higher agreeableness.
oThis leads to women generally having a harder time negotiating salary, asking for raises, speaking up, and leading. Note that these are just average differences, and there’s overlap between men and women, but this is seen solely as a women’s issue. This leads to exclusory programs like Stretch and swaths of men without support.
• Neuroticism (higher anxiety, lower stress tolerance).
oThis may contribute to the higher levels of anxiety women report on Googlegeist and to the lower number of women in high stress jobs.
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magicalme commented: Can’t believe someone would even write something like this. Makes me so angry! Thanks for sharing.
mslucas commented: I was just reading about this, and am appalled! So shocking and disheartening. Would love to see more of these erasure poems. Very interesting form!
brandilux commented: Never even knew what an erasure was, and now I’m trying it out all the time. I have even started sharing some of my poems at school, and my teacher asked if I wanted to share at our next assembly. I can’t wait. Keep sharing and posting please!
writelikeagirl commented: So glad you’re writing. Can’t wait to see some of your new poems!
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elreyes commented: I had the same situation in my STEAM class last year. The teacher only called on the boys in the class, and when a coding program came to our school, he only recruited the guys—he did this openly. He told me he didn’t think the girls would be interested, and that there was already a fashion and songwriting program after-school, and we might like those better.
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writelikeagirl commented: So sorry to hear this. Let’s keep spreading these stories!
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The only way to change things is from the inside out, I say to myself. It’s the end of the day, and I love the way Write Like a Girl is shaping up. I’m already thinking about doing a whole series of erasure poems around the tech industry. I’m sure I’ll find a ton of material.
“Spencer, should I be worried about you? First, you blow up in the cafeteria, and now you’re walking around talking to yourself? I feel like you’re starting to go a little crazy,” James says.
“Don’t call me crazy. That’s a way men have been silencing women for decades. Please don’t fall into the group of men who put all women who don’t fit into their nice and neat little box into the category of crazy. You’re too smart for that.”
“Thanks,” James says, suddenly serious. “Nobody ever calls me smart. Fast, good at sports, hot obviously.” He smiles. “But not smart. I like that.”
“You’re definitely smart. Way too smart to be hanging out with Meg,” I say, surprising myself. James doesn’t reply. “No, I get it. And just to be clear. I didn’t blow up at Meg—she pushed me, and I responded. Calmly.”
“Chelsea Spencer is always calm,” Isaac says, walking over to our lockers. I smile at him. I know he’s messing with me, and he knows how amped up I can get, but I could care less. I appreciate him being here again.
“Hey, those poems you posted are FIRE,” Isaac says.
“Oh yeah, I read those. You pretty much take down that whole princess industrial complex you were talking about. I showed it to my mom. She said she knew that loving princesses was not great, but that seeing someone so young talk about it kinda shook her,” James finishes. “What I’m saying is, you’ve finally created some buzz.”
“Oh, I already had buzz,” I say.
“No, no, you’re right. I’m gonna stay thinking about Yoga Body Confidence. Smartz. Slickz. Prowess,” he adds. Did James Bradford memorize a line of one of my poems, and is he repeating it out loud, back to me? Whoa.
“Hey, man, you going to the open mic on Thursday at Word Up?” Isaac cuts in, and I turn around to give him the death stare. I can’t believe he asked James about the open mic, which I am definitely going to, especially since I’ve been planning to read my “Beauty Magazine” poem.
“What open mic? I didn’t even know about it,” James starts. “You didn’t tell me about that.” He looks directly at me. I blush. I know it, and I can’t help it. “Are you reading?” he asks.
“Yeah, she is,” Isaac says.
“Did you write a poem for me?” he asks, smiling as wide as his outstretched hand palming the basketball.
“Um, no,” I say, completely lying since I’ve written about fifteen poems for him. “Did you write one for me?” I ask.
“Maybe,” he sa
ys.
Isaac looks at me and shrugs his shoulders. “You should come then. It’s a cool scene,” he adds, and only Isaac, with his comic book T-shirt that says He Comes from the Future with the Power to Destroy the Present, could convince James to come to an open mic at an anarchist, volunteer-run used bookstore.
“I’d love to hear it . . . if you wrote one,” I add.
“Maybe I’ll stop by. I’d like to hear you read that poem,” he says, and walks away.
Isaac looks at me, takes a bow, and says, “You’re welcome.”
After school Chelsea says, “I need to buy something to wear to the next open mic. Want to come shopping with me?”
Nadine teases, “You need to get something or you just want to wear something new for James?”
I laugh. “Where are you going?”
“I was thinking we could walk 125th,” Chelsea says.
We get on the train and head downtown to Harlem. Walking up the stairs with Nadine and Chelsea gets me winded because Nadine’s legs move like she’s in a speed-walking race. When we get to the top of the stairs, we squeeze our way through the people coming and going. A trail of incense fills the air, and from the distance a man shouts out, “Got your oils right here. Got that tea tree oil, got that coconut oil, right here, right here.”
We haven’t even walked a block before Nadine is stopping at a street vendor’s table to try on earrings. “Can I try these on?” she asks the woman at the table, holding up big wooden earrings that look like single teardrops. I would have never picked those up, but they look good on her. Nadine has an eye for fashion, and after all these years of being her friend, you’d think it would have rubbed off on me, but it hasn’t.
Nadine tries on five pairs of earrings, looking at herself in the handheld mirror from every angle possible, then decides to get two pairs, the wooden earrings and a pair of oversize copper hoops.
We continue down the street until Chelsea says, “Let’s go in here.”
We walk into Rubies and Jeans, a store that just opened about six months ago. It’s got a high-end feel to it, but the prices are reasonable. There’s a mix of casual and dressy clothes, and the atmosphere makes you feel like you are shopping in a classy, trendy boutique even though it’s a chain store. Chelsea goes straight to the escalator. “The clearance racks are downstairs,” she says. Nadine and I follow her, and when we get off the escalator, Chelsea walks over to the rack under the Forty Percent Off sign. She pulls a bunch of tops and jeans off the rack and tosses them over her arm. Nadine is looking through the bins of jewelry, picking out rings and bracelets. “I’m going to try these on. Be right back,” Chelsea says.
