President of the Whole Sixth Grade_Girl Code

by Sherri Winston

  “…so I’d like you to remember what Principal Horton said at the assembly yesterday,” Miss Newsome was saying. “When we have guests, we what?”

  “Show them our best,” came the loud chorus from the twenty or so kids in the room.

  Then silence. Everybody was looking at me. And Red. I was pressed so close to the chalkboard, I wanted to melt into it. My throat felt dry. My eyeballs were glued to the floor. Beside me, Christyanna whispered, “Whenever we have important people come to the school, Principal Horton has a short assembly to remind us how to behave. Like he thinks we’re gonna embarrass him!” She gave a snort of laughter.

  They had a special assembly just to discuss us coming here? Really? For some reason that really scared me big time.

  “Hey, y’all. Thanks for having us,” said Red. “I’m just the backup reporter. Uh, Brianna, uh, Justice”—she nudged me, hard—“is the main reporter. We just want to observe the class, I guess, and then talk to y’all later.”

  “Where’re you from?” a kid asked Red. He leaned forward, a suspicious grin on his face.

  “Texas,” Red said.

  “Ha!” he declared. His grin turned into a megawatt smile. He turned to another boy beside him. “See, bro! I knew it! My cousin lives in Texas. He sounds just like her!”

  Red laughed. The boy laughed. His “bro” laughed. I tried to laugh, but it felt like my mouth was stuffed with cotton balls.

  What is wrong with me?

  Then sweet-faced Shania, with her reddish brown curls, turned her pale brown eyes in my direction and totally put me on blast.

  “Brianna looks scared,” she said. She and Christyanna were still at the front of the room with us, but she had craned her neck around to see our faces. Now she was staring right at me with a playful smirk on her face. Several kids laughed along with her. Even their teacher, Mr. Hardaway, chuckled.

  Then he said, still smiling, “Enough of that, now, let’s be kind to our guest.”

  He told us we could all take seats. Shania moved closer and took my hand, smiling—the kind of smile you give someone when you feel sorry for their stupidity. She said, “Don’t worry, girl. It might look rough on the outside, but we watch out for each other in here.”

  A girl named Shakira said, “Girl, where’d you get that bag? You’re a cheerleader?”

  I glanced wildly from Red to Shania to Shakira, trying to figure out what was going on, until I realized she was talking about our Detroit Divas backpacks.

  Her voice shifted from playful to wishful. Shakira confessed, “I wanted to try out for them, but I was scared that because of where I come from, y’all would be like, ‘don’t let no east side chick up in here—she might steal our shoes ’n’ junk!’” She laughed hard, too hard, and Shania laughed and said, “Girl, you crazy.”

  Well, that felt awkward. But once again, Red saved us.

  “Honey, just because some of those girls have money, don’t mean they’re not shady. Don’t let something like that keep you from joining.”

  Shakira smiled. She said, “Well, it’s not just that. My mom called for me. Being on that team costs a good chunk of change.”

  “That’s cheddar, y’all,” Shania said with a grin. “Cha-ching!”

  The three of them laughed, but I couldn’t help thinking about how easily my parents had agreed to cover my costs—even though I had my own money.

  We settled in and Mr. Hardaway started the class. He stood and asked, “How many of you ladies and gentlemen have ever written computer code?”

  Several hands shot up. Even Red’s. I was one of the few people who didn’t raise a hand. A girl sitting in the back row, a quiet girl with dark eyes, looked at me, glared, then buried her face in her books after lowering her hand. She had light-brown skin and big brown eyes. She was a little chubby and wore a blue winter coat.

  Mr. Hardaway went on. “Anybody in here know what computational thinking is?”

  Red and I exchanged glances. I sure as heck didn’t know. A look around the room revealed that no one else did, either. Then I saw that several students were looking in one direction. Toward the back of the room at the girl who’d given me serious stank face.

  “Come on, Alicia,” said the dude’s bro. “We all know you know the answer.”

  Shania crossed her arms and smiled at me, saying, “Alicia is like a human computer. She always knows the answer!”

  “No, I don’t,” grumped Alicia. After a second, she sighed and said, “Computational thinking is, like, the way you formulate a problem so that a computer can answer it. It means to come up with a way to tell the computer what to do, you know?”

  Soon as she finished talking, her cheeks turned bright pink, then she ducked down her head like she was hiding.

  The boy leaned forward and tapped Red’s arm. “Hey, Texas, in case y’all didn’t pick up on it, Alicia is very shy.”

  “Shut up, Lamar!” Shakira said with a headshake.

  Laughter floated around the room.

  Mr. Hardaway continued making his point. The more he spoke, the more I found myself becoming interested in coding. When he paused and asked if there were any questions, I raised my hand.

  “Does this school have a STEM program?” I asked. The science, technology, engineering, and math program called STEM had been in my elementary school. I’d been involved because I liked math. But I had been more interested in money math than computer math.

  At Blueberry Middle, I hadn’t given STEM a second thought. Now I was wondering if I should.

  “No, our school does not have a STEM program at the moment,” Mr. Hardaway said. “But we are working on it.”

  Mr. Hardaway went on with his discussion and I started looking around the room. The bulletin boards were colorful with pictures and charts and diagrams.

  Then I realized all the scientists on the walls were people of color, several I’d never heard of. I whispered to Red, “Did you know there were so many black scientists and inventors in history?”

  She whispered, “Justice, you’re funny.” Now, what the heck did that mean?

  I asked Mr. Hardaway if I could get up and take a closer look at the faces that lined the walls and bulletin boards. He said sure and I moved to make my way slowly around the room. Each description spoke of the person’s background.

  Funny. I came here to write a story about science, but I was learning history, too.

  Some of the names and faces I recognized from bulletin boards at my own school. It was usually around Black History Month that our school paid extra attention to the accomplishments of people of color. Our boards had all the names and faces everybody knew—from Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. to Malcolm X to Maya Angelou.

  Here, however, were some names and faces I didn’t recognize:

  Dr. Charles Richard Drew, inventor of the blood bank; Garrett Morgan, inventor of the traffic signal and the gas mask; Mae Jemison was the first black woman to travel into space.

  And there were still more—Percy Lavon Julian, a chemist and pioneer in drug synthesis and other research that changed medicine. Lonnie George Johnson, an inventor and engineer who invented the Super Soaker and other things. And Marie Maynard Daly was the first black woman in the U.S. to earn a PhD in chemistry.

  “She’s the one who inspires me,” said a girl who’d come up beside me. I was so lost in reading the boards, I hadn’t seen her.

  “Hey, I’m Venus,” she said before turning back to face the images on the wall. “There are so many black people working in science and technology. It’s funny. When the media or those people on YouTube talk about us, they never mention our scientists or our contributions.”

  I cringed.

  She raised an eyebrow, her gaze digging into me. She folded her arms across her body like she was ready to do battle. She said, “I guess jokes about being ghetto are funnier than jokes about being a black chemist or engineer or computer scientist.”

  Okay, was I wearing a sign that said HEY, I LOVE “GO ASK DARNEL
L”? It was like she knew I was one of the people who sometimes laughed at those jokes. Venus said she was in eighth grade and that her family was working real hard so that they could afford to move to another part of the city before she started high school.

  “Mama says I can’t go to school over here if I want to get into college,” she said.

  “Why?” The question just popped out. She looked at me hard for a second, narrowed her eyes, and then finally smiled.

  “You really don’t get it, do you?”

  I shook my head. She was silent for a moment, and then she nodded her head toward the bulletin board.

  Venus said, “Those fools on YouTube making all their so-called funny videos about black folks in the ‘hood.’ Just because you don’t find a lot of college degrees over here doesn’t mean people don’t want more. That’s why Price Academy tries so hard to push us. ’Cause a lot of people in our neighborhood look at college like you’re talking about going to the moon!”

  My back stiffened. She sounded like Mom and Dad.

  She added, “But I bet somebody like you got us all figured out, huh?”

  Instantly, I felt defensive. I got a hot flush on my face, and my jaw clenched. So I stepped to her, said, “First of all, Blueberry Hills Middle is far from fancy. And stop acting like you know me, because you don’t.”

  Her eyes blazed. Our voices were low and hushed, but Mr. Hardaway glanced in our direction and frowned. Body language was telling on us. One look and anyone could see we were in war mode. Still, we both took a step back. I took a deep breath. I wanted to come across as cool. You know? Chill.

  I failed so hard.

  “Besides,” I went on, “so what if a few people think ‘Go Ask Darnell’ or stuff like that is funny? It’s not a big deal, right?”

  Oops!

  She let out an unfriendly snort. “Hmph! Is that so? When you live here and are constantly being called ‘ghetto girl’ or being made fun of, trust me, it stops being funny real quick. Jokes perpetuate the stereotype. Yeah, per-pet-u-ate. I know my A, B, C’s and my 1, 2, 3’s. Girl, nobody wants to be made fun of just because of where they live. But with all your money and so-called education, you’re too dumb to realize that.”

  Mr. Hardaway called for us to be seated, breaking the spell between me and Venus. Did she just call me dumb? Really?

  I felt like I was breathing fire, but I checked myself. Then Miss Newsome reentered the room and said we were going to a conference room for refreshments and to talk.

  Venus, looking satisfied with herself, said sweetly, “I’ll see you in there. Maybe I can educate you on what it really means to live in a ‘ghetto neighborhood.’”

  Red and I spent the next hour listening and taking notes.

  Daija wanted to attend SheCodes because she loved cartoons and hoped one day to get into animation. Christyanna wanted to create websites. (Hmm… that could be useful!) Venus wanted to create medical apps to help sick people.

  Several of the girls said they loved just tinkering around and finding out about stuff. A sixth grader said jobs were hard to come by in their neighborhood and her dad had a hard time finding work after he lost his manufacturing job.

  “My mama said if I get an education I won’t have to struggle like my family does. She says life will be better for me,” another girl said.

  Then a girl raised her hand and introduced herself as Tiffani Botti. What she said made me snap my head around and look directly at Venus, who was already staring right at me.

  Tiffani said, “If I learn computers and get real good at it, maybe when people find out I came from the east side, they won’t treat me like I’m nothing. Sometimes it’s hard being a black girl in this neighborhood.”

  I swallowed hard.

  Isn’t ghetto just a word? I always thought of it as more funny than mean, at least the way I used it.

  But now—in this school with kids who get called that word all the time because of where they live—I wasn’t so sure.

  Reporter’s Notebook

  Wednesday, January 10

  Computer science is about problem solving.

  Computer science is everywhere. There is not a profession or an area that is not supported by or touched by computing. And we are natural computer scientists.

  In fact, children are some of the most brilliant computer scientists (and scientists more generally) because they are naturally curious and want to understand how things work and the steps needed to make them work in particular ways (e.g., algorithms).

  Could someone—even me—design a program to determine why I feel so bad even though I’m not sure what I did wrong?

  Feel real icky about even thinking the word ghetto now, let alone saying it or watching a video.

  Dr. Jakita Thomas is a Philpott-WestPoint Stevens Associate Professor of Computer Science and Software Engineering at Auburn University in Auburn, AL.

  Online Biz Names

  • Digital Cupcakes

  • Cyber Cakes

  • Yummy Bytes

  10

  It took a few seconds for his face to come into view.

  “Wook!” cried Neptune from the iPad screen. “I saw this and thought about you!” Then he shook a twelve-inch action figure of a Star Wars Wookiee doll in my face. Well, in the camera lens pointing at my face.

  Sigh.

  No matter where they live or who they are, sometimes a seventh-grade boy is just a seventh-grade boy.

  “Real nice,” I said, trying to hide my grin. “I hope you didn’t buy that with my tax dollars.”

  He made a horse laugh. Or more like a donkey laugh.

  “Nope! Bought this with my allowance. It’s been hours since I had Uncle dip into the tax coffers to buy me toys.”

  Oh, brother!

  “Look, are you finished? Because I’ve got really important business to discuss. I’ve been waiting all day to tell you about it,” I said.

  He set aside his toy, crisscrossed his legs and big feet, and said, “Go!”

  After our talk the previous week, I’d felt bad about laughing at his boy ’stache. I wanted to make sure that this time I behaved better. After my trip to Price Academy, I felt like I needed to prove I could be a good person.

  I drew a deep breath.

  “First, tell me about your swim meet. How’d you do?”

  And just like that his face got all bright and happy. He told me all about how he’d won the breaststroke and the freestyle, and how this kid from a rival school tried to get in his face afterward.

  “I’m picturing some geeky, skinny little prep school white boy trying to act tough over a swim match,” I said, laughing.

  “Uh, he’s black,” Neptune said. “And as big as a football player.”

  Oops!

  Was I doomed to be a serial stereotyper?

  “Sorry,” I said. “Guess that’s what happens when you jump to conclusions. I wanted to talk to you about my interviews. I think they went A-MAZ-ING!”

  “Cool!” he said.

  I paused. “But I met this one girl, Venus. She seemed really smart, but she had attitude to spare. She had the nerve to say I was dumb!”

  “You! C’mon, now, Wook. You’re a lot of things, but dumb is not one of them.”

  I felt pleased that he had noticed.

  “So what did you say to make her think that?”

  “I told her that ghetto was just a word and that sometimes the people on the Internet or who make their little jokes or memes are just being funny. I mean… I don’t do it. But sometimes they can be pretty funny.”

  He paused a few seconds before speaking. Meanwhile, in my bedroom, Angel cat was rubbing her whiskers against my knee.

  “I used to think they were kinda funny, but Aunt Kaye made me take a step back and realize that there’s a bigger message,” he finally said.

  “What bigger message? I mean, I wouldn’t take the time to make one myself, but some of those things are funny.”

  “Funny and making fun of som
eone are two different things. When you hear the word ghetto, who do you see? Like in your mind, who do you visualize?”

  Seconds passed, my heart jabbing at me. Why did I feel so defensive? Why did thinking about whether or not to say some word matter? When I used to think of the word, the first thing that came to mind was:

  “‘Go Ask Darnell’!” I yelled.

  “And in his videos, who is he making fun of?”

  My answer came quick. “Those black girls who—”

  “So,” he cut in, “when you think of ghetto you think of black girls in certain neighborhoods.”

  “Yes, girls or guys who act a certain way. Loud. Aggressive.” I could hear my tone. I was practically pleading with him to see where I was coming from. However, the more I listened to myself, the less I liked what I heard.

  When I was laughing at those videos with Ebony or my other friends, I was also doing something else—drawing a distinction between how I saw myself and how I saw others, specifically other black kids.

  Basing thoughts and feelings on what you’ve heard instead of what you know about a person or group is stereotyping. Is that me?

  I wasn’t like that, was I?

  It was just jokes, right?

  Still, I didn’t like losing at anything—even arguments, so I said, “I’m not wrong. It’s not a bad thing if I laugh at something that a bunch of other people are already laughing at anyway!”

  “That’s lame, Wook.” He shook his head. I decided to change the subject. I’d had enough politics for one day.

  And with that, I removed the band from my up-bun, took out some bobby pins, then shook my Wookiee-like mane ’til it covered my face.

  There was a brief moment’s hesitation, then we both burst out laughing.

  After a few minutes of that silliness, I told him, “I’m back on track. Now all I have to do is convince Mom to let me start my online bakery before I’m forty and I’ll be on fire.”

  He looked at me for a long moment.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “You know, your mom could be right. You’re into a lot of stuff right now. It won’t be the end of the world if you have to wait a little longer to crush the online business world with your talents.” He sounded playful enough, but I could tell there was something serious in his tone.