by Renée Watson
I decide to make another piece about York.In Clark’s journals, he wrote that many Native Americans were fascinated with York’s dark skin, his hair, his big frame. I can just hear them asking,
What are you?
Where are you from?
Why are you so dark?
What happened to you?
Clark wrote that some of the tribes thought York was magic, thought he was some kind of supernatural being. York would tell them he was a black man, nothing had happened to his skin, he was not a supernatural being. But some of them didn’t believe him. So he joked around with the children, telling them monstrous tales, making himself into an evil, scary being. The children loved to laugh and run away from him. I wonder how he felt at night. When the star-filled sky blanketed him, did he ever think about what his life was like before the expedition? Before he was a slave? How far back could he remember? Did he remember existing in a world where no one thought him strange, thought him a beast? Did he remember being human?
52
perseverar
to persevere
Maxine and I decide to go on a walk through Columbia Park. “All our outings can’t be centered around food,” she says. Spring is finally here, so walking outside isn’t so bad. I’ve been looking forward to it all week. We walk under the colossal trees, circling the whole park. As we walk, I tell her about Sam—about the incident at the mall and in the cafeteria line, and how Sam doesn’t even know about Natasha Ramsey. How she’s always making excuses for why something is the way it is, and her reasons are never about the fact that I am black and that sometimes it really is about race.
“You need to tell her how you feel,” Maxine says.
“I know, but I don’t know how to start the conversation with her,” I admit. “And I’ve never had to have any serious conversations about race with a friend. I mean, the point of friendship is to be able to be yourself, to just exist with someone who gets you while you get them. I never have to talk to Lee Lee and hash things out about stuff like this.”
“I don’t think it’s fair to compare the two of them. They are different, and just like Lee Lee offers you a certain kind of friendship, it sounds like Sam does too. Some friends are worth fighting for,” Maxine says. She sits on a park bench. I sit next to her. “And you know, you’re worth fighting for,” Maxine tells me. “Did you ever talk with Mrs. Parker about the study abroad program?”
Something else I need to speak up about.
“I will,” I tell her.
“By the way,” she says. “I’ve been thinking of our deal. I held up my part,” she tells me. “I’m done with Jon. For real this time. Thought you’d want to know that,” Maxine says. “So, I did my part. I quit. Now we have to keep working on your learning how not to quit on everything and everyone because they disappoint you or hurt you or make a mistake.”
I don’t even argue with her because I know she’s right. I can’t quit on Sam, can’t quit on my dream to do the study abroad program. Can’t quit on me.
53
para abogar
to advocate
When I walk into the classroom, Mr. Flores is eating lunch and watching a video on his lap top. I hear a voice saying, “Natasha Ramsey was released from the hospital this morning.”
Mr. Flores pauses the video. “Sorry, I forgot we had an appointment.” He pushes his sandwich to the side. “Come on over, Jade. Have a seat.”
“You can finish watching that, if you want,” I tell him.
“Oh, this? I was watching the press conference they had this morning on Natasha Ramsey’s case. But I can get to it later,” he says.
“I’d like to watch it with you, if that’s okay.” I sit at Mr. Flores’s desk. He touches the play button. We watch the doctor finish his statement, and then Vancouver’s mayor speaks. Someone representing the family ends by thanking the citizens of the Vancouver-Portland area for their support and prayers.
When the video is over, Mr. Flores says, “I’m so relieved she’s going to be okay. Physically, anyway. Who knows what the psychological damage will be?” He closes his computer. “Thanks for suggesting we watch it together,” he says. “So, ah, ¿qué pasa?”
I hesitate. My problem seems trivial now after remembering Natasha Ramsey. There are worse things happening in this world. But if I don’t say it now, I never will. “I just wanted to ask a question,” I say. “I— I wanted to know why you didn’t think to nominate me for the study abroad program.” I look away, down at the floor, before I get a glimpse of his reaction.
“Well, Jade, that’s a good question.”
I give him my reasons why I think I deserve to go. “I have an A in your class. You always pick me to help people in the class who are struggling. And, you know, this is an opportunity to do volunteer work and service and that would look really good on my college résumé; plus, without the study abroad program, I doubt I’ll ever, ever get an opportunity to travel internationally.” Maybe I shouldn’t have said that last point, but it’s true. And he needs to know.
Mr. Flores’s face changes color like a mood ring. He is white, pink, red. He takes a deep breath. “You are right that, technically, you deserved to go, but, well, I wanted to be fair to the other students,” he tells me. “You have a lot of support and are in a lot of programs.” He pauses, then continues, “Jade, other students need opportunities too.” Then he wraps up the rest of his sandwich and puts it back into his bag.
“I’m not saying the students who were nominated shouldn’t have been. I’m saying I should have been too. Why am I only seen as someone who needs and not someone who can give?” I ask.
Mr. Flores doesn’t answer my question. Instead he says, “Don’t you realize you’re in those programs because we believe in you? We know you have potential. That SAT prep class you were in last year is going to make it easier for you when it comes time to take the test.” Mr. Flores sits forward in his seat, like he’s going to stand, like he’s ready to go and be done with this conversation.
I get up.
Mr. Flores stands, walks me to the door. “It’s my job to care about all my students, Jade. I have to be fair,” he tells me.
Fair? I can’t leave without telling him the rest of how I feel. I turn to him and make sure I am not raising my voice or talking with any attitude. It’s a sincere question. “How is it fair that the girl who tutors half the people chosen for the study abroad trip doesn’t get to go? You’ve given me an A plus every semester. Every semester. And you didn’t think it would be fair to nominate me?” I didn’t expect for the tears to come. First they are in my throat. My voice is weak, shaking. And I realize I am not just mad about all of this. I am sad. I face the door before any tears fall. “You don’t have to answer that,” I tell him. “Thanks for letting me talk with you.” I leave the room while I still have control over my emotions. I hear Mr. Flores say something. Maybe, “I’m sorry.” Maybe just, “Good-bye.”
I go into the bathroom, hide away in the stall, and let out everything I was holding in. I hear footsteps and flushes and running water, and I wait until I know for sure no one is here before I step out.
I doubt my conversation with Mr. Flores will change anything. But at least he knows how I feel. At least I spoke up.
54
la primavera
spring
Sometimes I just want to be comfortable in this skin, this body. Want to cock my head back and laugh loud and free, all my teeth showing, and not be told I’m too rowdy, too ghetto. Sometimes I just want to go to school, wearing my hair big like cumulous clouds without getting any special attention, without having to explain why it looks different from the day before. Why it might look different tomorrow. Sometimes I just want to let my tongue speak the way it pleases, let it be untamed and not bound by rules. Want to talk without watchful ears listening to judge me. At school I turn on a switch, make sure nothing about me is too black. All day I am on. And that’s why sometimes after school, I don’t want to talk to Sam or
go to her house, because her house is a reminder of how black I am.
It’s the weekend before spring break. I promised to go over to sit with Sam while she packs for her trip to Costa Rica. She leaves tomorrow. Right now she is in the attic, getting a suitcase. I am in the living room with her grandfather. “So, what do you think of the Natasha Ramsey incident?” he asks.
I am not sure how to answer his question, because nothing but pain will pour out. I tell him, “I’m really sad about it.” I tell him sad because I think white people can handle black sadness better than black anger. I feel both. But sadness gets sympathy, so I stick with that.
“It’s really a shame,” Mr. Franklin says. “If you ask me, I think all cops need training on race relations. That girl was just being a teenager, and teenagers shouldn’t be brutalized for acting their age.”
When he says this, the tension in my chest dissolves.
“I don’t know what it’s going to take for this country to live up to its promise,” Mr. Franklin says. He shakes his head and sighs a deep sigh.
Sam comes back from the attic, and I am eager to go to her room, to talk about anything other than Natasha Ramsey. “Sorry it took so long,” she tells me.
We walk into her room. The floor is covered with jeans, shirts, belts, and sweaters. “I don’t have any summer clothes to bring,” Sam says. She folds a yellow T-shirt. “This is the only thing. Everything else will be too hot.”
“What did you wear last summer?” I ask.
“Nothing cute,” Sam answers. She packs a pair of jeans.
I scoot part of the pile over into one big mountain and sit on the floor. I am really trying to be mature and not take my disappointment out on Sam. “Tell me about your trip to Costa Rica. What are you all going to do?”
“Well, it’s going to be more work than fun,” she says. “Mr. Flores has us waking up early to volunteer at a school where we’ll work with children and help out the teachers. We’ll have to write a reflection in Spanish at the end of every day.”
I ask her, “You have to have some free time, right?”
“Well, I think we’re going zip-lining or something at Manuel Antonio National Park. And I heard that we might hike through Monteverde—which doesn’t sound that fun,” Sam says. “I know it’s famous for orchids or something, but I hate hiking, especially in the heat.” Sam is not a good actress, but I do appreciate that she’s trying to downplay this trip.
“Well, whatever you’ll be doing, you’ll be in Cartago, Costa Rica. Take pictures. Of everything. I want all the details when you get back.”
“So, what are you going to do during spring break?”
“Well, I won’t be going to Costa Rica,” I say.
“Are you mad I’m going?”
“No. I’m mad I’m not going.”
“Jade, this isn’t fair. You get chosen to do cool things all the time, and the one time the school chooses me for something, you get jealous?” Sam throws a bunch of tank tops into her suitcase.
“Why does everyone think I get all the fun stuff?” I ask Sam. “SAT prep is not cool. Tutoring after school is not fun. You’re going to Costa Rica—”
“You went to the symphony. I’ve never been to the symphony.”
“You’d rather go to the Oregon Symphony than to Costa Rica?”
“Jade—”
“I didn’t think so.”
Sam opens her closet. There’s a plastic shoe holder hanging from the back of the door. She pulls out a pair of flip-flops from one of the plastic sleeves and adds them to her suitcase. “Can we please talk about something else?” she says.
“Why can’t we talk about this?” I ask. “Why can’t we talk about how unfair it is that at St. Francis, people who look like you get signed up for programs that take them to Costa Rica, and people who look like me get signed up for programs that take them downtown?”
I want to get up right now, want to end the conversation and leave. But I can hear Maxine telling me to stop quitting. To work through the hard stuff. I try to get Sam to understand how I feel. “That study abroad program—the one I should be part of—isn’t about giving a man a fish or teaching a man to fish. And there’s no talk of a contaminated river, because people like you own the river and the fish—”
“What are you talking about? I don’t own anything!” Sam’s eyes well up with tears. “I don’t like what you’re saying, Jade. I’ve been nothing but a friend to you. Why can’t you be happy for me? Just this once. All the times you’ve come to me bragging about everything you get to do with Maxine? I’ve always been happy for you.”
“Bragging? You think I was bragging? I was just doing what friends do: sharing about my day, sharing my life with you—”
“And I want to be able to share this with you, but how can I when you’re moping around and making me feel guilty? I’m sorry you’re not going, Jade. I want you to be there, but I can’t change that. What do you want from me?”
Before I even answer, Sam’s tears are falling, like she already knows she won’t be able to give me whatever it is I’m about to ask for, and so now tears are tangled in my throat. “Sometimes, Sam, I just want you to listen. Anytime I bring up feeling like I’m being treated unfairly because I’m a black girl, you downplay it or make excuses. You never admit it’s about race.”
“I—I don’t think it always is,” Sam says.
“Of course you don’t,” I say. “You know nothing about being nominated into programs that want to fix you.”
Sam’s face contorts into confusion. “What do you mean?”
I can’t control my breath. My chest heaves and words escape between shallow gasps. “I just want to be normal. I just want a teacher to look at me and think I’m worth a trip to Costa Rica. Not just that I need help but that I can help someone else. You keep saying we’re not that different, but have you ever wondered why you don’t get the same opportunities I get?”
She wipes her tears.
I swallow mine.
She keeps packing.
I stand. “I should go. I want to get on the bus before it’s dark.”
Sam doesn’t turn around, doesn’t speak. She keeps packing.
I know Maxine says there are some friends who are worth fighting for, but sometimes it’s just easier to walk away.
“Have fun in Costa Rica,” I tell her. I don’t say, See you when you get back.
55
miedo
fear
With a whole week off from school, there’s plenty of time to hang with Lee Lee and Andrea. We are tired of going to Jantzen Beach shopping center. For one, we don’t have money to buy anything, and two, Lee Lee’s ex works at Target and she doesn’t want to run into him.
Andrea says, “Let’s walk to Columbia Park.”
“You just want to see if Tyrell is there,” Lee Lee says. She puts on her shoes.
“Ain’t nobody thinking about Tyrell,” Andrea says. “He’s at work, anyway. He gets off at six o’clock.”
Lee Lee nudges me, laughing. “For someone who’s not thinking about him, she sure does know his schedule by heart.”
Andrea gets even more irritated once I start laughing. And that just makes us laugh harder. I tell her, “You know you like him.”
Lee Lee says, “And he been wanting to date you, Andrea. So what’s the problem? Just go on and get it over with.”
Andrea ignores us, acting like she can’t hear a thing we’re saying. She walks outside and waits on the porch until me and Lee Lee are ready.
Once we’re outside, I take my camera out.
Andrea is still in her funky mood. “Jade, don’t take no pictures of me without letting me know,” she says.
I tell her, “Candid shots are the best kind.” I snap the button before she can disagree.
“Jade!”
I check the screen to see the photo. “You look fine. Just act normal.”
We keep walking. The whole way, I’m documenting the city, taking photos of stranger
s I’ve never seen, strangers I see every day. Like the woman who is always sitting on her porch, knitting something.
“Let’s stop at Frank’s,” Lee Lee says. The three of us put our money together. Frank ends up giving us extra wings, and he stuffs the white paper bag with JoJos. I grab one of the free newspapers from the stand and put it into my bag. Inspiration for later.
We walk out of the store, eating and talking. First about Lee Lee’s ex, because even though she can’t bear to see him, she can’t stop talking about him. When we turn the corner, just ahead of us, about a block away, we see a police car, its lights flashing.
We stop.
White cops have pulled over a black woman. We walk closer. Stop at enough distance not to be noticed but close enough to be witnesses.
I can hear Lee Lee clutch the paper bag. Andrea’s chest rises and rises. I grab the string of my camera. Remind myself to use it if necessary.
Everyone seems calm. There’s no commotion, but still, I start taking photos. I don’t know why. I just need to. The officer writes something on a notepad and then gives the slip of paper to the woman. He goes back to his car. She drives away.
The three of us stand still.
I hear rattling, something like crumpling paper. I look to my left and see Lee Lee’s hand is shaking. Her whole arm is having a fit. Her fist is clenching the bag like an anchor to keep her from falling to the ground. I tell her, “It’s okay.” I take her hand, but she pulls away. “It’s okay, Lee Lee. Come on. Let’s go.”
Lee Lee looks at me like she heard me but didn’t understand me.
“We’re okay. It’s okay,” I repeat. “She’s fine, she’s fine.”
Lee Lee walks.
Andrea walks on the other side of her, putting her in the middle of us. I pry the bag out of Lee Lee’s hand. Put her hand in mine and let her squeeze it as hard as she needs to. We walk down the street. The three of us, hand in hand. “It’s okay,” I say. “We’re fine, we’re fine. Everything’s okay.”
