Take Back the Block

by Chrystal D. Giles

  “How’s your new school?” Jas asked Mya.

  “It’s good. Most of my neighbors go there, so I already know a lot of people,” Mya answered. “I miss you guys, though, and it’s kinda weird being the only Black girl in most of my classes.”

  “You’re Black?” Brent asked, pretending to be surprised.

  “Shut up, Brent!” Mya yelled. She threw a grape at his head. He ducked just in time for it to miss him and land on the floor. We all laughed. Every single one of us missed the back-and-forth with Brent and Mya. “You know you’re always teasing me for being too white, but the kids at my new school tease me for being too Black. Especially if I wear my hair in cornrows—and I can’t even mention my old neighborhood without someone joking about how I survived the hood. I’m kinda over it.”

  “You want me to straighten somebody for you?” Brent asked.

  “No, Brent! It’s not that serious….I just want to be me, without all the extra Black and white stuff,” Mya said.

  “Yeah, but it’s not something you can turn on and off,” Alyssa said.

  “Why can’t I just be Mya without being called Black or white?”

  “The same reason none of us can erase our black skin,” Brent said. “Or our brown skin, or Jas’s light brownish skin—but you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah…,” Mya said. “I’m just tired of having to be two different people.”

  “You can be one Mya around us,” Alyssa said, motioning with her arm to Brent, Jas, and me.

  I kinda felt bad that Mya was dealing with this—I’d thought her new life was perfect this whole time. I guess not.

  “But for real, though, I’ll chill on the white jokes. And you figure out how to be Mya—the Black and white side of you,” Brent said.

  “Thanks, Brent. You guys really are my best friends, even Kari, when he’s not doing something stupid,” Mya said.

  “You’re our best friend too, Mya. Right, Wes?” Jas said, trying to get me to join the conversation.

  “Yeah, you are…and you know you aren’t too good to come back to the Grove, right?” I said. As soon as it slipped out, I regretted it. I knew Mya wouldn’t let me get away with that dig. And she was trying to be nice.

  “From what I hear, you may not be at the Grove much longer either,” she said with a smirk. “My mom said lots of people have already moved out, and it’s only a matter of time before everyone goes.”

  “We aren’t going anywhere!” I said, but I only half believed it. Deep down I knew the odds of getting the historic designation were slim. And even if we did get designated, the Oaks would never be a complete puzzle again. Too many pieces were missing now.

  Christmas break was over and it had been fifty-one days since we’d submitted the paperwork to the North Carolina State Historic Preservation Office—six whole days longer than it was supposed to take. Today was the day we’d find out if Kensington Oaks had been approved for the historic place designation. That afternoon, me, Mom, and Dad were going to the Save Our City office to find out the verdict. I had to keep calm until then.

  Math block zipped by pretty quick. Ms. Hardy had chilled out a little and was giving me a little extra help when I needed it. Math Jeopardy! was a monthly thing now, and I was getting more answers right than wrong lately. Ms. Hardy still had her irky returning-quiz ritual, but these days I was safely in the so-so group, and last week I had even landed in the good group. I couldn’t believe I was getting good at geometric calculations.

  During lunch, I listened to Jas practice his drum solo in the band room. It had become the band’s official opener, and Jas practiced it every chance he got. I closed my eyes and let the beat surround me. It vibrated through the walls, across the floor, up my legs, and into my chest. I’d heard it bunches of times now, but it never lost its power.

  The afternoon crept by extra slow. Then, finally, the magic words crackled over the intercom:

  “Wesley Henderson, please report to the front office for early dismissal.”

  It was time.

  On the drive to the Save Our City office, I prayed over and over for good news. I wasn’t sure if prayer actually worked, but it was worth a shot. Mom and Dad were pretty quiet too; maybe they were saying the same prayer.

  “Come on in!” Ms. Monica greeted us when we arrived.

  I was shocked at how plain the office was. I thought it would be on the fifteenth floor of one of those tall glass buildings downtown, with shiny windows and swanky furniture. Instead, it was in a small house in a regular neighborhood. The walls inside were covered with photographs of smiling children from all over the city—almost like Mr. Baker’s classroom.

  “These are all the families we’ve helped over the years. I hope we can add you and your neighbors to this wall,” Ms. Monica said.

  Even weirder was Mr. Baker standing beside Ms. Monica in one of the photos—and they were holding hands. I think that rumor about Mr. Baker’s wife was true…and he was always in the same places as Ms. Monica.

  “Are you and Mr. Baker married?” I blurted out, not sure if she would even answer.

  “Not yet,” she said, winking at me. “But soon.”

  Kari had been right this whole time.

  “Now, let’s go. I have some news to share with you,” Ms. Monica said.

  “Good news?” I asked.

  “Let’s go find out.”

  Ms. Monica’s office was just off the front room. I sat down on the couch beside Mom and Dad. I had jumping beans in my legs. I could barely sit still.

  “I’ll start with the good news,” said Ms. Monica, beaming. “Kensington Oaks has been officially declared a nationally historic place. The designation extends to the ten blocks of homes, the community center, the park, and all walking areas.”

  For a moment Mom, Dad, and I just sat there stunned.

  “For real?” I asked. Simmons was a big, powerful company, and after all this time, I’d been starting to think that that moral arc would never bend toward justice for the Oaks.

  “Yes,” Ms. Monica said, nodding.

  “This is the best news I’ve gotten in years!” Mom said.

  Dad sat quietly, but his shoulders relaxed and his eyes were suddenly brighter. “Thank you for all your hard work. You have no idea what this means to us,” he said.

  “This wouldn’t have happened without Wesley and his stellar research,” Ms. Monica said. “There are a lot of new members on the council, and none of them had heard of Mr. Pippin. We had a little history lesson when I showed them everything you uncovered.”

  “That’s cool,” I said.

  “It is, but I do have some things I need to explain.” Ms. Monica’s voice went from sunny to partly cloudy in a matter of seconds.

  I filled my lungs with clean air and prepared for the worst.

  “The historic place designation won’t stop gentrification from happening. Your neighbors will be able to sell their homes whenever they want, and you have no control over who moves in, but the designation will slow the process. For the houses that have been sold, any demolition will be halted for up to three hundred sixty-five days while design guidelines are developed.”

  “So, does that mean no condo building?” I asked.

  “That’s right,” said Ms. Monica. “We’ll push for guidelines that restrict the size and design of any new construction. That means no large multifamily buildings. There will likely be changes happening in your neighborhood, but the changes will be less drastic with this designation in place.”

  “We can handle that,” Mom said.

  This felt like the changing point Mr. Baker was always talking about. It’s true, change never stops, and we’d just changed things in a good way.

  “If you need anything, please let me know. And congratulations!”

  The rhythm from Jas’s solo drumbeat re
played in my ears on the way home. The beat thumped through my body. Yeah, it was powerful, and for the first time in a long time I felt like I was too.

  “I call this meeting to order at 6:01 p.m. We’ve got some important news to share with you, but I would first like to say thank you.” Mom’s smile lit up the dingy community center. “Thank you for showing up here tonight, and thank you for still being here, and a special thank-you to Monica Greene from Save Our City. I would like to call my persistent and sometimes stubborn son, Wesley, up here to join me.”

  I went up to stand with Mom at the front of the room. The crowd was so small compared to when we first started. I think people were tired of fighting.

  My tongue swelled as I turned toward the audience. “Ahem, like my mom said…we have good news. The Oaks…I mean, Kensington Oaks is now a nationally historic place.”

  “What does that mean?” someone called from the crowd.

  “Um, it means the condo building won’t be built.”

  “What does that have to do with a historic district?” someone else called out.

  Beads of sweat started to drip from my hairline. I shoved my hands behind my back.

  “I think it protects us…,” I started, looking nervously at Mom. I was screwing this up.

  Steam rose from my neck and flushed my face.

  “Excuse me, I would like to invite Monica to answer any other questions you might have,” Mom said, rescuing me.

  Ms. Monica joined us at the front of the room.

  “Hello. I have had the pleasure of working with the Hendersons to take back your block,” Ms. Monica said. “The designation Wesley spoke of is very important, as it means any new construction or improvements to Kensington Oaks must adhere to guidelines established by the city.”

  “I still don’t understand what all this means,” Mrs. Silva called out.

  Another voice came from the back of the room: “Me either!”

  Mom and Ms. Monica took turns answering everyone’s questions. Ms. Monica explained how the designation would protect us from Simmons and any other development company coming in and tearing down our homes to put up a huge condo building. That was a big deal!

  After the meeting was over, I stayed with Mr. Hank to stack chairs. I didn’t feel like going home yet.

  “Wes, let me just say this,” he said after everyone cleared out. “I am proud of you, young man. You helped make this happen. Some people won’t get it, and that’s okay. This was something worth fighting for, and you spoke up for all of us.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I knew Mr. Hank was right, but I wanted everyone to be as happy as I was.

  I walked outside to wait on Mr. Hank while he finished closing up the building. Before I could turn around, the scent of cocoa butter and vanilla tickled my nose.

  There was Alyssa, wrapped in a lavender peacoat and matching scarf. Her cornrows were covered with a cream-and-purple-striped hat, and she rocked purple high-top Pumas.

  “Hey, Alyssa,” I said, my heartbeat speeding up.

  “Hi, Wes,” she said. “You did a great job up there. When did you become Mr. Save-the-Day?”

  “I had to do something. My bad for not telling you about it.”

  “That’s okay; this will be great for the Oaks.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Yep! You weren’t worried, were you?”

  “Nope,” I lied. “Can I walk you home?”

  “Sure.”

  I stuck my head back inside the community center to let Mr. Hank know I was leaving. I paused a second to coax my breath to a slower pace. Drive slow, Wes.

  “Let’s go,” I said, turning to Alyssa.

  I reached for her shivering hand. She wrapped her fingers around mine. I held on as tight as I could. We strolled through the neighborhood, under an arc of massive oak trees. As we walked hand in hand, the streets of the Oaks started to feel like home again.

  The dreaded day had arrived.

  It was finally time for me to deliver my presentation on social justice to my social studies class. Mr. Baker had agreed to wait until after we found out about the designation, and I couldn’t put it off any longer. After I’d bombed at the community board meeting, I wasn’t sure I could speak in front of an audience. I thought back to how cool Brent had been giving his presentation. If I could just have a little of his calm.

  “Good afternoon, class. Wesley will be presenting his research on a very important social justice topic, so please give him your undivided attention.” Mr. Baker’s deep voice bounced off the walls.

  I walked slowly to the front of the room and peered out at my classmates: fifty-four uninterested eyeballs gazed back at me. I didn’t blame them; it had been weeks since we’d covered social justice. Mr. Baker had moved on to world geography. I found Alyssa on the second row—at least she seemed to be interested.

  I stuffed my sweating palms into my pant pockets, hoping no one would notice how nervous I was. Think happy thoughts. Pretend you’re in a room all by yourself. I tried to replay all the advice I’d ever heard on public speaking. It didn’t work—I was going to bomb. Again. And my feet hurt. Mom had convinced me to wear my Sunday shoes. Bad idea.

  “Wesley, the floor is yours,” Mr. Baker said.

  “Ahem. Hey, everybody,” my voice squeaked out.

  “A little louder, Wesley,” said Mr. Baker.

  “Hey, everybody,” I started again. “I chose gentrification as my social justice topic. If you’re like I was, you have no idea what that is, right?”

  “Right,” the class answered.

  “It’s a little hard to explain, but I’ll do my best.” That got a couple smiles. And that made me relax a little. “Gentrification is when urban neighborhoods are renovated to appeal to upper-middle-class people. This usually means lower-income people are forced out or displaced. Kinda like what is happening around here.”

  That got everyone’s attention. A few kids even leaned forward in their chairs.

  “I started my research because I wanted to save my neighborhood, Kensington Oaks,” I continued. I went on to explain the offer from Simmons Development Group and how I researched Kensington Oaks and found the history of Frederick Pippin.

  “Mr. Pippin was the first Black man in our state to own and operate a lumber mill. He employed and helped lots of families.”

  I passed around newspaper articles and photographs of Pippin’s Lumber Mill and Pippin Village. “The kids you see lived right on the land where I live today; that’s the kind of history I wanted to protect.”

  Then I explained how Kensington Oaks received its historic place designation. It actually started to feel like I was just talking to them, not like I was giving a whole speech.

  “I think Black people’s history is important not just in February. It’s also important that we use our voices to call out things that are wrong, like the city erasing Mr. Pippin’s legacy.

  “Earlier this year, when our neighborhood was having a block party, a white police officer stopped my friend Kari and took him to the police station for no reason at all. I kept thinking it was wrong, and I couldn’t figure out why he did it. That officer wasn’t from our neighborhood and didn’t respect it. I may never know the exact reason he picked on Kari, but I do know our people and spaces deserve to be respected like everyone else’s.”

  I looked out at everyone with their eyes fixed on me. Alyssa was giving me a silent handclap from her seat.

  “I’m happy we were approved for the designation, but I know that alone won’t save Kensington Oaks, or other neighborhoods like it. The most important thing I learned is, we have to work together to protect our history and glow up our own neighborhoods. That’s the only way to take back our blocks.”

  I’d gotten out everything I wanted to say without freezing up, and I felt unstoppable.

/>   “That’s all, thank you.”

  Brent jumped to his feet and started a round of applause. A wave of claps and cheers surrounded me. I stood at the front of the room, speechless. I had only hoped to get through my presentation without falling over. I didn’t expect any of this.

  “Wesley, I want to personally thank you for your hard work and impeccable research. Not only have you changed Kensington Oaks forever, you restored Mr. Pippin’s legacy,” Mr. Baker said. “Class, this is why I wanted you to research social justice. Being aware of what’s happening in society connects us to the world around us. Wesley found a much deeper connection than I expected! And we can all learn something from his persistence.”

  As the class filed out of the room, Brent walked over to me. “You did it. Wasn’t sure how this would all turn out, but I should’ve known you’d fix it. And you didn’t even make it all about you,” he said, poking me in the arm.

  I laughed. I know Brent was joking, but he was right. It wasn’t just about saving my house. It was about Mr. Pippin and Mr. Hank, Alyssa and her mom, the Silvas, and everyone else who loved the Oaks as much as I did.

  I couldn’t wait to tell Mom how great the presentation went. I swapped out my Sunday shoes for my Air Max 90s and ran the whole way home.

  I had stopped at the entrance to our driveway to catch my breath when I noticed Mom’s car wasn’t parked in its normal spot. My parents never left me home alone. I didn’t know what was up.

  “Wes, come on over here,” Mr. Hank called from across the street.

  “Where’s Mom?” I asked as soon as my breathing returned to normal.

  “Something happened at Kari’s school…another fight. The school kicked him out for good this time. Your parents went to help Tasha see what they could do about gettin’ that boy out of trouble.”

  It was nearly midnight when Mom and Dad got home. I waited up watching reruns of Black-ish while Mr. Hank snored in the recliner. Before Dad could get the key into the door, I ran over and swung it open.