by Renée Watson
Nadine: We should boycott the ceremony.
Isaac: That would be so awesome if no one shows up. Just Hayes & the chancellor.
Me: No. We should attend. We should go and speak up.
Chelsea: YES! We could do one of the actions from that book Leidy gave us.
At this, I stop texting and call Chelsea.
As soon as she picks up, I say, “We’ve got to come up with a plan.”
Welcome to the distinguished Chancellor’s Award Night,” Principal Hayes begins. “I want to thank you all for attending tonight. We are so proud and honored to be one of the highest-scoring schools in our district, especially since we don’t pride ourselves on the test. In fact, we think of testing as secondary to the hard work we do on community building and strengthening our ties to the world around us.”
Here we are—me, Jasmine, Nadine, and Isaac—sitting in the last row of the auditorium next to some of the girls from our Write Like a Girl gatherings at Word Up. And to the right of us is the entire girls varsity basketball team from our school, and on the left side of us is the team from George Washington High, which is just down the street. Mia rallied her team, and they put the word out to other teams in the league. They’re all wearing versions of our shirts. They came to make some noise.
But we are all sitting quietly . . . for now.
Principal Hayes acknowledges some of the teachers who are being awarded with Outstanding Educator awards, and I have to admit, I love these teachers. Especially Ms. Lucas and Mrs. Curtis. They truly go above and beyond, and I feel like they understand us students. But then Principal Hayes says, “We are a school that is committed to our neighborhood, and to making sure that our voices, that all voices, are heard and truly listened to.”
“This is such crap,” I whisper to Jasmine, who is sitting so calmly beside me. I look to both sides and see the teams handing out poster boards to each other. Mia looks in my direction and winks. She knows this is a massive deal, and she also knows that it could get us into deep trouble. She’s doing it anyway.
Principal Hayes continues, “Amsterdam Heights Collaborative Community School is just that. We work together. We rally. We trust our students to come to us with their concerns, fears, and ideas for the future. We trust their voices. We create activities and clubs that support what they want to do—with clubs like Step Up STEAM for our technology-and-arts-focused young people, and Dance for Your Dreams, which combines movement and site-specific performances. We care about our young people and value their opinions and ideas. This is why all of us are so proud to receive this award tonight. We know that you don’t have to teach to the test, and you can teach to the whole student. That’s what we do here. That’s who we are.”
I look at both sides one more time. Everyone is holding a sign in front of them, ready for my move. I make sure that our row has signs and make eye contact with everyone. Our plan is to begin right after Principal Hayes introduces the chancellor. The auditorium is packed—there are families and teachers and most of the students are here too. James is sitting in the front with his mom, who waved at me when she saw me. James just sat there looking straight ahead.
Principal Hayes continues, “And now, to celebrate this success, it is an honor to introduce Chancellor Carmen Freeman to you all this evening.” He steps away from the podium.
The crowd begins to applaud, and I stand up right away. The basketball teams are on the edge of their seats. Jasmine puts her hand on my back and presses me gently forward. Just when the chancellor gets to the microphone, I shout, as loud as I can, “I resolve to fight for Write Like a Girl, our womanist/feminist club that was wrongly shut down at this school that claims to value all voices. I resolve to show up like a girl.” I hold up the sign that Isaac helped us to make, which reads Write Like a Girl—Bring Us Back in bold neon letters.
“I resolve to fight like a girl. I resolve to race like a girl. I resolve to run sprints like a girl,” Mia says, standing up right after me. I smile in her direction.
“I resolve to show up like a girl, not stop like a girl, win like a girl,” Nadine says right after.
“I resolve to blog like a girl, be controversial like a girl, write what’s on my mind and the mind of my community like a girl,” Jasmine says.
The chancellor is standing on the stage with her mouth wide open. Principal Hayes is standing now too, at the microphone telling us to sit down, but it’s too late for him to stop us.
“I resolve to show up like a girl every day until you decide to hear me.”
“I resolve to stand up to sexism like a girl.”
“I resolve to shut down systems of oppression like a girl.”
“I resolve to dismantle patriarchy like a girl.”
“I resolve to be unstoppable and relentless like a girl.”
The voices go on, getting louder and stronger every time Principal Hayes tries to quiet our voices. The whole auditorium is watching us, with some people shouting and cheering when we make a statement, and some having conversations on their own about what this is about. I can’t tell if it’s working, or if we’ve made a huge mistake, but I get my answer when Ms. Sanchez, the security guard, comes up behind me and begins to escort us out. She is gentle with me, and I know it’s because she doesn’t really want to do it.
As we are all being ushered out, I try one more time, and shout, “You cannot stop our voices.” But even as I’m saying it, I’m not quite sure.
Every student involved in interrupting the ceremony is suspended for three days. Which means we will have three added days to our spring break next week.
I think Mom is going to lose it, but instead she calls the school and asks to talk with someone. She starts the conversation with, “First of all,” and that’s when I know that I am not in trouble, but that Principal Hayes is. Mom says, “I don’t understand how I was never contacted that there was any concern with my daughter. I know some of what’s happening because she’s told me, but I have to say that I am disappointed that no one from the school has talked with me.”
I don’t wait around to hear the rest of the conversation. I go into my room and text Chelsea. I hope her mom is not scolding her. That’s the last thing she needs right now.
I send her a message:
Are you grounded until you’re 21?
She writes back a bunch of laughing faces and says:
My mom is a total new person. I’m not asking questions.
And my dad? I think he might be proud of me.
We text back and forth about what to do next. We can’t let a suspension be the end of it. We decide to take the three-day suspension to meet up at our Word Up–Write Like a Girl headquarters.
Something about being suspended has made us even more bold.
We have planned an action for each day of spring break, and we’ve spread the word to all the poets of the open mic. We’ve taken ideas from the book Leidy gave us and spent the weekend prepping for our week of protests.
Today, our first action is to do sidewalk art with chalk. We will write quotes, names of women, and statistics all around our school’s neighborhood. It is still chilly and gray outside; spring is taking its sweet time getting to us. Leidy brought us muffins from Esmerelda’s and has packets of instant apple cider and hot cocoa for us to make. Before anyone else shows up, Leidy says to me and Chelsea, “So after this week of taking action, what’s next?”
“We’re not sure,” I say.
“Well, what do you girls actually want?” Leidy asks. She doesn’t wait for us to answer. “I mean, besides getting your club back, what do you want?”
Before we can even answer, Leidy says, “You two need to figure out what it is you want out of all of this. If you really get your principal’s attention and he asks you what it is that you need and want to make the school better, do you have an answer? Are you prepared to hand him a written statement of the things that need to change?”
I speak slow and with hesitance. “We know what we want,” I tell he
r. “And we’ve made a bunch of notes, but we haven’t made it anything formal.”
“Well, get to it. You two are making quite a bit of noise, so make those notes into something significant,” Leidy says.
Just then Isaac and Nadine come in. Not too long after, more students from our in-person meetings show up. Rachel, the girl who read my blog post at the open mic, is here. She brought two friends with her. Plus, two of the volunteers from the bookstore join us. Leidy is relieved we’ll have adults with us. There are nine of us who head out, taking different corners.
Isaac stops at the corner, right at the crosswalk, and begins to write something, but then his chalk breaks. I walk over to him. “Here,” I say, “you can have mine.” I hand him the oversize green chalk.
“It’s okay—I can work with this,” he says. “If you give me yours, what will you use?”
I take my phone out of my pocket. “I’m going to document everything,” I tell him.
“Good idea,” he says.
“Yeah, we’ve got to take video and photos every day so we have this on record,” I tell him. That’s mostly why I gave him my chalk. But also because kneeling on the ground is uncomfortable. I look at the others, how they are sitting crossed-legged or on bended knee writing, and I know I can’t sit like that. Sometimes this body is limiting, makes me feel like I am in a prison.
Isaac writes, #SayHerName near the curb while no one is walking by. Then, in front of the bodega, he writes, “Your silence will not protect you.” —Audre Lorde.
We walk down the block, stopping every few steps for him to write something. Chelsea is across the street writing on the ground. I cross the street so I can take a photo. She’s taken one of her poems and written the words in different sizes to add emphasis. For some of the words she’s gone over it a few times to make it bold. The pink chalk stands out bright against the gray cement. A few people stop and stare as she writes, others pass by quickly, like they don’t even see us. There’s a woman sitting at the window of the apartment building, about five flights off the ground. Her wrinkled face is smiling as she watches Chelsea, and it makes me wonder what battles she fought, what opposition she’s faced.
The eight of us make our way down the block, around the corner, and get to Amsterdam Heights. We make sure there are chalked statements at each main entrance. We’re just about done when a man walks up to Isaac and watches him write a quote by Sandra Cisneros. The man waits till Isaac is finished, then says, “So whose pants are you trying to get into?” He laughs and walks away before Isaac can respond. Halfway down the block, he turns and yells, “You girls better be careful. He’s a slick one.” He laughs again, so amused at himself.
“What a jerk,” Chelsea says.
One of the girls who’s joined us shakes her head. “No one asked for him to comment. I mean, how do you think it’s okay to come up to someone and say something like that?”
Isaac wipes his hands on his jeans, which leaves green streaks from the chalk. He brushes it off and walks away. I follow him, walking fast to catch up. The rest of the group walks behind us, close enough to be with us but far back enough to give us space.
I ask Isaac, “Are you okay?”
“I’m good. Not about to let some ignorant stranger ruin my day.”
“Just making sure.”
“You don’t believe him, right? I mean, you know I’m for real about all of this.”
“Of course,” I say. “You’ve been our honorary feminist since middle school.”
Isaac gives a laugh that sounds more like a duty than a genuine reaction.
“What? You don’t like it when we call you our honorary feminist?”
“Not really,” Isaac says.
“Well, what do you want us to call you?”
“Isaac.”
“Well, of course. But I mean, you know, when we talk about how down you are for all of this—what should we call you? Chelsea hates the word ‘ally’ because it’s so overused. We could call you—”
“How about you just call me Isaac. For real. I mean, I don’t need a title. I’m not the mascot for Write Like a Girl. I think it’s ridiculous that the school is trying to silence your voices,” Isaac says. “I’m just a friend who has the same values as you.”
“So we’re just friends?” I ask this just as the cross light changes to Don’t Walk. We stand and wait for the traffic to pass. Chelsea and our crew are a few steps behind us.
Isaac says, “Do you want to be more than friends?”
“Do you have to ask?” And when I say this, Isaac leans in and kisses me. Right here on a New York City sidewalk in front of my best friend and a group of strangers. I have fantasized about what kissing Isaac would be like and never did I think it would happen on a chilly April day, after tagging sidewalks with feminist quotes. Never did I think it would happen when I was wearing jeans and a hoodie, no lipstick, no mascara. Isaac is kissing me. As I am.
When I get home Mom is sitting at the computer huffing and puffing, clicking the mouse, then typing, then clicking the mouse again. She exhales and buries her face in the palm of her hands. “Mom, what’s wrong?”
She jumps and quickly wipes tears away. “Nothing. I’m okay. I’m fine.”
“Mom.”
“It’s nothing. I forgot the stupid password again, so I can’t log on and I’m just frustrated. It’s—I’m fine.”
Mom is clearly not fine. Besides the obvious—her sitting here crying—I know she is not okay because she never uses words like “stupid” and she doesn’t get flustered this easily. I look at the computer. It’s on the home page for the bank. A red message is on the screen that reads Invalid Password. “Just, just take a deep breath, Mom, and think. You’ll remember.” I know this isn’t about the password. It’s about my dad. Ever since he died, there are moments when we start crying about the silliest thing. Last week, I put a load of laundry in the dryer, but it didn’t dry in time, so I couldn’t wear the outfit I wanted to wear. I held the damp clothes in my hands and started sobbing. This must be what Mom is experiencing right now. The book my grandmother gave me on grieving said it’s normal.
Mom sniffs. “This is so ridiculous. I can never remember the stupid word your dad created for this thing.” She types out another attempt. “Not our anniversary.” Then another. “Not your name or Jason’s.” A message appears that says for her protection, the account has been locked. Mom throws an epic tantrum like the ones Jason used to have when he hadn’t taken a nap.
“Mom—it’s going to be okay. Calm down. It’s going to be—”
“I hate that I even have to do this stuff now. Your father took care of all of this . . .” Mom gets up from the desk and grabs her purse and keys. “I’ll be back. I’m going to the bank.”
“Should I come with you? Do you want me to call Aunt Yolanda?”
“I’m fine. It’ll be fine.” Mom leaves.
I sit at the desk looking at the screen. I have so many questions that I know I can’t ask Mom, like why did Dad handle the money in the first place? I’ve never really thought about how dependent my mom was on my dad. But sitting here looking at this screen that has refused to let her log in, I start remembering how Mom would always call on Dad whenever the computer froze or the printer wouldn’t work. She waited for Dad to come home to fix something that was broken, to take out the garbage. Who is my mother going to be without Dad if so much of who she is was a part of him, because of him?
My phone buzzes. I pick it up and check Chelsea’s message. There are no words, just a row of the kissing lips emoji and then a row of red hearts. I text her back a smile.
The next morning, we are back at the Word Up–Write Like a Girl headquarters. Today, we are doing pop-up street performances. Eight of us show up. Chelsea and I decided to ask other poets and performers from the open mic to be the ones to speak out today. Like Leidy said, it’s not about us, and we don’t always have to be the ones at the center of it all.
We head out at noon, so we ar
e sure to have a crowd. Our first pop-up performance is at the bus stop. The eight of us stand at the bus, not like we are together at all, just real low-key like we are strangers waiting. There are a few others waiting, too, and across the street at the park, there are kids playing and parents watching and taking photos. Pedestrians walk by, going both ways, zipping past each other, some saying hello, others walking fast and on a mission. Without any warning, Shalanda, a girl from Incarnation School, starts her poem. The first line is, “I’ve got to get these words out of me. Can’t hold them any longer,” and from there, she unleashes a poem that is so good people walking by have stopped to listen.
We do three more of these street performances at different places around the neighborhood. For the last one, we perform the group piece we put together. We each have a line and a movement we’ve contributed. Standing outside, under a shifting spring sky, we declare who we are, we speak up and speak out.
Spring break ends with a Women’s Only Open Mic at Word Up. The bookstore has the biggest crowd it’s ever had. Somehow, Chelsea convinced Leidy to close out the night, since we’ve never heard her say a poem. Leidy takes the mic and says, “These aren’t my words, but they are words I live by,” and she reads “won’t you celebrate with me” by Lucille Clifton. It is the perfect poem to end on. As soon as she says the last word, Nadine fills the space with music, and we all mingle. It’s so crowded it’s hard to move around and greet everyone. All the body heat has it feeling hot in here. I move through the crowd and walk to the door so I can get some fresh air. That’s when I see that Ms. Lucas is here too. She is in the back standing against the wall, and she leaves before I can walk over to her and say hello. I wonder if Chelsea saw her.
I stand outside, breathe in the air, and wait for the store to become less crowded. While I am on my phone texting Chelsea about Ms. Lucas, a woman comes up to me and says, “Jasmine, right?” She steps close to me.
