Love Is a Revolution

by Renée Watson

  I waste about thirty minutes looking through Tye’s photos. Besides the picture of us, one of my favorites is the one of him with his mom. Someone caught them in a candid moment—a hug that looks so genuine, so tight. The caption says, Me and my first love. I get caught up on Tye’s page and then snap out of it, deciding that I can’t stay in my room all day obsessing over him. I get out of Instagram, call Grandma, and make a plan to come over.

  By the time I am downstairs, Aunt Ebony is already gone. I feel relief, even though I think maybe she will understand why I lied about everything. I grab an apple and leave. The whole way to Grandma’s I rehearse the apology I know I need to give her.

  There is no apologizing when I get to Grandma’s because when I step into the lobby, she is fussing at Ms. Sharon and all her friends are there, adding on. This is not Grandma’s I’m-fussing-because-I-love-you rant, this is something else. “How dare you move my puzzle without my permission. And you didn’t even keep it intact?”

  “Got some nerve,” Ms. Mabel shouts.

  Ms. Sharon is talking in a calm but stern voice. “The rules of the lounge state that every person needs to clean up after themselves. No one is allowed to take up space for an extended amount of time.”

  Ms. Norma scolds Ms. Sharon. “Ain’t nothing wrong with June doing her puzzle in the lounge. Any resident can contribute to it, so what’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal is that the rules are—”

  Grandma puts her hand on her hip and talks in the same calm but stern voice as Ms. Sharon. “I know what the rules say, but the norms are that in this building we respect each other’s property. The norms are that we are a community here and that room is a shared space where Ellis from apartment 10B leaves her purple bookmark in the book she’s reading to save her place and no one moves it, and Calvin from 3H shares his record player with us and leaves his collection in the lounge for any of us to play,” Grandma says. “And I leave my puzzle out . . . ​I suggest you get used to the way we run things here if you plan on staying long.”

  Grandma keeps her calm but steady voice when she says, “Now, give me my puzzle.” She holds her hand out.

  Ms. Sharon walks into the back room of her office and returns with Grandma’s puzzle all boxed up. No apology, no nothing.

  Grandma yanks the box out of her hands and walks away.

  Ms. Norma and Ms. Louise follow her, Ms. Mabel trailing behind on her scooter, mumbling to herself, “Next time I see her walking in the hallway, I’m gonna run her over. I promise you that.”

  We follow Grandma to the lounge. She sits down, dumps all the pieces out, and starts putting the puzzle together. There are just five pieces snapped in place when she turns and says, “So you all just gonna watch me?”

  Ms. Norma sits across from her, starts working.

  “But Grandma—”

  “You want to help us?” Grandma says. She finds another piece and fits it in its place.

  “Ms. Sharon said—”

  “Now, which piece do you think goes here?” Grandma says out loud, asking no one in particular.

  And for the rest of the afternoon we put the puzzle together. We work on it for two hours, and even though we’ve made good progress, of course it’s not finished because not even five people can put a fifteen-hundred-piece puzzle together in two hours. Grandma walks over to the bookshelf and takes a sheet of paper out of the scrap paper box. She grabs a black marker and writes: DO NOT REMOVE and tapes it on the table.

  “Ready for dinner?” she asks.

  Everyone says yes, and we all make our way to her apartment. Grandma fries up mackerel patties, and I make the white rice. The kitchen is sizzling and smelling good, and once everything is ready, Grandma calls JT over and we all eat together, having seconds and thirds, and no one brings up Ms. Sharon or the puzzle, and no one seems worried the puzzle might be gone when we go back.

  Except me.

  All I want to do is go back to the lounge, check on Grandma’s puzzle, but it is clear that the group has moved on. First, they are talking about taking the group trip with other Sugar Hill residents to Atlantic City. Ms. Norma says she’s only going because of a restaurant she likes there. And Grandma says, even though she doesn’t gamble she’ll go since Ms. Mabel and Ms. Louise really want to. Ms. Mabel and Ms. Louise definitely plan on gambling. JT says, “I’ll let you ladies have your time and sit that one out.” Grandma doesn’t seem to mind.

  I am proud of myself for not checking my phone this whole time. But now, it is buzzing and I am hoping it is Tye calling to talk, calling to hear my voice. But it’s a text from Aunt Ebony to me and Imani asking if we’ll be home for dinner. I reply, letting them know I’m having dinner with Grandma. Imani replies: I’m having dinner with Asher’s family.

  This is the first conversation we’ve technically had since yesterday. I am looking at my phone, double-checking for missed call notifications from Tye when Ms. Mabel blurts out, “So, Nala, did it work? Did using us get you a boyfriend?”

  My heart beats faster, but I knew I’d have to have this conversation eventually. “No, actually. I don’t think I have a boyfriend anymore. But, but I—I wasn’t using any of you. Especially not you, Grandma. I really do enjoy coming here, and I really do love spending time with all of you.”

  They are all quiet, just waiting for me to say more.

  “I’m sorry for lying, though. And I’m sorry if any of you felt hurt.”

  Grandma says, “So what will you do to make sure you will grow from this?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask. “There’s nothing I can do . . . other than apologize.”

  “There’s got to be more you can do,” she says.

  “Well, I can’t do anything about Tye. I think he’s pretty much done with me. And Ms. Sharon was very clear that I can’t do the photo project until winter, so right now, I’m not sure what I can do.”

  “Hmm,” is all Grandma says. And no one else says anything. I am not used to these women and JT being so quiet. They always, always have something to say.

  “I’m not like you, Grandma. I can’t just go to Ms. Sharon and tell her I am doing it anyway and start painting.”

  “No one expects that. But you’ve got to decide who you’ll become after this,” Grandma says. “For you.”

  I feel like Grandma is talking in some kind of code and I just don’t have the energy to figure out what she is trying to tell me, teach me. I just say, okay, so that we can move on and talk about something else. But I think Grandma knows that I don’t fully understand her. She stands and says, “Well, Nala. I accept your apology. I was disappointed, but I do appreciate you coming here today.” She walks into the kitchen, grabs a large knife, and begins to peel the mangoes that are sitting in a ceramic bowl on the counter. “Dessert, anyone?”

  We all say yes and fill our bellies with juicy, sweet mangoes.

  When I get home, Aunt Ebony and Uncle Randy are sitting on the stoop drinking Red Stripe beers. They say hello, but neither of them push me to talk about Tye and Imani and my lies. I go upstairs to my room, replaying everything that happened today with Grandma, how sure of herself she is and how she refused to back down. How she stood up for herself, for her home. She is absolutely herself at all times. I want to be like that. I stare at myself in the mirror and think about how Grandma told me that I need to figure out how to love myself, how I need to figure out who I’ll become after this.

  I go to sit on my bed, but it’s covered in the stuff from the Inspire Harlem tote bag. I bundle what I don’t want in my arms and walk over to the garbage can but then remember to separate the paper from everything else. I’ll put what’s recyclable in the bin downstairs. The rest, I throw away.

  I look again at the Inspire Harlem postcard I pinned on my corkboard. I think about how Grandma said loving yourself is the real revolution. I take out my notebook and make another list.

  1.Remember Yourself.

  2.Honor Yourself.

  3.Critique Yours
elf.

  4.Love Yourself.

  This is how I plan to grow.

  22

  Three days have gone by, and I still have not spoken to Imani. Mostly because we haven’t been in the same room at the same time. Somehow, we keep missing each other. Okay, not somehow—we keep missing each other because she stays out late with Asher and by the time she comes home I am sleeping. In the mornings, I stay in my room listening to Blue and holding my pee until she leaves (I almost didn’t make it to the bathroom in time this morning, so maybe I need to stop this). I haven’t been back to see Grandma either. I am still thinking about everything she said, thinking about who I want to be.

  The house is quiet, so after I get dressed, I make my way downstairs only to realize Uncle Randy is in the kitchen. He is drinking coffee and reading the paper. “’Morning,” he says.

  “Good morning.” I was going to make breakfast, maybe boil an egg and make toast, but I’m too embarrassed to be in here with him. I go to the fridge, grab a strawberry yogurt, and head back to my room.

  “Before you go, I wanted to talk with you.” Uncle Randy closes his paper. I have no choice but to sit with him at the table in the kitchen nook. One side is a bench, the other side, two chairs. I slide in and sit on the bench. I brace myself for what Uncle Randy is going to say. He comes over to the table and sits with me.

  “So Liz said we can have the birthday party on the rooftop. She’s already reserved it. Imani is going to help pick out food for the evening, and she’s helping me pull together a guest list,” he says. “Can you work on putting together some kind of special gift?”

  I am relieved. “That’s what you want to talk about?”

  Uncle Randy laughs. “What did you think I wanted to talk about?” he asks. And then before I can answer he says, “Oh—that? Not much I can tell you. You already know what you need to do. Imani does too.” Uncle Randy takes a long sip of his coffee.

  I love Uncle Randy for not making a big deal about any of this. I love him for trusting me to figure it out and fix it on my own.

  I eat my yogurt and leave the house, not really having a destination in mind. Just want to get out of the house. If I’m distracted and walking around, I’m less likely to check my phone to see if Tye has called, or sent a text, or posted on Instagram.

  I walk downtown on Frederick Douglass and keep going until I get to 110th. The statue of Frederick Douglass stands tall, and the fountain that sprays out water is on in full force, so little ones are jumping in and out, running around the concrete steps. I cross the street and enter Central Park. I keep walking and walking, trying not to think about Tye or check my phone.

  I sit in the park for an hour, just people watching and thinking about the times my mom would bring me here to go to the zoo. Once I’m ready to go home, I walk to the bus stop because I realize I walked a lot farther than I intended to and now I don’t want to walk all the way back.

  I am sitting at the back of the bus, listening to music through my headphones and minding my own business when out of the corner of my eye, I see someone waving at me. “Excuse me, can I—can I talk to you for a sec?” the boy asks as he steps closer to me. He is talking low and has a gentleness about him. “I like your style,” he says.

  “Thank you.”

  I like his too, actually.

  “You, uh, you got a boyfriend?”

  “I—yes, I do. Well, no. I mean, I don’t know.”

  Nala, really? That’s your answer?

  “So, if you don’t know, I think that means no,” the boy says.

  And hearing him say that makes my eyes water. “I, um, this is my stop.” I stand up and push the tape strip.

  “Wait. Hold on. Can I get your number?”

  The tears don’t wait to fall. “No, I—no.” I get off the bus. I decide to go ahead and walk the rest of the way. I am getting used to crying in public. I put my sunglasses on and walk, hiding my red eyes.

  I am a block away from home when my phone starts buzzing in my pocket. The first person I think about is the guy on the bus even though I know I didn’t give him my number. I don’t take it out to see who it is. It’s probably Aunt Ebony checking in to ask if I’ve worked on my essay. I know as soon as I pick up and say hello, she’ll detect my tears and want to talk about it, so I just let it go to voice mail.

  The afternoon sun is beaming down, and now that I am not in the park anymore under all those trees, I feel the heat even more.

  I keep walking and crying and sweating and finally, I am home.

  When I get inside, all I want to do is drink a gallon of water and cry.

  I don’t have a boyfriend anymore.

  I am not anyone’s girlfriend.

  The more I realize it, the harder I cry.

  I get a glass of water. My phone buzzes again. A reminder that I didn’t answer it before. I don’t take it out. I just sit and cry until I have no more tears. I go upstairs, and first, I just sit on my bed and do nothing, but then, I take out my notebook, make more lists.

  TIPS FOR SHOWING YOURSELF LOVE

  1.Show yourself love by making a playlist that affirms, motivates, and encourages. Music affects my mood, and even though I didn’t intend to, starting my day with Blue has been healing and giving me the strength to hold my head up—even though I’ve messed up. I’m making a playlist with some of my favorite songs, songs that uplift me, songs that remind me I am worthy of love just as I am. First artist on the list will be Blue.

  2.Show yourself love by doing what makes you happy. I know I’ll have to do some things in life that I don’t really love. But there has to be room to squeeze in some fun, some smile-making moments. For me, it’s walking through New York City, people watching and window shopping. For me, it’s sharing music and having listening parties with friends, it’s spending time with Grandma building puzzles and talking about life. I can do more of this, I need to.

  3.Show yourself love by keeping a gratitude journal. I’ll need to read it on days when it feels like I have nothing to be grateful for.

  I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket again, and then I remember that I never checked to see who was trying to get ahold of me before. I take my phone out, but not in enough time. I missed Sadie’s call. I check the rest of my notifications and see that I have a text message. It’s from Tye: Had my phone off for the past few days. Needed to think. Can we talk?

  I don’t respond right away. I can’t move, can’t get my fingers to type anything. I toss the phone back on my bed, pick up the glass of water on my nightstand. I drink the water. Slow. When I swallow the last drop, I pick up my phone, send my reply.

  Yes.

  23

  We agreed to meet at my place.

  As soon as I said okay, I regretted it because if this conversation goes bad, I don’t want to have to remember it every time I walk up the stoop, every time I open the door. Breakups are better in public spaces, places you don’t have to go back to if you don’t want to.

  Last night, I could hardly sleep thinking about what I needed to say to Tye, wondering what he wanted to say to me. I’m glad we set the time for morning. There’s no way I could wait all day to talk with him. It is just before noon and I am sitting on the stoop when I see Tye walking up the block. My heart was beating fast until now. Now it feels stuck, like when someone is holding you up on a seesaw and you have no control. This feels like that.

  “Hey,” Tye says. He barely looks at me, so I look away from him too.

  “Hey.”

  Tye sits down next to me, but not as close as he normally would. We don’t jump in right away, but we don’t do pleasantries either. We just sit. A few people walk by, nod or say hello, but mostly, the block is quiet and we are alone.

  “I’m sorry, Tye,” I finally say. My heart still stuck, still held in suspense. “I want you to know that I never meant to hurt you or make a fool of you. Or—well, I don’t know how you’re feeling. I just know that I didn’t mean to make you feel anything negative.”
>
  Tye takes a deep breath but doesn’t say anything.

  “I . . . ​when I met you, I was just so impressed by you and I wanted to impress you too. I wanted to be on your level. I just said whatever I thought you’d want to hear because I wanted you to like me.”

  Tye is still breathing his deep breaths. In, out. He is still not looking at me.

  I tell him everything I’ve lied about, every stretch of the truth. And then I say, “I understand why you don’t want to be with me anymore.”

  “Who said I didn’t want to be with you anymore?” Tye says. He looks at me now, and like always his eyes pierce right through me. “I just, I needed time to think. That was a lot.”

  “Wait. You—you don’t want to break up with me?” I ask.

  “No. Do you want to break up with me?”

  “I thought we were already broken up.”

  Tye takes my hand. “I mean, I thought about it. I was really upset, Nala. I feel like I don’t know you at all. I wanted to talk today, find out what is actually real about you, about us. Did you ever actually have feelings for me?”

  “Of course. I, yes. I still do.”

  Tye looks relieved when I say this. We are quiet again, and this time I don’t know what to say to get the conversation going. After a while Tye says, “Well, I do have a lot of questions and there’s a lot we need to talk about, but, Nala, spending time with you is good for me. You open me up, have me doing stuff that, I don’t know—I guess what I’m trying to say is that I have fun with you. I feel more like myself with you than with anyone else.”

  I never thought that maybe Tye isn’t always being himself, isn’t always sure of who he is. I wonder what parts of himself he hides. “You feel more like yourself with me? Who are you when you’re with everyone else?”

  “I, well, it’s just that when I’m with you I feel like I can put my guard down. That I don’t have to be perfect.”

  “Who makes you feel like you have to be perfect?”

  “Everyone. My mom, my uncle, my teachers, Ms. Lori.” Tye lets out a sigh and says, “I’m a Black boy—there’s not a lot of room for error.”