President of the Whole Sixth Grade_Girl Code

by Sherri Winston

  Red cleared her throat.

  “Sorry. Our story to really help others. Maybe it can have the impact of helping folks over there get jobs or at least better access to things like technology in schools.”

  McSweater Vest grinned, then raised his hands in a calm-down gesture. He said, “Whoa! Love the enthusiasm, but realistically there is only so much one story can do. However, it is good to discuss your story goal. What else would you girls like to happen as a result of your work?”

  Red and I exchanged glances. She did a half shrug and said, “I guess I never thought about that. I’m not sure.”

  But I said, “Well, I have thought about it a lot. Disadvantaged kids shouldn’t have to live in neighborhoods like that—glass broken all over the streets; doors with bars on them; I want my… uh, our story to make people take notice. Take action. Clean up the east side and make it a better place to live!”

  A booming laugh came from behind McSweater Vest. Buffalo Bob, once again driving his rolling chair, came into view.

  “So, you think you can fix all the woes over there, one of the most economically strapped neighborhoods, with one story in the Freep?” He threw his large head back and let out another gust of laughter. Today’s T-shirt read:

  “NOTHING IN THE WORLD IS MORE DANGEROUS THAN SINCERE IGNORANCE AND CONSCIENTIOUS STUPIDITY.”

  —DR. MARTIN LUTHER KING JR.

  “Hey, Bob,” McSweater Vest greeted his colleague. I did an eye roll. I had learned that good ol’ Buffalo Bob had a lot of ideas and he wasn’t shy at all about expressing them.

  “Nice shirt,” I said. He gave a snort.

  “Who’s the new recruit?” he asked, nodding toward Red. We got them introduced. Bob said his hellos, and then turned his attention back to me.

  “Couldn’t help overhearing your little speech about Detroit’s east side. I couldn’t tell if you were planning a journalism story or running for office,” he said.

  “She is president of the WHOLE sixth grade,” Red drawled.

  I threw her an eye roll, as well. Pretty soon I’d be past my daily limit. I said, “Excuse me, but what’s wrong with wanting to do something that will lead to change and improvement?”

  I’d been thinking a lot about what happened at Price. Talking to Toya had reminded me I did know who I was. I was someone who took action. If something’s broken, you fix it, right?

  So if you don’t want to be made fun of for where you live, then you’ve got to get out of there or stop living that lifestyle. Right? I wouldn’t like being thought of as ghetto. That neighborhood didn’t look so bad, but everyone talked about wanting to get out. I don’t understand why, if crime is the problem, can’t they just get rid of the bad people? Right? RIGHT?

  I drew in a deep breath and let out a long exhale.

  I went on. “You didn’t see that neighborhood, Buffalo Bob. I can’t imagine waking up and having to go to school there every day! They probably can’t get the best teachers or school officials because who’d want to teach in that neighborhood?”

  “Justice,” Red cut in. “Isn’t that sort of the point?”

  “Of what?” I shot back. By now I was on my feet, pacing. McSweater Vest had dropped onto a chair and he and Buffalo Bob both sat back, amused expressions twinkling in their eyes.

  “You know?” Red continued. “The point of Mr. McShea assigning the story about SheCodes is because it’s geared toward all girls of color but particularly girls from disadvantaged neighborhoods.”

  “Oh, well, of course. I know that. Okay, maybe I’m not saying it right. What I mean is, why can’t the people who want to do better—be better—why can’t they just move? Leave all the bad people over there to act however they want and everybody else, the good people, can just leave!” I shot back, risking sounding like the girls at the gym.

  Red, McSweater Vest, and Buffalo Bob gasped like I was throwing punches. McSweater Vest let out a long sigh. For a second, a look flickered in his eyes—like he was disappointed in me.

  When he fixed his face, he wore his teachable moment expression. I knew he was trying to figure out the right words, or call up the right story to share that would prove his point.

  Buffalo Bob, however, scowled. His ginger-colored eyebrows dipped so low, they practically blended with his reddish beard.

  “Doggone it, little girl!” he stated.

  My eyes went wide. His tone was dark, almost angry.

  I tried to match his, but when I said, “Excuse me?” all the attitude I tried to pull off felt like wet dough on my tongue. Instead of coming out fiery, it sounded more like I was choking.

  Was I choking?

  Buffalo Bob crossed his thick arms over his belly. He said, “Do you even know where the term ghetto comes from?”

  “Well, no, but I know what it means,” I shot back. All of a sudden I felt like I was having trouble breathing. You know, that feeling when you desperately want to be right but you suddenly think you might not be. Venus, that girl from Price, her face popped into my mind.

  Buffalo Bob hefted himself from his seat.

  Still scowling, he went to a computer terminal, bent down, then decided he needed to sit again. His fingers flew across the keys. He tapped a few more keystrokes, then pushed back.

  Pointing at the screen, he said, “Read!”

  I could feel Red behind me, reading, too. When we finished, my eyes had filled with tears and my lips trembled. I felt foolish and confused.

  “I’ll bet you thought that word had something to do with black people, didn’t you?” Buffalo Bob asked, though now his tone was gentler.

  All I could do was nod. All the videos and memes and jokes and everything about being ghetto always showed black or brown people living a certain way. But that wasn’t what the short article said.

  Buffalo Bob nodded at the screen. “My wife wrote that,” he said. “She’s Jewish. Her great-grandparents died in Nazi death camps during World War II. When we did one of those DNA tests to trace our heritage, hers went all the way back to Venice in the 1500s.”

  According to the article, the term ghetto was first used by Venetians. They forced all Jews to live in a separate section of the city. Then they built walls around it and would lock them in. The doors opened twice a day. To let people out for work and then let them back in.

  Finally, throat dry and eyes leaking, I asked, “But why?”

  “Short answer,” said McSweater Vest. “Ignorance. Even before the 1500s, back as far as the 1100s, a part of the Catholic Church decided Christians and Jews should not be allowed to live together. So segregation became the law.”

  Buffalo Bob nodded. “But it took our friends the Venetians to give that practice a name,” he said. “When the living conditions got too crowded, the Jews had to build their living quarters higher and higher because with the walls around them, that was the only way they could expand.”

  “I always thought Venice was a lovely place,” whispered Red. “I’ve always wanted to visit and ride boats along the canals.”

  Now Buffalo Bob smiled, looking like his old self. “I’ve been to Venice with my wife. You should go. It is a lovely city—now. What happened there became the law all over Europe. It wasn’t just the Venetians. And in Germany, during World War II, Jews were once again confined to horrific living conditions!”

  McSweater Vest must have seen the look of disgust and complete shock on my face. He placed a hand on my shoulder and said, “Now, now. We’ve gotten slightly off track, Brianna.”

  But a stern expression in Buffalo Bob’s eyes held my gaze. He leaned forward, placing his meaty palm on my hand.

  “Imagine, Brianna, the filthy, wretched living conditions Jews had to endure. That was the law all over Europe for centuries. The histories of immigrants worldwide are riddled with stories of ghettos—sections reserved for the poor, the disadvantaged.”

  I gulped. Numbness tingled on my lips like I’d eaten way too many hot wings.

  My mind raced back to the gym
. Lori and Sandra Poe. The way they were quick to point out that me and Tracy weren’t like the others.

  Ghetto.

  Black girls.

  Ghetto girls.

  An image of the “Go Ask Darnell” character popped into my head. The boy who took so much delight in imitating what he considered to be girls in the ghetto. Harmless, I’d thought.

  If you don’t want to be called ghetto, then don’t act ghetto.

  My mantra.

  Queasiness slipped around inside my belly, making me feel ready to throw up.

  Buffalo Bob continued, “Girls, this is important to you as reporters because you need to know context. You need to understand that certain words and phrases are far more powerful and damaging than you think. And you need to understand that the mentality that created poor neighborhoods didn’t start in Detroit. Or with black people. It’s been going strong for centuries and it’s worldwide.”

  “So does this mean the people on the east side are being made to live there?” I asked. Not because they were black, I knew. Because I was black and my neighborhood did not look like that.

  Another woman joined us. She pulled up a seat. I hadn’t realized it, but we were in sort of a semicircle. Red had moved her chair to sit beside me and slipped her thin hand under the armrest of the office chair. We entwined our fingers. I felt grateful for her support.

  “I’m eavesdropping,” the woman said. “My name is Joy Stein.”

  “A proud Jewish woman,” Buffalo Bob proclaimed with a wink.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said. “Look, girls, I did overhear your conversation. Can’t help it. McShea and I share a cubicle wall. To answer your question, no, the people over there aren’t necessarily there because they’re black. Over time, the word ghetto was used to classify any urban area that had pockets of poor people. When whole groups get discriminated against, however, they are bound to suffer more,” she said.

  “Let’s face it, a lot of immigrants who came to this country were poor. None were poorer than the Africans after slavery was abolished. I’ve been fighting this same battle with my twelve-year-old daughter. ‘Ghetto’ this and ‘ghetto’ that. Now it’s used as a means of making fun of people. But almost always, it’s aimed at people of color. My own daughter didn’t know the origin of the word until I couldn’t take it anymore and talked to her about it,” she added.

  Buffalo Bob took over again.

  He said, “Look, none of this has anything to do with the story you’re writing. What it does affect is the attitude you have as you’re writing it. Language is a powerful tool. Choose your words wisely!”

  After that, Buffalo Bob and Joy Stein stayed and helped us devise a story strategy. McSweater Vest told us that discrimination in America had been a way of life, forcing many African Americans into certain sections of the city. He said President Lyndon B. Johnson signed the Fair Housing Act of 1968, making it illegal to keep someone from buying or renting based on race, sex, or anything else, other than money.

  I was writing notes furiously by the end, trying to take it all in. Miss Joy ran to her desk before we left and came back with a book.

  The Jungle, by Upton Sinclair.

  “1906!” I said when I opened the cover and looked at the publication date.

  Buffalo Bob fixed his face with a playful scowl. Trust me, after that beat-down I just got, I knew the difference now. He said, “Although it’s called a fictional version of his investigation, Mr. Sinclair’s book led to major changes in how our country inspects and handles our meat products. By the way, if you’re squeamish, you might want to skip over some parts.” He grimaced. All the adults did the same.

  Later, unable to sleep, I dug around and found the DVD Toya had given me. At first, it was a trip watching the old movie that was once an award-winning play. The story made me think about life—my life—even though it was from such a long time ago.

  By the time I drifted off to sleep, Lorraine Hansberry and her play had given me an idea.

  I had a big favor to ask Mrs. G., too. Not only did I have an idea for the Blueberry, I also knew what I wanted to do for Presidents’ Day.

  This time, it wasn’t about making myself a better reporter, but hopefully sharing important new ideas with my fellow students!

  Now all I had to do was figure out how to end the deep freeze with Mom.

  Reporter’s Notebook

  Thursday, January 18

  “You’re not to be so blind with patriotism that you can’t face reality. Wrong is wrong, no matter who does it or says it.”

  –Malcolm X

  So tired!!!

  (MOM MUST NEVER KNOW!!!)

  15

  McSweater Vest called and said several girls at Price had invited me and Red to come back. We picked Thursday after school. However, Red had an unexpected appointment and couldn’t go. It was decided that I could go if I wanted to. My mentor said he had stuff to do and I could hang out with Miss Newsome.

  When it came time to return to Price Academy, Buffalo Bob’s smack-down to my emotions still tingled in my brain.

  But when we arrived, Shania, Shakira, and Venus said that if I wanted to get an inside look at “how it goes down” at Price, I should go to the basketball game with them. It was in the school’s gym. Shakira and Venus were also on the cheer squad.

  “You can ask us questions during the game,” Shakira said.

  “Ask me anything!” Shania said with a wide grin.

  So, what could I say?

  With so much going on, I didn’t have time to freak out about seeing the kids at Price again.

  I was surprised to see so many kids stay after school for the game. When Shania asked if our school had basketball games, I said, “Yeah, but they’re lucky if a few dozen kids stay after. This gym is packed.”

  “Basketball season is, like, a big deal out here,” Shania said. “Even for the middle school. Everybody comes out. Gotta represent!”

  Still holding on to my notebook, I followed her into the stands. We sat a few rows up from the cheerleaders. The band was playing. Kids were dancing. The cold from outside was swallowed by the steamy heat of bodies wrapped in winter wear filling up the space.

  How in the world was I supposed to conduct an interview in here?

  A whistle blew and I realized the game had begun. Boys ran up and down the court. Price Academy was the Panthers; their opponents, the Eagles. At first, I was so confused about what to do.

  However, it wasn’t long before I was totally into it. Shakira smiled a lot while she cheered. Venus was a lot sassier, shaking her hips and shouting loud and proud to the beat of the band’s music.

  Back and forth the boys raced. I felt a longing to shout, “Pass me the rock!” That was what Daddy called a basketball. It had been more than a year since I’d played for a team. Until now, I hadn’t thought much about it.

  Hmm… maybe I could add basketball to my list of activities next year.

  Thinking about next year made me cringe. Next year I would be in D.C. Before I could agonize over it, I got jostled and shaken out of my thoughts. I looked over to see that Alicia had joined us, sitting on the other side of Shania. When I looked at her, I think she growled at me. Oh, well.

  It was interesting watching the cheerleaders. Competitive cheer was all about precision. Timing. Accuracy. But the Price Panther cheerleaders were all about getting the crowd pumped with attitude, energy, and fun dance moves.

  When a time-out came, the cheerleaders raced onto the floor, got into formation, and did a cheer the crowd must’ve been waiting for. “Roar, Panthers, roar!” All hips and shoulders and smiles. A few flips and two splits. Boom! The crowd was on its feet. It was electrifying.

  They raced back to the sideline and Shakira leaned into the stands, high-fiving Shania but looking at me. She said, beaming, “That’s our favorite routine. I know we might not be as fancy as your team, but tell the truth. We’ve got more soul, right?”

  I gave her a look. She laughed, not a
mean laugh, just what I was coming to understand was a Shakira laugh. “Girl, it don’t matter. Y’all might get to travel and compete and all that, but we’re here, doing our thang!”

  Shakira danced her way back to her cheer line and Shania leaned over. “Shakira just playing,” she said. “We’re teasing you because you live way out in Orchard Park and not on the east side. It’s all good.”

  I wanted to understand what she meant. My neighborhood was only thirty-five or so minutes away. It’s not like I lived out in Toya’s neighborhood. Now, that was fancy.

  “Shania, it’s not like I live in Bloomfield Hills. Orchard Park is far from fancy!”

  That earned me another glare-growl combo. Alicia leaned forward, shoulders hunched, mumbling to herself, “Yeah, Orchard Park might as well be Bloomfield Hills!”

  Shania looked at Alicia, then at me. I started to say something, but the embarrassed look on Shania’s face made me turn away instead.

  Pretty soon halftime came. I tried talking to Shania about SheCodes, but of course, that didn’t go anywhere because people were talking, laughing, and dancing. The Panthers were leading the game and everybody was feeling good. Instead of the band, music blared from overhead speakers.

  I was standing, looking around the gym, watching all the chaos, when I felt a little tap on my shoulder. I turned around to find McSweater Vest.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” he asked.

  “Okay, I guess.” I shouted to be heard. He pointed to the bleachers and we sat.

  He said, “Interviews not going so well?”

  “Not going at all!” I admitted. “I mean, I’m having a good time. These games are nothing like at my school. So many people. Parents. High school kids. This place is packed.”

  His response surprised me. “Why do you think that is?”

  I looked at him. Shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “You know, understanding this crowd might go a long way toward helping you understand why SheCodes is such an important event for this community,” he said.

  Huh?

  “I don’t understand.”