He Said, She Said

by Kwame Alexander

  “Don’t let that trick walk in here all disrespectful, holding your Omar’s hand, and then try to play you,” Eve says, instigating.

  “Yeah, don’t do that,” Blu says, then reaches into her purse. She pulls out a small container of Vaseline and then starts rubbing it all over her face. “If we’re going to blows, let’s do this, then. This dude is ready to rumble.”

  We all stare at each other for like two minutes, in silence. It’s kind of ironic how we’ve all become pros at this quiet thing.

  “Let’s go, Eve. You had your chance, Claudia. I tried to warn your little stupid tail. Now it’s on.” She and Eve leave.

  “Dayum, I was looking forward to whooping her ass. She’s been asking for it since fifth grade,” Blu says.

  “What are you going to do with all that Vaseline, Blu?”

  “Oh, that’s easy. Come here.” And she starts wiping my hands on her face. “Apparently Omar didn’t have any lotion at his place, Ashy.” And I don’t even try to hide the huge smile on my face.

  Omar

  “Today, we’re sitting down with South Carolina’s Mr. Football, who also happens to be the brainchild behind the recent silent protest at West Charleston High School. Omar ‘T-Diddy’ Smalls, thank you for joining us on CNN’s Evening Edition.”

  “Thank you for having me. But if I can first say one thing, it wasn’t just my brainchild. My homegirl Claudia Clarke and all the students at West Charleston High School made the silent treatment happen.” I look directly at the camera, even though they told me not to, and add, “Go, Panthers!”

  “Generally we don’t normally think of high school students as being interested in political activities. So how did this all come about?”

  “Anderson, it’s because of those kinds of perceptions that teenagers don’t care. The time is over where teenagers will take whatever, that we will accept being classified as uncaring. The students at West Charleston High School have decided that we are fired up, and we won’t take no more.”

  “Yes, I know that was one of your rallying calls. Did you come up with that?”

  “I’m from Brooklyn originally, but I came down here to live with my uncle Al, who runs the Library of Progress.”

  “Great name. Library of Progress.”

  “Yeah, it’s a community center that offers programs for people in West Charleston. Anyway, Uncle Al and some of his buddies were schooling me on all the protests and revolutions that they were involved in during the sixties and seventies.”

  “Before you were born.”

  “Way before T-Diddy Smalls was born. So I really got to shout out to the fellas at the Library of Progress: Uncle Al, Clyfe, and Spooky.” I smile at the camera again and throw up the peace sign. It’s ten minutes into the interview and I’m killing it.

  “Al, he said my name, he said my name on national TV,” Spooky hollers, and we bust out laughing. “I got to go call my momma. I’m famous.”

  “Heck, we’re all famous. Smalls shouted us all out. See that suit he’s wearing? His daddy sent me the money for it. Smalls, tell these jokers who picked that suit out for you.”

  “I’m just glad you didn’t let Clyfe pick it out,” Spooky says, and we all laugh some more.

  “C’mon son, T-Diddy’s on CNN. This is my big debut, can y’all let me finish the interview.”

  “Smalls, you’re lucky Honeydew is here, because I don’t like being told what to do.” He unmutes the TV.

  “See, now y’all done missed most of the interview, this is the end.”

  “That was a quick debut, boy,” Spooky says.

  “Smalls is probably going to watch it ten more times tonight anyway.”

  “Shhhhhh! Here it comes,” I tell him.

  “I’m sure a lot of our viewers want to know where the nickname T-Diddy came from,” Anderson asks.

  “My teammates call me T-Diddy. It started in Pop Warner, when I scored five touchdowns in one game—two on offense, three on defense—and my coach started calling me Touchdown. Then in middle school, it got shortened to TD. When I moved to Charleston, I remixed it, Bad Boy style. Now I’m T-Diddy.”

  “Can’t nobody hold you down,” he raps.

  “Hole up, hole up, let me find out Anderson Cooper is onto that hip-hop.”

  “Who doesn’t like Jay-Z?” he says, and then gives me a pound. This woadie is hilarious. “Well, T-Diddy, congratulations on the important work that you’re doing at West Charleston. And kudos to you for standing up against the arts funding cuts in your school, a tragedy happening in districts across the country.”

  “Well, it’s not over. We still have more work to do.”

  “So the protest is not over?”

  “Well, the silent protest is over for now, but I think our eyes have been opened to what’s possible. We started a job, and we won’t stop, can’t stop, until we finish. I think it was Dr. King who said, ‘Freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed.’”

  “Quoting Sean ‘Diddy’ Combs and Martin Luther King in the same breath. There you have it, folks. A true hip-hop activist. Well said, Mr. Smalls—or should I call you T-Diddy?”

  “It doesn’t matter what you call me, Anderson, it’s who I answer to.”

  “That boy straight stole Clyfe’s words. Clyfe, you believe that,” Spooky interjects.

  “Imitation is the sincerest flattery,” Clyfe says in true fashion.

  “Just one more thing, Omar,” Anderson says. “I hear that you’re headed to play college football next year, and I’m sure that a lot of gamecocks would be happy if you chose USC. And as a proud alumnus of Yale, I must put in a plug for the Bulldogs.”

  “South Carolina was definitely one of my top schools. This state has been real good to me.”

  “I understand, Omar, that you haven’t formally made your announcement due to some, uh, extenuating circumstances.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Well, would you like to announce your decision here on CNN?” Heck yeah. I look dead at the camera.

  “To all my fans, to my supporters, to all of the students at West Charleston High School. To homegirl for showing me how to swim, to Luther, Belafonte, and Blu for getting down with the movement, to Fast Freddie, Willie Mack, and the rest of my teammates; to Coach, but especially to my family—Uncle Al, Mom, Dad, thank you for your support and guidance.” I take the cap off my lap, place it on my head so the viewers can see the big orange-and-green U. “I’ve decided to take my talents to South Beach.”

  “You heard it here first, folks. Breaking news on CNN: the country’s number-one star recruit, Omar ‘T-Diddy’ Smalls, has signed a letter of intent with the University of Miami.”

  “This boy thinks he’s LeBron James now,” Spooky chides.

  Claudia, who is now leaning on my shoulder, hasn’t said a whole lot. When I look at her, she’s drooling slightly and fast asleep. I put a pillow on my lap and lay her head on it. She kicks her feet up on the sofa, and Spooky drapes a blanket over her.

  “Smalls, I hope you ain’t running no game on her. Little lady is not like all them other girls you run with,” Uncle Al says to me.

  “What’re your intentions with Honeydew?” Spooky asks.

  “Intentions? C’mon, son, I got this. Unc, pass my cell phone, I need to call Mom and Pops.” They’re acting like she’s their daughter or something.

  “I’m just saying, don’t mess around and mess this up. She’s a special one,” Uncle Al says.

  “We are not special. We are not crap or trash, either. We just are. We just are, and what happens just happens.”

  “Yeah, what Clyfe says,” Spooky says, giving him the side eye. “Anybody want more lobster macaroni and cheese? If football doesn’t work out, boy, you need to be all up in the Olive Gardens. Al, he put a hurtin’ on that dish.”

  “Yeah, little lady needs to come around more often,” Uncle Al hollers after him, implying that I only cook like this when Claudia comes over.
He’s right.

  I make turkey chili the next night. On Friday, I make BBQ chicken, sweet potatoes, and wild rice. Usually Spooky and Clyfe have gone by the time we eat dinner. But not this week. And usually there are leftovers. Again, not this week. Each night, these jokers eat two and three helpings, like they haven’t eaten all month.

  “Boy, I didn’t eat all day, hoping you were cooking up some magic,” Spooky says with a mustache covered in BBQ sauce. “That was some good eats.” He sets his plate down on the counter.

  “What did you think about the wild rice? I made that,” Claudia, my sous-chef, says.

  “Best part of the meal,” Uncle Al says as he puts a last spoonful in his mouth.

  “Yeah, she got the recipe from her Uncle Ben,” I say, and she punches me in the stomach. I grab her around the waist and pick her up and put her on the counter next to the dishes we’re washing.

  “Hey, get a room,” Spooky says.

  “None of that,” Uncle Al adds. “I run a respectable center. Don’t make me call Clyfe in here to wax poetic.” Claudia kisses me on the forehead and we resume cleaning the dishes.

  “Why doesn’t your uncle have a dishwasher?”

  “Same reason I don’t have a microwave. People need to stop trying to find shortcuts to living. It’s not always about doing the easy thing,” Uncle Al lectures.

  “Now you’ve done it,” I say to Claudia.

  Uncle Al continues. “When I was your age, we didn’t even have water in the house. When it was time to take a bath, winter or summer, we had to run out to the well—”

  “See! I hope you’re ready for a sermon, little lady,” I say.

  Claudia and I spend the next three days together, hanging out some nights way past midnight.

  I’ve never cried after seeing a movie, but on Saturday, when she takes me to see The Visitor, about a dude who gets jailed, deported, and taken away from his wife, I try to fight back the tears.

  “You okay, Omar?” Claudia asks.

  “Yeah, I’m good,” I say, still fighting. When I was in fifth grade, there was this Puerto Rican girl named Lisa who lived around my way. We used to ride bikes, play handball, and sometimes she would stay over my house when her mom had to work late.

  We’d wait for my parents to fall asleep, then we’d sneak into the basement and listen to my dad’s records. Stuff like Al Green and Sam Cooke. I guess we found the music funny, ’cause we laughed a lot.

  Eventually we would get to the reason we came down there in the first place. Spin the bottle. Lisa was the first girl I kissed. I thought about her all the time, and even cried a few times when she’d go out of town, like during the summers.

  First day of sixth grade, I was walking to the bus stop, with a note that I’d written for her, confessing my love. I couldn’t wait to see her. Maybe kiss her in the back of the bus.

  Imagine my surprise when I got to the bus, and she wasn’t there. After school, I went looking for her at her apartment building. Her neighbors told me that she was gone. Her family had moved back to Puerto Rico. I cried the whole way home. Lisa was the only girl I’d ever almost told ‘I love you.’ Until today.

  “What’s on your mind, babe?”

  “I think I, uh, Claudia, I’m kinda . . .”

  “Yeah, I know, Omar. Me too,” she says, like the words are written all over my face.

  And then we just hold each other, long after the credits have ended. If any of my teammates had seen me, it’d be over.

  To celebrate Claudia’s full scholarship, I plan a catfish fry. A bunch of my friends, and Blu, show up. I try to get Uncle Al to put on some Kanye or Common, but he chooses some jazz. It’s a’ight, but it’s not party music.

  “Surprise!” Belafonte and Fast Freddie yell as Claudia walks through the door.

  “C’mon son, this ain’t no surprise party, we just celebrating homegirl getting a full ride to Harvard,” I tell them.

  “Wow, you did all this for me?” Claudia says sarcastically.

  “Trick, come on, I’m starving, and Mr. Football wouldn’t let us eat till you got here,” Blu says, already sitting at the head of table.

  “My bad, babe,” Claudia says, kissing me on the lips. “I was Skyping with my parents to tell them the great news. But I’m here now—break out the bubbly.”

  “No bubbly in my house,” Uncle Al says, wheeling his chair in the living room. “Smalls, bring out the sparkling apple cider.”

  “AwwwC’monUncleAlYouTryingToRuinThisHouse-Party?” Fast Freddie jokes.

  “Yeah, what’s that noise we’re listening to?” Willie Mack jokes.

  “My house, my music, my rules. And why is that boy always talking like a locomotive? Slow down, Conductor Boy!”

  “What’s the problem? This music is dope. Uncle Al, what is it?” Claudia asks.

  “Real music. Something the rest of these jokers don’t have a clue about. This here is ‘Ruby, My Dear.’”

  “Thelonius Monk,” she says confidently. Uncle Al starts spinning around in his wheelchair and rolls out to the front porch.

  “Hey, Spooky, Harvard got culture too. She’s on to that bebop. Little lady is world class.” I look at her, and she just shrugs.

  “What can I say—Claudia Clarke has got it going on,” she says. Third person, really.

  “T, what are we waiting on? She’s here. Let’s grub,” Willie Mack says.

  “Dinner is served,” I holler, and the fifty-eleven people in the house scurry to the table. Belafonte is the only one of us who goes to church regularly, mainly because he plays drums in the choir. “B, can you grace the table?” I turn off the music.

  “Lord, today we come before you to ask that you nourish our hungry bodies with this food. We ask that you seriously protect us from the hands that prepared it. SERIOUSLY.

  “We thank you for bringing us all together today, even Luther Lee and his girlfriend, who both smell like a tobacco factory, no offense. Lord, today we send a special shout-out to the folks at Harvard for taking this poor dance-challenged soul off our hands. West Charleston will be better for it.

  “We ask that you allow the Panther marching band to win the Battle of the Bands. We know that other bands are worthy, but we ask that you allow them to win maybe another year, but not this one. I sure hope you’re listening.

  “And finally, Lord, we say a special thanks to Claudia for occupying T-Diddy’s time. Since they hooked up—”

  “C’mon son.”

  “Since they hooked up, he doesn’t come around much anymore. It’s like he doesn’t know his boys anymore. The good thing is, at least we haven’t been forced to watch the state championship football game another time. Please, we beg you, no mo’.”

  “Amen,” Willie Mack echoes. “Amen to that.”

  “Uncle Al, y’all come on and eat,” I scream out to the porch. “Grab the remote for me,” I add, and snub my nose at the jokers chowing down on T-Diddy’s famous gumbo and Cajun catfish.

  Claudia

  Save the Light

  by Claudia Clarke

  This Saturday, come on out to the Festival of Folly. There will be an oyster roast, a 3K walk/run, a seaside tour of gorgeous Folly Beach homes, and children’s activities. The festival is a fundraiser for the Save the Light foundation, a nonprofit that raises funds to restore and prevent the lighthouse (located near Charleston and Folly Beach) from being lost to the sea. Click here for background and history of the lighthouse.

  The festival will also feature free fishing, prizes, and a special parade featuring the newly reinstated West Charleston High School Marching Panthers Band. “Don’t call it a comeback—we been here for years,” says Belafonte Jones, the drum major for the Panthers marching band. “Even though they eliminated the band, some of us still practiced, and we got a show for y’all. Believe that.” This will be the first performance by the West Charleston marching band since it was shut down by the West Charleston school board more than twelve days ago.

  Save the Light wo
uld like to convey a big thank-you to the WCHS students, the Folly Beach community, and visitors for their support during this historic preservation process. For more information and tickets, visit Save the Light’s website.

  Arrested Rappers Get Record Deal

  by Blu McCants

  In a strange turn of events, two rappers turned bank robbers pleaded guilty to all charges and then announced that they’d been offered a record deal with Green Mile Records. “Yeah yeah, Redbone and Hoe Daddy representing the eight-four-three,” Redbone said outside the courthouse after their arraignment. “Me and Hoe Daddy going into the studio as soon as we get in.” The South Carolina state prison has recently installed mobile recording studios to accommodate all the young black men who are enrolling.

  “Only in the country, girl. You couldn’t make this stuff up,” Blu says.

  “I know, right. Straight comedy! Hurry up and finish, so I can post this and meet Omar.”

  “Why you rushing me, trick? Omar ain’t thinking about you.”

  “Wrong. I’m all Omar is thinking about.”

  Mr. Football Heads to South Beach

  by Blu McCants

  Omar Smalls, South Carolina’s Mr. Football, recently made an appearance on CNN’s Evening Edition, where he announced what most of us at West Charleston already knew: he’ll be playing football at the University of Miami next year. “I’ll be representing West Charleston and Brooklyn, believe that. It’s a dream come true,” he said in an email. To find out about Omar Smalls’s plans and the one thing he loves more than football, click here for a full profile.

  Student Protest Yields Results

  by Claudia Clarke

  After twelve days of the “silent protest,” school officials announced on January 26 that some of the students’ demands would be met. In a morning announcement, and on the school Facebook page, Dr. Jackson informed the student body that the band, drama, and visual arts programs would be reinstated. Originally cut to make a dent in the school district’s severe budget deficit, the programs “are vital to the morale and academic achievement of our students,” she said.