Love Is a Revolution

by Renée Watson

  We are walking on 145th Street, and when we turn onto Edgecombe, Tye says, “You’re quiet.”

  “Just thinking,” I say.

  “About what?” About us. “Nothing,” I say. “Just, um, just thinking about what I’m going to do at work today.” Really, I am thinking about the things Imani said to me about dating Tye. I know that the only way to prove Imani wrong is to stop pretending and start actually being the person Tye thinks I am. I don’t want to be a hypocrite, and I actually do think the photo project is a good idea. Instead of lying about it, I should try to do it. And maybe I can even ask to be an official volunteer. This isn’t about trying to impress Tye anymore. I really want to do it. “I’m going to start planning the photo legacy project today,” I tell Tye. “Officially.”

  “Nice. I can’t wait to see how it develops.”

  Yeah, me too.

  When we get to Grandma’s, Tye gives me a hug and I am so tempted to hold on to him, kiss him, but I know better than to do that in front of my grandma’s place. I let go of him quicker than usual and say goodbye.

  As soon as I get to Grandma’s, I bring up the photo project again, hoping she will have some ideas on how we can really make it happen.

  She’s all for it. “The first thing we need to do is get that wall painted, I suppose,” Grandma says. “A soft yellow would be nice, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, and after we paint, I can make a flyer and ask people to bring a framed photo to hang on the wall,” I say. “Or maybe I can copy the photos so people can keep their originals. And if the program director has a budget, I’m sure we can find some inexpensive frames.”

  “Oh, right, yes. That’s a better idea.” Grandma smiles. “You young people just know how to put events and projects together, don’t you? You, Imani . . . ​our future is in good hands.”

  I don’t want her to have too much faith in me.

  We leave Grandma’s apartment and head to the lounge so we can tell everyone our plan. JT is the only one in the room today. He is watching an old western and drinking his sweet tea. “Miss Nala,” he calls out. He gets up and walks over to me and gives me a hug, then Grandma. He holds on to her a little long and gives her a quick, soft kiss on the lips before they break away from each other. The only man I’ve ever seen kiss Grandma like that is Grandpa. I look away.

  “Nala, tell JT about your project.” Grandma has a photo album in her hand. She sets it on the table and opens it. “I know you’re not ready for it yet, but I thought I’d go ahead and start looking for which photo I want on the wall.”

  I tell JT that I am serious about doing something with the wall, and as I tell him all about my vision for the photo legacy project, we look through Grandma’s photo album. “I really like this one,” JT says. He points to the one of Grandma all dressed up in her Sunday best standing outside Riverside Church. The majestic building is just as regal as Grandma, just as stoic.

  “Well, thank you, JT,” Grandma says. Then, real quiet, she slips in a whisper to him, “You still drinking that sugar water, huh? Doctor told you to lay off of sugar.”

  They start fussing, and I pretend not to hear them. I look at the wall, imagine it full of photographs, and then I head out, leaving Grandma and JT bickering. I’ve got to get permission to paint the wall.

  I go to the main office, right at the entrance of the building. A petite brown woman is sitting at the front desk playing solitaire on her computer. When she sees me, she minimizes the screen.

  I’m not sure who to ask for, so I just say, “I’d like to speak with someone about remodeling the lounge.” Maybe I shouldn’t have said “remodeling,” because as soon as that word comes out, the woman at the desk looks at me like I have just cursed her out. “And who are you?” she asks.

  We are not getting off to a good start at all.

  I start over. “Sorry, my name is Nala. June Robertson is my grandmother. She lives here. We spend a lot of time in the lounge and were wondering if we could add some warmth in it by painting one of the walls and—”

  “Painting and repairs is a maintenance issue. Would you like to fill out a work order form?” She opens a drawer and pulls out a sheet of paper.

  “No, I, uh—I’d like to do a photo project where residents bring a—”

  “We already have our activities planned for the summer. I’m sorry.”

  I don’t understand why I can’t even get a full thought out without her interrupting me.

  “If you’d like to propose an activity or a project, you need to fill out this form. We are currently taking applications for winter programs.”

  “Winter?”

  “Yes, fall is already planned. Activities must be organized, you know. We don’t do things last minute here.” The woman hands me an application. I can see she has a name tag pinned onto the top of her left chest. Sharon.

  “Ms. Sharon, I just want—”

  Sharon clears her throat, tells me, “I’ve got someone waiting behind you. Anything else?”

  I turn around, leave.

  I walk back to the lounge slow, dreading having to tell Grandma that we can’t do the project. I don’t know what’s wrong with that Sharon lady. Why she couldn’t just hear me out. Maybe she sees right through me, knows my secret. Maybe there’s a look a true volunteer has. Maybe Imani is right—I am not made for this.

  JT is in the lounge, alone. His mason jar empty of its sweet tea. “Why the sad face?” he asks. He turns the television down, which means he is expecting me to give a real answer. I can’t just say nothing and leave the room.

  I tell him about Sharon at the front desk. “I don’t think we’re going to be able to do the photo project,” I say.

  “That woman is really something else. I’ve been living here longer than she’s been alive.” JT is all riled up now. He goes on, “Folks get a little power, a little title, and think they can just treat people any ole kind of way. Even if the answer is no, she didn’t have to be rude to you.” JT turns the television off and opens the album Grandma left on the table. “Makes you wonder why people take the kind of jobs they do. If she doesn’t like talking with people, she shouldn’t work at the front desk.” He flips through the album, not stopping at any of the pages until he gets to the page that only has one photo on it. It takes up the whole page. Grandma’s wedding photo. JT stares at the picture. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about your grandpa. June tells me you two were close.”

  “Yeah. He was kind of like my dad since I never really had a relationship with my own.”

  “Your grandma sure loved him.”

  “Grandma talks about my grandpa to you?”

  “Of course she does. Love doesn’t die just because a person dies.” JT turns the page. I almost grab his hand, ask him to stay there a little longer so I can see Grandpa’s eyes, his smile. With the turn of the page, we are looking at baby pictures of me and Imani. Our mothers are sitting on the sofa in Grandma’s old house, holding us on their laps. Even in this photo, I am trying to get away from my mother, slipping through her arms, half of me reaching for whoever is holding the camera.

  “You love my grandma?” I ask. I am not usually the one to be so bold. I’ve been surprising myself a lot lately. Doing and saying things I’d never do.

  “Why, yes. Yes, I do.” JT smiles like he has just shared a secret with me. Then he starts laughing, a soft chuckle at first and then full on. “I even love her nagging.” He winks.

  “Sweet tea,” I say.

  “The only arguments we ever have,” he says. “She’ll have a fit if I get me some ice cream.”

  “You can’t have ice cream?”

  “Not supposed to. I can have that sugar-free junk, but that’s not ice cream.” JT closes the album, turns the television back on. “Those doctors have restricted everything I love.”

  “When’s the last time you had ice cream?” I ask.

  “Oh, months now, I think. Been so long, I can’t really remember.”

  “And that�
�s good. You don’t need no ice cream,” Grandma says.

  When did she get back?

  Grandma is standing in the doorway, hand on her hip. She walks across the room and sits next to JT. I wonder how long she was eavesdropping and if she heard JT say he loved her. Somehow, I think she knows even if he’s never said it to her. You know when someone loves you.

  “So, what’s the verdict?” Grandma asks. “When do we start on our photo wall?”

  “Well . . .” I tell her all about my interaction with Sharon. Just as I am finishing, Ms. Norma, Ms. Louise, and Ms. Mabel come in. They each take their favorite seat and join in the conversation.

  Grandma is eager to fill them in. She says to me, “Tell them what happened.” Her accent comes through when she is upset. She sucks her teeth and shakes her head as I tell the story for the third time. I repeat the story about the woman at the front desk who was rude and seemed uninterested in my idea. When I finish, Ms. Norma shakes her head and says, “These new folks coming in here with no respect at all.” And that sets off a whole nother conversation about all the changes that have happened since new management took over. “They act like how we did things wasn’t good enough,” Ms. Norma continues.

  Ms. Louise nods. “There used to be a time when management asked us for our opinion on what kind of things we wanted to do around here, how we wanted the space to look. Remember that Christmas we asked them to get us a real tree instead of that small fake one they put up every year?”

  “Yes, I remember,” Ms. Mabel says. “That was the first time we decorated the tree together and had our own lighting ceremony right there in the lobby.”

  JT shakes his head. “And ever since then we get a real tree. Bet these new people don’t even know that we started that tradition.”

  Ms. Norma adds, “And they don’t know that we’re the ones who asked for the movement classes. Wasn’t it you, Louise, who got your daughter to come do a seniors’ dance class for us two years ago?”

  Ms. Louise seems so proud when she leans over to me and explains, “My daughter teaches at Alvin Ailey.”

  Ms. Norma takes a drink of water from her water bottle and says, “Had one of them young girls try to lecture me about coming to the movement class—the one we started—only now they are calling it the health and wellness class and it’s yoga and meditation. Not dance.”

  “Bougie Black people,” Ms. Mabel says.

  And we all laugh, except for Ms. Mabel. She goes on, “I’m serious. And don’t get me started about all these new recycling requirements.”

  Then Grandma says, “What you got against recycling?”

  “Nobody has time for that,” Ms. Mabel says.

  “Now, come on, Louise,” Grandma says. “We’ve been recycling our whole lives. You know how many butter containers I use as Tupperware?” She laughs. “And I’ve seen your stash of plastic bags that you reuse in your small garbage cans.”

  “That’s recycling,” JT says.

  Ms. Norma is finished with her blanket. She holds it up and shows it off. We all ooh and aah and take a moment to tell her how we know her daughter is going to love this blanket. Ms. Norma looks at Ms. Mabel all serious and stern and says, “I didn’t use to be so strict with recycling, but I do want to leave this world better for our children and grandchildren. I figure throwing trash in the right bin is the least I can do. We s’posed to take care of Mother Earth, s’posed to love her and leave her in good shape for the next generation.”

  “Well, I guess you all have a point,” Ms. Mabel says. “But they need to put some respect on it. I’m their elder. I don’t like that chastising tone. Mess around with me and get accidently run over by this here scooter.” She rolls her eyes but then gives in to a smile.

  We are laughing again—at Ms. Mabel, at bougie Black people, at the thought of Ms. Mabel running them over in her scooter. When the laughter settles and they go on to talking about something else, I think about Imani and Toya, and how a conversation with them about recycling would have quickly turned into one of them being condescending and judgmental. I think about how it definitely would not have ended in laughter. I think about how Toya called me an honorary member of Inspire Harlem, but really, sitting here with Grandma and her friends, I think maybe this is all the inspiration I need.

  15

  Every summer Imani and I go to at least one of the basketball tournaments at Dyckman Park. Last summer we went with Sadie and Asher. This year, Sadie can’t come but Asher and Tye can. I didn’t intend for this to be a double date, but here I am riding the number one train uptown to Dyckman Street. The closer we get to our stop I start seeing who’s on here heading to the tournament too. I love these moments when you are riding along with strangers and then all of a sudden realize you are all going to the same place. There is something magical about a whole train of people getting off together, walking up the steps together, making a journey toward a concert, festival, or game.

  We get off the train and walk the long street alongside the housing complex till we get to the park. The sun is fading just a bit so it isn’t as hot as it was this afternoon, and thank goodness for that, because otherwise I’d be a sweating, hot mess. We haven’t made it yet, but already I can hear music that the DJ is spinning. There’s hardly space to walk, there are so many people. Boys are posted along the block checking out the girls who walk by—but pretending not to. Girls walk in groups of twos, threes, fours, some of us with intention to get to the tournament; others have that slow stride, wanting to be seen in the outfits they’ve been waiting to wear, even though they are trying to make it seem casual. Tye takes my hand, and it makes me feel good that he wants everyone here to know he is with me, we are together.

  “Look up there,” Tye says, pointing to the fire escapes on the building across the street. There are people leaning out of windows, sitting on fire escapes, perched like the crows in the morning lined up on telephone lines, watching everyone below. “They’ll have a better view than we will,” he says. “I don’t know if we’re even going to get a spot on the bleachers. We might have to stand at the gate.”

  The four of us squeeze our way in and are lucky enough to find good seats because people are still standing outside the court showing off, talking, dancing, so even though it’s beyond crowded, not everyone has come in to get a seat. The DJ is playing all my favorite songs, and I can’t keep still so I move and groove in my seat, but once Blue comes on, I can’t stay seated. I get up, start dancing, and grab Tye’s hand, pulling him up to dance with me.

  “Come on, you know I don’t dance,” he says.

  He tries so hard to stay seated, but I keep pulling him up. “Dance with me.”

  He gives in, gets up, and moves with me. We’re in bleachers, so we can’t go full out, but I work my hips into his, winding to the rhythm. I don’t know why he doesn’t dance—he definitely knows how to move, how to be easy with it, laid back, smooth.

  Another song comes on, and this one brings Imani to her feet. “Yeeeess.” She dances next to me, and Tye steps back to let us do our thing. Imani and I feed off each other’s energy, and the row of people behind us starts dancing too. And now there are pockets of dancers showing off their moves all over the court.

  The announcer comes out with a cordless microphone, hyping everyone up even more. He gets us singing along with a song the DJ is playing. Every time it gets to a certain part, the DJ mutes the music and all our voices can be heard singing at the top of our lungs. Asher and Tye stand up and join in, and we are singing and dancing together, and it is so loud, so hot, so crowded, so much like it used to be with Imani, my cousin-sister-friend.

  Once the tournament starts, all eyes are on the court. I feel like I am at a magic show, except the illusions are Black boys flying through the air, all of them wielding their very own superpower.

  By the end of the game, I am hoarse from all the singing and cheering. The sun is long gone, but the mood is still celebratory. As we walk back to the train, Imani says, “Th
is has been the highlight of summer so far.”

  Tye nods. “Agree.”

  There are so many people needing to get on the subway heading downtown that we have to let two trains pass before the four of us can fit. We get on the train, and it’s too crowded to find a seat, so Tye leans against one of the doors and I lean into him. He holds on to me as we wobble along the tracks. We don’t talk much as we ride until Tye says, “I don’t want this night to end.” In two more stops, it will be time for me to get off the train, but Tye asks me to stay on. “Don’t go home yet. Stay with me.”

  “Stay? You mean, on the train?”

  “Yeah, let’s just ride.”

  When we get to my stop, Asher and Imani get up. “You coming?” Imani asks.

  “I’ll be home later. I’m . . . ​we’re—we’re just going to ride the train downtown and come back.” I can tell she is surprised that I am not getting off. Usually Imani is the one staying out late, cuddled up with Asher. She smiles at me and gives me a look as if she’s telling me be-careful-have-fun-don’t-stay-out-too-late all at once. A group of people leave the train at the same time as Imani and Asher, so now there are more seats.

  I sit at the window, and Tye scoots in next to me. The car is mostly empty now. I lean my head onto his shoulder. “Tell me something about you that I don’t know,” I say.

  Tye takes my hand. He thinks for a moment, clears his throat, and says, “When my mom and dad would argue, sometimes I’d leave the house and just ride the train. I’d go all the way to the end of the line, then get up, cross over to the uptown side, and ride it back home. It was a way to clear my head. I’d do it to escape. I would just want the fighting to end. It’s, uh, it feels good to do this with you for a different reason.”