by Renée Watson
2.“Congregation” by Parneshia Jones. A poem about loving and honoring tradition. This is a tribute to family, to cooking together, and to breaking bread with one another. It is about what is passed down from one generation to the next. Here, love is having a belly full of food, a heart full of joy.
3.“Raised by Women” by Kelly Norman Ellis. A poem about loving the people who raised us. This is about loving every kind of woman: the scholar, the debutante, the artist. The tell-it-like-it-is women, the flawed women. In this poem, love isn’t perfectly packaged, but it is felt in a profound way.
4.“For My People” by Margaret Walker. A poem about loving where you come from. This is a poem of praise that honors African American history. It is a love poem about struggle, about overcoming.
5.“Phenomenal Woman” by Maya Angelou. A poem about loving yourself. This poem is a powerful declaration of self-affirmation, of resilience, and of confidence. The ultimate self-esteem poem.
6.“won’t you celebrate with me” by Lucille Clifton. A poem about loving your journey. This is a poem that acknowledges that every day something—racism, sexism, classism—tries to kill us. Sometimes spiritually, sometimes physically. But the things that have the potential to destroy us can also cause us to rise.
Love yourself enough
after Jasmine
by Chelsea Spencer
It’s true, my love for me should be electric,
explosive, energetic. Should bend & shape
surround me. Hold me close. Kinship, comfort
me when it matters. Love myself. The definition
of who I am. So, can I love myself & still be falling
for you? You who only loves me—part time.
Who only wants me on the sideline, just a little.
Not enough. How I want your want for me
to be colossal. Bumping & massive. Unstoppable.
Reckless in your want for me. & only me. That I
would be enough.
Top 10 Feminist Questions
by Chelsea Spencer
1.Can I be a feminist and still care about luscious lipstick colors, the best blush, and how to wear enough eyeliner to make my eyes POP?
2.Can I be a feminist and still shop at stores that emphasize big breasts, tiny waists, and full hips? Or stores that stock clothes in size xx-small?
3.Can I be a feminist and still read beauty magazines obsessively? And not just because I’m writing radical poems with them, but maybe because I sometimes (most times) care about the advice they give, even if I know it’s superficial and ridiculous!
4.Can I be a feminist and watch shows where women do 90 percent of the housework, the cooking, the cleaning, and on and on? Can I still love shows that subscribe to super-sexist ideas about women?
5.Can I be a feminist and have a crush on James—someone who didn’t even know about feminism before we met, someone who is dating someone else, someone who doesn’t fully know who I am, since, if he knew me, he’d know that what he’s giving is not enough.
6.Can I be feminist and want to be pretty?
7.Can I be feminist and sometimes want to be quiet and shy?
8.Can I be feminist and still be friends with people who don’t care about women’s rights as much as I do?
9.Can I be feminist sometimes, and take a break other times?
10.Can I just be me?
After school Isaac asks, “Want to come with me to Felipe’s Art Shop?”
In my head, I say no, since spending Valentine’s Day at an art supply store is not what any of us had in mind. “Sure,” I tell him. Then I think how both Chelsea and Nadine are going to be disappointed, because neither of them have won their bet.
Felipe’s is Isaac’s favorite art supply store. Partly because of the range of materials he can choose from but also because it’s in Washington Heights, not too far from school. He comes here so much, the people who work here know him by name. The last time we came here together, Isaac said he just needed to stop in for one thing and we stayed for two hours. Today, when we step inside, the man behind the counter smiles and nods. “Isaac, my man. What’s good?”
“Hey, Felipe.” Isaac stands in the middle of the aisle.
Felipe moves his head slightly to the left, as if to tell Isaac, “Go over there.”
Isaac takes a deep breath, and I’m beginning to feel like maybe they just passed some kind of secret code to each other. I smile at Felipe, and he smiles too. In a familiar way, like he knows me. Isaac walks over to the aisle where the sketchbooks are. “Help me pick something out,” he says.
“Don’t you always use these?” I pull the black spiral book up and open it. It has blank pages, and at the back, the last pages are perforated along the spine so they can be torn out easily.
“Yeah,” Isaac says. “But I want to try something new. Maybe one of those.” He points.
I pick up a sketchbook that has graph paper in it, flip through it, and pass it to him.
“No, I hate this kind,” he says. “Maybe something over there?” He points just above my head.
And that’s when I see it.
A sketchbook sitting on the shelf, face-out, with my name in the middle surrounded by jasmine flowers that are drawn in Isaac’s style.
“What—what is that? What—”
“Open it.”
I take the sketchbook off the shelf and rub my hands along the cover before opening it. I open the book, and the first page is a drawing of me with my poem “This Body” written in the background of my silhouette. I turn the page and see that the next six pages each have one of the poems we chose for the Alternative Valentine’s Day Reading List. The poems are illustrated, and each have their own bold colors and style of the words but somehow look uniform, like one whole book of art. “This is—I don’t even know what to say, Isaac.”
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says. “The blank pages are for you to fill up with more of your poems and monologues.”
Felipe is still at the counter, smiling even more now. “Enjoy your sketchbook. Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says.
“Thank you.”
We leave the store and on our way to the train, I say, “I feel so bad. I didn’t get you anything.”
Isaac says, “You’ve been giving me your friendship since we were nine years old. That’s all I need.”
All I want to do is be outside and enjoy the first day of spring. Well, it’s not quite spring out yet, but it’s the first day without snow or rain that New York has had in weeks, and all of us have been going stir crazy. So today, I am at the park, where some of the trees are already blooming. I am standing on top of the George Washington Bridge—or the playground version of it. As soon as the dismissal bell rang, Jasmine and Isaac walked to the park with James and me so we’d beat all the elementary kids, and we have been playing all over the park ever since. James pushed me on the swing, high enough to touch the tree limbs, we made a village in the sandbox and climbed on top of the kiddie house, and now James is chasing me—James, who is not quite my boyfriend, but not quite my regular friend either.
“I got you cornered now, so don’t even try to run,” he says, lunging at me. James has me right where he wants me, or is it right where I want him to want me?
I’m so sick of myself sometimes.
“Time out,” Isaac yells up at us. “I hear the ice cream truck, and I haven’t had Mister Softee since October, so can you guys get down here so we can pool our money?”
James jumps down from the top of the play bridge—athletes are so annoying. I have to duck underneath the arch and shimmy down on the slide, which looks way more awkward than I’d like it to. It doesn’t matter since no one is looking at me. Jasmine and Isaac are basically sitting on top of each other counting money, and James is checking his phone, something that he does pretty much on the regular when we’re together.
When we’re together—listen to me—that’s not even a thing, and we’re not together. He’s just someone I hang out with,
who I happen to have a massive crush on, and who I think about all the time. Lately it’s because he’s someone to talk with, to debate ideas with. We push each other in ways I didn’t think we would, and I’m really starting to like who he is, and not just what he looks like. And I think he feels the same way about me. But it’s not lost on me that I’m doing everything possible in the name of women’s rights, and at the same time I am in deep like with a guy who’s not even mine. Talk about antifeminism.
“Chocolate cone with chocolate sprinkles?” Jasmine asks. She knows me so well.
“Yes and yes,” I say, plopping down on the bench next to them. Jasmine and Isaac walk over to the truck, and I notice his hand on the small of her back. I’ve been seeing this a lot lately—little hints of something more, but neither of them has made anything official, so I’m just letting them both think they’re fooling me, which they are absolutely not.
“So, we can count that as another win for me, right?” James asks, pretending to run away from me.
“Ah, are we still playing games?” I ask, feeling bold.
He stops and looks right at me. “I’m not playing games.”
“Oh, really?”
“Really,” he says, fake dribbling a ball (which he looks so absurdly hot while doing) and fake dunking over my head, and then crashing down so he’s sitting right next to me. He puts his head on my shoulder, and I am positive that this is game playing, but I am also positive it feels so good. He jumps up suddenly and grabs his phone.
“What?” I ask. He reads a text, stands up, and grabs his book bag, starts to brush the leaves off his jacket.
“Nothing, I just gotta head out soon.” James picks up his backpack, while holding on to the SpongeBob ice cream bar he asked for, which makes for a very awkward maneuver. He looks like a kid, and acts like one, is what I think. I guess in some ways, I feel like a kid too.
“Where you going? To meet Meg?”
“No,” he says, shifting his weight, and I can tell he’s lying. “But I don’t have to go right now . . . I have a little more time. Where were we?” he asks, smiling down at me.
“You should go,” I say, still licking my endless ice cream cone. I want to smash it into his face or throw it down and go running out of the park, because I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to have a crush on someone like this, or feel so worthless.
“What if I don’t want to go yet?” he says, leaning in. “I want to stay . . .” He bends his head toward me, and even though I want to kiss him so much, feel his mouth on mine, because it seems like that’s what he’s about to do, I pull back—and hate myself, because I really want this moment, but I jerk back anyway.
“What are you doing?” I ask, stepping away from him. I stumble back and drop my cone. Crap, I think, and bend down to pick it up.
“Hey, lemme help you.”
“No, stop,” I yell, a little too loudly. Jasmine and Isaac look in our direction. “I’m not . . . I’m not into this.”
“Into what?” he asks, acting so innocent all of a sudden.
“You have a girlfriend,” I say, looking him dead in the eyes.
“Hey, it’s not that serious, okay. We’re not together in that way . . .”
“Yeah, well, it’s serious to me. If I were Meg, I’d be pissed right now, and I’m not gonna be your girl on the side. That’s not me,” I finish.
I grab my book bag, wave at Jasmine and Isaac, and walk right out of the park. I start crying as soon as I hit Fort Washington. I speed-walk home, pissed at James for making me want him so much, and embarrassed at myself for letting it make me cry out loud in front of everyone. This is what I both love and hate about living in New York City. Everything you feel is out in the open—everyone can see when you’re in pain and be witness.
As soon as I walk in the front door, my mom and Mia are walking out. It’s clear to both of them that I’ve been basically acting like a baby.
“What happened to you?” Mia asks, opening the door to let me in.
“Crap boy problems,” I say, and my mom pulls me in for a hug. “Where are you going?”
“Saggio’s,” my mom answers. “We’re craving Italian, and your father wants to stay home and watch bad TV. We’ve decided to go out! I thought you were going to Jasmine’s for dinner.”
“Plans changed. Can I go with you?”
“Of course, my dear. And no crap boy problems are worth crying over, you understand?” my mom asks, pulling me in again. It’s true that sometimes my mom gets it.
We walk down the street to our favorite Italian spot, run by an older couple who came over from Florence when they were much younger. They love our family—mostly because my parents celebrate every big anniversary or birthday there. Mia and I have been coming here since we were little, always ordering the spaghetti al limone and rigatoni with meatballs and hot sausage. As soon as we sit down, the waiter brings a pile of crusty bread and olive oil loaded with sweet pepper flakes and olives. Mia and I sop our bread into the oil immediately. We have always been girls who love to eat.
“Could you two please slow down?” my mother asks, plucking an olive from the plate and effortlessly loosening the pit.
“Ma, I had a two-hour practice where I basically sprinted from one end of the gym to the other the whole time. I’m starving,” Mia says, and orders a kale Caesar salad on the side. She is never satisfied. “So, spill it, Chelsea. What happened?”
“Mia, give her a second, and also, Chelsea, you don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to.” She takes a sip of her wine. I stay silent, testing her. She takes another drink, sighs, and says, “Well, just tell us what happened.”
I start from the beginning with James, trying to fill in all the details. It feels good to let it all out, and I can see my mom’s mind spinning as she digs in to her plate. The waiter keeps coming over to check on us, and my mom keeps shooing him away. I can tell she already has advice, but she’s letting me finish, and it turns out I have a lot to say.
“So, pretty much, that’s the story . . . oh, and he has a girlfriend,” I finish, sliding that last part in at the end and hoping they don’t notice.
“A what?” My mother nearly shouts at me, putting her fork down and looking me right in the eyes. “A girlfriend?”
“Yes, a girlfriend.”
“Chelsea, you know this is wrong, right?” I nod my head. Of course I know it’s wrong. That’s why I feel like such an idiot. “And you know that you need to find someone who cares about and respects who you are, and is not trying to play both sides, and that sounds like exactly what James is doing. I should call his mother.”
“Mom, please, no! Do not call his mother. Jeez!”
“Well, then you need to handle it yourself. You need to stand up to him. He can’t treat you like you’re disposable, Chelsea. He can’t have it both ways. This isn’t a fast-food restaurant, you know?” my mom says, and goes right into more advice—she’s definitely on a roll. “And another thing is this. You need a partner who has a focus on you, and not you and . . . you and some other girl. I chose your father because he cared about me, he made me laugh, we could talk about anything, and he didn’t have his focus anywhere other than me, and his whole life he has focused on pleasing me and making me feel loved. That’s what you want in a partner. Someone who will please you,” she finishes. The waiter walks by at that very moment and tops her glass off with a little more wine.
“I don’t think she needs anymore,” Mia says, and starts to laugh. “But I do think Mom’s right—who knew?”
“Hey, I will have you both know that I am almost always right—you just have to listen.”
“Mom,” I start, “I know you’re right. I do. And I really appreciate your advice. But can I ask you a question?”
Mom nods.
“How come you don’t stand up to your own mom like this? How come you don’t shut her down or even raise your voice . . . ever?”
“Oh, Chelsea. You and Mia are from a
different generation than I am. When I was growing up, there was still a way that women were supposed to dress and act and be in the world. And I grew up very religious—church every week, confession, no sex before marriage, all of that. I didn’t have the same options as you two, so I didn’t even know how to use my voice.”
“But there were tons of women who called themselves feminists when you were growing up, who raged against all types of systems. Didn’t you want to join in?” I ask.
“Well, sure I did, but I was also a good girl. I did what I was told. Some of us took a little longer to get there,” she says, reaching her hand out to hold mine, “but I’m glad I have you two pushing me along. And you definitely push me, Chelsea. You push everyone.” We laugh, because I know she’s right, and it’s something I both love and hate about myself.
We end the night talking about the first time Mom and Dad met—in college when they were both taking a women’s literature course. Mom always said he took it to meet women, and I think she might be right—and it worked. She tells us about how he sent her flowers every day for two weeks to get her to go on a date with him, and how when he proposed he did it in front of their favorite bookstore, called Better Day Books, and that he made a bouquet of flowers with pages from her favorite books, so she could always keep a collection of words close to her. I love these stories, but tonight it feels more important—feels like I need to hold them closer, and make sure I follow some of these directions for myself.
I’m so giddy when I get home that I text Jasmine right away: A woman is not a receptacle. My mother said that tonight.
She said a woman is not a safety deposit box, not a safe you keep your stuff in. She is not a grocery cart. When you put the key back in, a quarter doesn’t pop out. My mother spoke up tonight, and I knew, and the waiter knew, and the guy in back of us who we said was getting a real earful knew.
