President of the Whole Sixth Grade_Girl Code

by Sherri Winston

  “Look around,” he said. “Think about your story. What are you and Red writing about?”

  “We’re writing about a program that will teach computer coding to minority girls, especially girls from disadvantaged neighborhoods,” I answered.

  “And what else?”

  My heart did a high kick. What else? WHAT ELSE? There was no “what else.” I felt caught off guard and confused. Two emotions I really, really HATED.

  But McSweater Vest smiled. “Think about it, Brianna. Aside from being a way to educate the girls on computer science, what else will a day-long festival with a bunch of young girls, professional women, and activities provide?”

  I was quiet for a long moment. I really did feel thrown off. Finally, in more of a question than a statement, I said, “It’s something to do?”

  He grinned. “Precisely! Part of being disadvantaged means a lack of access to positive experiences with your kids. Come on, let’s go talk to some people.”

  Before I could protest, there he went, bow tie, sweater vest, and all. Marching toward a cluster of parents laughing it up.

  “Excuse us,” McSweater Vest said. He waited for me, and when I held back, he reached out and pulled me closer.

  He introduced us to a group of adults who were staring at us in open curiosity.

  But when he told them who we were and that I was writing a story for the Freep about their kids, one woman cut in and asked, “You’re not writing one of them stories about how bad our kids are, are you?”

  “No ma’am,” I said. “I’m, well, me and my friend Red, our story is about the computer training programming coming up at the Lakeside Sports Complex. SheCodes.” Her suspicious expression transformed into a grin. All of the parents were bobbing their heads.

  The woman who’d spoken first said, “My grandbaby is going to that program,” she said. “I think it’s an excellent opportunity.”

  Now McSweater Vest was beaming, too. He said to the parents, “My young reporter here was wondering why this basketball game is so well attended. I thought if she talked to some folks, she might be able to incorporate it into her story.”

  Now he was grinning, the parents and grandparents were bobbing their heads in agreement, but I still didn’t quite understand the connection.

  This time it was one of the men who spoke. He said his name was Tyrus Diggs. “These games are something positive for the kids. They don’t cost much money. The school does a good job of not letting teenagers from rival schools in here. You have to show your school ID to get into the door. It’s safe, unless the boys on the team throw a haymaker at somebody because of a foul or something. And that kind of foolish behavior has almost disappeared since the new principal came.”

  The first woman, Maybel Brown, spoke up. “We don’t have a lot of opportunities over here for the kids, so a lot of ’em end up hanging out and getting into trouble,” Ms. Brown said.

  Shirley Stewart, the mother of three boys and a daughter between the ages of four and fourteen, said it was hard keeping kids cooped up in the house just because you were trying to keep them safe. “When you can get them out of the house to enjoy fun with other kids, you do it.”

  I was writing fast, trying to keep up with them. When I looked up, finally, I asked:

  “What about things like going to the library or the movies?”

  Several of them snorted with laughter. Mr. Diggs asked, “Where you live, girlie?” He didn’t sound mean or mad like Alicia. Just curious.

  I told him I lived in Orchard Park. He said their neighborhood didn’t have a movie theater or a library. “A lot of the parents you see here work real early or real late—that’s how we can be here in the middle of the afternoon. Still, it’s a lot of folks who are working long hours. Some work two jobs. So they can’t be here.

  “It’s not like out there where you live. Orchard Park is a pretty area. I used to have a house in Orchard Park when my kids were little. But when the economy tanked, I got laid off at General Motors. I filed bankruptcy. Lost my house.” He shrugged. The others were nodding their agreement.

  Miss Stewart said, “It happens. One minute you’re going along fine, the next thing you know, wham! Life pulls the rug out from under you. Then you’re struggling to get by day to day. Bringing my kids to these games, getting out with them as much as possible, it’s my way of showing them that I love them. I want them to stay positive and when the time is right, make better choices than I did at their age.”

  Now it was McSweater Vest’s turn to jump in.

  “Who here is taking a child to the computer coding event?”

  “Oh, I’ll be there bright and early,” said Ms. Brown. “My granddaughter is looking forward to it. And since they have sessions for parents, too, I can’t wait. I never had something like that when I was in school. I want my baby to learn that there’s more to life than just getting by. I want her to know she can succeed at anything!”

  We talked a little longer, then the buzzer blared, signaling the start of the second half. I went back to where I’d been sitting with Shania. She had returned from the concession stand.

  When we all sat down, I wound up between her and Alicia. I could actually feel the dislike oozing from Alicia and into me. Finally, I turned to her and asked:

  “What’s up, Alicia? What is the deal? Why’re you hating on me?” The question seemed to catch her off guard. She grumped, looked down at her feet, then finally looked up.

  “You must look at us, our neighborhood, our school, and think we’re like a bad movie on cable. We’re not all like the stereotypes, you know?” It was like she wanted to be angry, but halfway into her little speech, she lost steam—went from aggressive to just plain sad.

  Then, before I could say anything, she asked, “What do your parents do for a living? Where do they work?”

  “My dad is a nurse at Orchard Park Regional and my mother is a supervisor with the FBI.”

  That made her sit back, eyes wide. “Your mom is in the FBI? As in, the Law. The Man. The Fuzz.”

  “Um, yeah.”

  Something about her expression made us both burst out laughing. I’d never, ever thought of my mom as “The Man”!

  We went back to watching the game. I hunched over my lap to write my notes.

  I was beginning to see McSweater Vest’s point. Something like SheCodes was about more than computer training. Simply holding the event in this neighborhood was cause for excitement.

  The mood in the hallway was happy and light as we waited outside the gym. The Panthers had won and the crowd was mellow. I stood chatting with several of the cheerleaders, plus Shania and Alicia. The cheer girls wanted to ask me questions about the competitive cheer squad.

  “That junk is expensive,” said a cheerleader named Davlon Dean. “I know your mama and daddy must be rich.”

  “We’re not rich,” I countered, thinking back to how easily Dad had written the check for his portion. “I work in a bakery. The owner lets me sell my own cupcakes. I have money saved up.”

  “You paid for it with your cupcake money?” Davlon asked.

  “Well, no,” I admitted.

  Alicia grumbled, “At the bakery, is the owner lady white? Does she treat you like you’re trying to steal from her store?”

  That made me laugh. “No! Why would she?” I asked, thinking she was joking.

  The rest of the girls laughed, too. But Shakira said, “See, if it was one of us girls from the east side working at a bakery over here, I bet the store owner would make us walk through an X-ray machine like they do at the airport!” She sniggered out a laugh.

  “Or at least wave an electronic wand over us,” added Venus.

  It was like they were joking, laughing at the idea. Yet, their tones had hard edges, their eyes cloudy with anger over the idea of being scanned or swept with an electronic wand.

  Venus looked at me and said, “You’re so lucky and I bet you don’t even know it. Do your parents take part of your money to pay for stuf
f?”

  “What stuff?” I asked.

  She went googly-eyed. “What stuff? Stuff like rent, electricity, or groceries. When I babysit, I always give most of my money to my mom.”

  I frowned. It had never occurred to me to give my cupcake money to my parents.

  Venus shook her head. “See, you’re just spoiled. Do you have a maid to clean your room? Do you have chores?”

  It sank in that they’d surrounded me, sort of. Enclosed me in a circle of suspicion and doubt. It was my turn to shake my head.

  “No, we don’t have a maid. Well, not a regular one. Sometimes when Mom has been working out of town and Daddy has long hours at the hospital they’ll arrange for a cleaner to come; otherwise me and my sister do the housework.”

  Another round of sniggering, like what I’d said was the most ridiculous thing ever.

  Another girl asked:

  “If your parents are rich enough for you to live in Orchard Park, why you out hustling cupcakes, anyway?”

  “I’m not hustling cupcakes,” I shot back. “I love to bake.”

  Then Alicia looked me up and down. From the tips of my black leather Air Jordans, to my black designer jeans, to the neat button-up cardigan and white shirt, to the exquisitely upright bun on my head.

  Alicia said, “I’m not hating on you or nothing, but little black girls living in the suburbs with black skin on the outside but talking like white girls are frontin’. You want to be black, but you’re not really. No offense, but you’re an Oreo. Black on the outside, but all creamy and white in the middle.”

  My mouth dropped open. What the what? How could anyone make the beautiful delicious treat that is an Oreo cookie sound like something evil?

  By the time my lips stopped sputtering and the pinpricks of anger stopped tickling my cheeks, they were already laughing. Shakira said, “Don’t feel bad. It’s not your fault you sound all proper like a white girl. Miss Newsome calls it the King’s English. I bet that’s just how everybody sound where you live.”

  Shania and Venus nodded in agreement. I shook my head.

  “I’m black just like all of you,” I said, hating myself for sounding weak and uncertain. Alicia cut her eyes to me like she could smell my confusion.

  “Black folks over here are nothing like you. You’re like a visitor from another planet. One who looks like us,” she said in a deadly serious way, “but really, on the inside, we’re nothing alike.”

  “A visitor from Planet Oreo!” someone said, and they all burst into laughter—at my expense—Shania saying, “Girl, don’t pay us no mind. You’re cool and all, just…”

  Her unspoken words hung in the air like a misguided cheerleader—the flying kind. You’re cool and all… just not as cool as us!

  When I’d overheard those boys in the hall on my first visit, all I wanted to do was set myself apart and make them understand how different I was. Now? A knot tightened in my chest.

  Coming here today was supposed to bring us closer together. Show them that I wasn’t afraid and didn’t want to stereotype them; I’d learned my lesson. Now it seemed they were the ones stereotyping me. Big-time!

  On the car ride back with McSweater Vest, I seethed over the girls’ comments. Earlier in the month, discovering spilled Oreo packages in the snow had felt like a gift from up above. Who didn’t love Oreos?

  But being called one by a bunch of girls who were questioning my blackness all because of where I lived, how I spoke, and what my family did for a living was no gift.

  Planet Oreo? Girl, bye!

  Getting stereotyped sucked.

  I had a notebook full of quotes and conversations, but I realized, I still didn’t have enough answers!

  Reporter’s Notebook

  Wednesday, January 17

  “Remember some interview subjects may be hostile due to the nature of the story. It is your job as a reporter to make them understand you are not there to judge; but to tell a complete story you need to see both sides of the conflict.”

  —Mrs. G.

  I looked up the word disadvantage online. Found this:

  Disadvantaged—

  Adjective

  1. Lacking the normal or usual necessities and comforts of life such as proper housing, educational opportunities, job security, adequate medical care

  Example: The government extends aid to disadvantaged minorities.

  Noun—

  Disadvantaged persons collectively.

  Example: The senator advocates increased funding for federal programs that aid the disadvantaged.

  16

  Miss Addy was dressed and waiting when I entered the kitchen.

  “Why are you up so early?” It wasn’t even five a.m. Grandpa was taking me to Wetzel’s. Time to bake the cupcakes. I yawned. My schedule was definitely getting the best of me.

  “I’m coming with you,” she said. She gripped her purse strap to her body and the fabric of her puffy coat sleeves made a swish-swish sound.

  Then I noticed she was carrying something. She turned and held it out to me.

  “I thought you might like it. It’s a cookbook that my grandmother handed down to me,” she said.

  “Miss Addy, I can’t take your cookbook!” I held it like a mystical tablet in a fairy tale. Its cover was red-and-white checked and inside, the pages were marked up with notations. At the back were several handwritten notes and recipes. One of them had the date 1947 written on top. She must have had this since, like, forever.

  “Of course you can take it,” she said. “It’s mine. Now it’s yours. Tradition.”

  “What about Mom?”

  We shared a look. She said, “I love my daughter, but no way is she getting her non-cooking hands on my cherished family cookbook. Now go on before we’re late. I want to see where you do all your cookin’!”

  You know what? I was too tired to argue. We went outside, into the bitingly cold air, our cheeks instantly staining a bright red. Grandpa was already outside warming up the car. It took the car longer to heat up than it took us to drive to the bakeshop.

  At the bakery, I introduced Miss Addy to Mrs. Wetzel. Grandpa grunted his usual hello. Mrs. W. was used to him by now. We all moved into the store space where I always brought Grandpa coffee and something to nibble. Miss Addy told Mrs. Wetzel she wanted to work with me, if it was all right with her. It was.

  I could tell Miss Addy had something on her mind, but I was grateful that she just worked alongside me for an hour. Whenever I came into the bakery I went on autopilot. Bowls. Ingredients. Dry goods. Butter, eggs, cream cheese out of the fridge.

  Recipes were clear instructions. Do this. Then this. Then that. And—voila! A cupcake is born. I couldn’t help thinking that it was like writing computer code. An algorithm. Do one thing, then another, and another. A pattern. It made me feel proud to make that connection.

  However, what didn’t make me feel proud was remembering my last trip to Price. As much as I’d enjoyed the basketball game and meeting all the parents—even hanging out with Shania—being called an “Oreo” to my face made me feel that just because of where I lived I was less African American than they were. It did not feel great.

  When I was removing my last batch of cupcakes for the morning from the oven, Miss Addy came over with the most heavenly looking ganache I’d ever seen.

  “It’s chocolate peanut butter,” she said. “My own recipe. It’s in the cookbook. Dip your chocolate cupcakes in it and they’ll taste like Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.”

  “Looks great,” I said.

  We set about converting plain chocolate cupcakes into creamy works of art. She said, “I’m really sorry, little queen, that your plan backfired the way it did. I feel responsible. Like maybe I should’ve talked you out of it.”

  “No, Miss Addy!” I cried, spinning around. “It wasn’t your fault. Mom’s the one who went all postal.”

  Mom and I had been moping around since our blowup, and it was making me tired. Besides, I had other stuff on my m
ind.

  Miss Addy smiled. “Well, my girl, you’re sweet to say it, but both of you have such strong personalities.”

  “Daddy says we’re too much alike,” I said, standing back to get a good look at the row of freshly dipped cupcakes.

  Miss Addy wiped her hands on a towel and stepped back, as well. “Funny, that’s what her father used to say about us!”

  We both laughed, and when my beautiful grandmother reached out to pull me into a hug, I leaned into it.

  Before I could tell my mouth to do otherwise, I asked:

  “Uh, Miss Addy, has anyone ever called you an Oreo?”

  Her response was a bark of laughter. I frowned.

  “Child, I’ve been called some of everything, including Oreo. It’s sad when some black folks make others feel like being African American is a private club. And if you don’t act a certain way or live a certain way, you aren’t welcome.”

  She knew exactly how I felt. “So you know how it feels?” I said.

  “Absolutely! Honey, just remember, no one can make you feel bad about yourself without your permission.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means, until you stop beating up on yourself for having more than those children at that school you visited, they will continue to push you around by making you feel guilty,” she said.

  “But Miss Addy, I don’t think that’s it. I mean, they think because of where I live, how I live, how I talk and dress, that somehow that makes me different from them. Not black like them.” I took a breath. My heart was hammering and I was beginning to feel a little nauseated. But I went on.

  “And the truth is, back when I first met them or whatever, I sort of felt like I wasn’t like them; and they weren’t like me. So does that make me an Oreo? A black person who looks black on the outside but wants to be white on the inside? I mean, when Grandma Diane was alive, she always made me feel proud to be black. I felt like a little strong black woman, because that’s what she called me. Now? Well, I’m not sure how to feel.”

  She moved closer, catching my face in her warm hands.

  “My little queen, you should feel free to be the strong black woman you were meant to be. You are blessed. I struggled and made sacrifices so that my daughter could have opportunities that I didn’t. Now she has a family and can provide a home for you that she didn’t have. Did being strapped for cash and working hard make us more black?”