Some Places More Than Others

by Renée Watson

  “LA twice, Seattle a bunch of times, and Atlanta once,” I tell them.

  Ava’s eyes bulge out like she’s witnessing the biggest surprise. “Really?”

  “Sometimes my mom and I get to travel with my dad for work. But this is the first time I’ve ever come on a trip without Mom,” I tell them. “Our first daddy-daughter trip.”

  “I’m so jealous,” Nina says, and I don’t know if she’s jealous because she doesn’t travel as much as me or because she doesn’t have a father like I do. Well, technically she has a father—everyone does, I guess. But Nina and Ava’s dad is in jail. And this is something else Mom and Dad never really talk about. I want to ask Nina and Ava about their dad, but as soon as I come up with a question to ask, Nina asks me, “You always wear your hair like that?”

  “In a ponytail?” I ask.

  “Straight,” she answers. “Do you ever wear it natural?”

  “It is natural.”

  Ava jumps in. “Your hair is not naturally straight. You have a perm, right?”

  “No. I’ve never had chemicals in my hair. It’s natural. I just flat iron it.” I have never had black girls ask about my hair. Only the white girls I go to school with, especially when it’s braided.

  Ava is all, “You can’t say your hair is natural if it didn’t grow out of your head like that.”

  Nina nudges her. Hard.

  “What? Her hair isn’t natural,” Ava repeats.

  “And yours is?” I ask, not to be smart with her but because now I am confused and I really want to know. “You must put something in your hair to get it curly like that.”

  “No. I mean, well, yes,” Ava says. “I oil it and keep it moisturized. And I twist it to give it some style, but I am not changing the actual texture of my hair.”

  She says this like she wants some kind of prize.

  “Oh, well, my mom straightens it because she says it’s easier to manage this way.”

  Ava sucks her teeth, rolls her eyes, and puts her headphones on like she can’t bear to be a part of this conversation. She steps forward and looks to the left to see if a train is coming. Nothing.

  Nina says, “I only asked because I really like it. And my mom won’t let us straighten our hair.”

  “Never?”

  “She says when we’re out of her house we can do whatever we want with it,” Nina tells me. “I’ll probably cut it once I graduate.”

  The subway train bolts into the station, bringing a cold breeze with it. “Stay close to me,” Nina says as she forges her way through the open doors. It is so crowded I can’t help but bump up against the other passengers. Our thick coats rub each other, and there are hands on top of hands all over the silver poles in the middle of the aisle, so many that when Ava tells me to hold on, I can barely find an empty spot.

  The train chugs along, and I try to keep my balance. When we jerk to a stop, I stumble into the person next to me. He smiles and moves over just a little. People move in and out, and we all shift. Nina is now closer to the sliding doors, and I’m still holding on to the pole. Ava found a seat—well, kind of. She’s squished between two people with hardly enough space to scoot all the way back. When we get to the next stop, a woman gets on with a violin. She starts to play it, only instead of classical music, which I expect, she’s playing something with a hip-hop beat and she’s singing and rapping. She plays for two stops, and then goes to the next car. At the next stop, there’s another shifting and I move farther away from where Ava and Nina are. Nina mouths, Get off in two more stops.

  We pass Ninety-Sixth Street, then Seventy-Second. The automated voice announces that we are at Times Square. When the doors open people push in and out and I almost don’t make it off before the doors start to close. A man sways his backpack over the threshold of the door to keep it open. “Thank you,” I say.

  I get off the subway and step onto the platform. The platform is full, and I don’t see Nina or Ava anymore. All the dark winter coats look the same, and the sea of people blend together. I feel sick, and not the car sickness I had when I first got here, but the Oh-My-God-I’m-Lost-in-New-York sick. The We-Disobeyed-Grandpa-Earl-and-Now-Look-What-Happened kind of sick.

  I stand alone in the middle of the platform, looking side to side.

  There are two boys banging buckets like drums, making beats and entertaining the crowd. It’s so loud, I can barely hear the automated voice making announcements. Another train on the other side of the platform pulls in and screeches to a stop. Somehow, through all this noise, I hear Ava’s voice calling out my name. And when I see her and Nina, I could cry. Ava says, “Why you standing there looking like that? Come on.” She walks up the stairs.

  Nina tells Ava, “Slow down.” She looks at me. “Walk in the middle of us. Keep up.” Nina walks behind me, and I feel better knowing that her eyes are on me.

  Ava is walking fast, and I think to myself how I am going to ask Mom why she didn’t say anything about all these stairs you have to climb in New York City. I’m out of breath when we reach the top, but Ava keeps going. Then, finally, there’s an escalator, so we ride up to the ground level, and when we step outside the subway station, I gasp. “Now I feel like I’m in New York,” I say.

  Ava rolls her eyes, and Nina nudges her and whispers, “Be nice.”

  I try to see every single detail of Times Square. The oversized television screens suspended in the sky and on the sides of buildings. Buildings so high you feel how ants must feel—tiny and easily destructible. Walking through the streets, I see lights shining around the marquees of Broadway theaters and street artists sketching portraits of tourists.

  “Give me your phone,” Ava says to me. She knows I want a picture. She takes a few of me with a lit-up Times Square in the background, and then I take some of just the signs and people.

  Nina says, “Okay, put that in your purse, not your pocket, and don’t take it back out. Don’t stare up, either. Just act like you live here.”

  That’s going to be impossible.

  I put my phone away, and we walk to H&M. As we walk, Nina says, “Ava, I mean it—go in, try on the dress, leave it or buy it, and then we have to go. No looking around.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “Is Grandpa Earl going to be mad when he finds out where we went?” I ask.

  Ava says, “He’s not going to find out. But even if he did, he wouldn’t be too mad. He’d fuss for a bit, but that’s all. He’s not as strict as our mom.”

  “Oh.”

  “Is your dad strict?” Ava asks.

  “Not really,” I answer.

  “I didn’t think so,” Nina says. “Uncle Charles seems real chill.”

  Hearing them call my dad “Uncle Charles” makes me wish I had cousins around me all the time. That I knew what it was like to walk around town having people point to me, telling me I look just like so-and-so or asking me if I’m related to the Baker family.

  “What about your dad? I mean, is he … was he—”

  “We don’t have many memories of our dad,” Nina says, speaking for both of them. “Our dad left when we were four and two, so, you know, we were too young to know him enough to really remember him.”

  I notice Nina says “left,” not “went to jail.”

  I notice Ava, for once, says nothing.

  Nina tells me, “Grandpa is kind of like our dad. He helped our mom raise us. We’re really close.”

  Now I am feeling jealous, but I know that I shouldn’t. I have a dad and I see him every day. Why do I care if they are closer to Grandpa Earl than I am?

  Nina rushes Ava to go get the dress and try it on so we can get back to Harlem. We stand and wait for her, looking through a basket of rings. We test them out, trying them on and swapping them with one another. I guess my asking about Nina’s father got her thinking about him because she starts talking about him again even though I haven’t asked another question. “My dad writes us twice a month,” she tells me. “And we write him back.” Nina wiggles a rin
g off her pointer finger. It is tight, so she has to turn and twist it a few times before it comes off. “When I turn eighteen, I’m going to go visit him. Mom thinks we’re too young to see him behind glass. But once I graduate, I am going.”

  Nina says this like it’s a declaration.

  “Two more years. Just two more,” she says.

  I imagine Nina, eighteen years old, with her newly cut hair, making a trip to visit her dad. And I think how even though she has Grandpa Earl, she still wants her dad, too. I guess maybe we all want to be connected to our roots.

  13

  I know my birthday isn’t here yet and I have no candle to blow out, but as soon as I wake up, I make a wish, say a prayer. God, please let my baby sister be okay. And then I say a prayer asking that I get some interviews done today. It’s Tuesday, and so far I only have bits and pieces, not enough to complete my assignment. I’ve got to finish talking with Nina and Ava and stay focused next time so that I am the only one asking questions. And Grandpa Earl. I’ve got to interview him, too.

  I ease out of bed, take my time getting dressed, and go downstairs. Grandpa is in the kitchen already, making oatmeal. “I was just about to call up to you,” he says. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.”

  “Hungry?” he asks, pointing to the sliced apples sitting on a plate.

  “Thank you,” I say, biting into the sweet fruit. “Is Dad up yet?”

  “He’s got meetings all day. Left about ten minutes ago.”

  I don’t say anything. Just stuff my mouth with more apple.

  “But don’t you fret. The girls will be here soon, and I’ve planned a little outing. There are some places I want to show you that aren’t on your list,” Grandpa Earl says. “Hope you don’t mind spending the day with an old man.”

  “Not at all,” I say.

  After breakfast, I wash the dishes and clean up the kitchen. Grandpa Earl disappears into his bedroom to get dressed. I stand in the living room looking around, wondering what stories this brownstone holds. There’s an oak cabinet across from me pushed against the wall. It looks like an antique thing, something Mom would use as a prop in a photo shoot of her vintage wedding gowns. On top of it are black-and-white photos of Grandma Grace and the rest of the family over the years. I wonder what’s inside. I walk over to open the doors, hoping to get a quick peek before Grandpa Earl returns, but then the doorbell rings.

  Nina and Ava are here, dressed to impress again.

  Grandpa comes out of his room, grabs his coat and keys, and we leave.

  Because we’re with Grandpa Earl, we are walking slowly and I can actually look around without feeling rushed by Ava. We walk by a restaurant on 126th and Lenox that has a mural. “Can we stop? I want to take a picture,” I say.

  Ava doesn’t roll her eyes this time. Maybe because Grandpa Earl is with us, maybe because she doesn’t want to get that Big-Sister-Stare-Down from Nina again.

  Grandpa Earl says, “I wanted you to see this.” We all step close to the mural. A Harlem neighborhood is painted against the brick. Black legends float through the air, some smiling, some holding hands, others reaching into the sky as if they are offering up a praise or flying away to heaven.

  Grandpa takes out his wallet. “I’ll give you each a dollar for every person you recognize.”

  Ava is quick to shout out, “Madam C. J. Walker,” then looks at me, rolls her eyes, and says, “She invented the process for straightening hair.”

  I really don’t understand why she has an attitude about me straightening my hair.

  I point and say, “Michael Jackson!”

  Then Nina says, “Maya Angelou … President Barack Obama.”

  And at the same time Nina and I call out, “Adam Clayton Powell!” He is in a blue suit flying through the air, one hand in a fist, the other open and stretched out, looking like some kind of superhero.

  Grandpa opens his wallet and gives us single dollar bills as we call out names. Ava says, “That’s Josephine Baker, right?”

  Grandpa nods and gives her a dollar.

  I scan the wall. “Ooh, ooh, there’s Malcolm X!”

  Grandpa hands me another dollar and says, “All right, looks like I’m all out of cash.” There are so many people on the wall that we haven’t said yet. Grandpa tells us, “I’m glad you recognized so many. It’s important to know the ones who’ve come before us, who we’re connected to.”

  Before we leave, I take my camera, zoom in, take more photos.

  We continue on Lenox, toward 135th Street. Fewer people are on the sidewalks, and there aren’t as many street vendors this way, except for one man who is selling hats, gloves, and all types of scarves.

  “Here we are,” Grandpa says when we get to 135th. “This is the Schomburg Center. This is a haven for black history.”

  We wait to cross the street, and then, when no traffic is coming, we all walk into the street even though the light hasn’t changed. When we step inside, Grandpa says hello to the man sitting behind the front desk. “Earl, my man, good to see you,” the man says, and reaches to shake Grandpa’s hand.

  I think Grandpa Earl must know everyone in Harlem.

  Grandpa Earl introduces me to his friend and then says, “Go ’head and give her the spiel. Act like we’ve never heard it before.”

  “Well, all right,” the man says.

  Ava sighs, and this makes me think that maybe Grandpa Earl has brought her here before, that she already knows everything this man is about to say.

  The man stands, handing all three of us girls a brochure. “We’re a research library, which means you can’t check out any books. But many people come here to do in-depth research on black culture. We have all sorts of materials about the African American, African diaspora, and African experiences—”

  Grandpa Earl interrupts. “People can come here to look through the writings, photos, and keepsakes from African American legends.”

  Nina whispers to me and Ava, “Grandpa might as well work here.”

  Grandpa Earl keeps going: “The man it’s named after, Arturo Alfonso Schomburg, was a young boy in school when one of his teachers told him that black people had no history, that we hadn’t accomplished anything important. Mr. Schomburg wanted to prove his teacher wrong, and he searched to find out what we, as a people, had contributed to the world.”

  The man at the desk adds on, “He was a Puerto Rican of African and German descent. He dedicated his life to researching and raising awareness of the achievements of Afro-Latin Americans and African Americans.”

  Grandpa Earl interrupts again, asking, “Isn’t it his collection of literature, art, and slave narratives that started this whole research center?”

  “You know your history, Earl,” the man says.

  Grandpa Earl turns to us and says, “This place was created with you in mind.” I know he is talking to all three of us, but for some reason, I feel like he is especially talking to me. Our eyes meet when he says, “Your ancestors wanted to preserve your history, wanted there to be a place where you could come and hold on to your roots, know the story of how you got here.”

  Finally, the man behind the desk speaks again. “They may not have known you by name, but they had you in mind.”

  Grandpa Earl shakes the man’s hand again and says, “Let’s go inside.”

  We walk through the lobby and enter a separate room. The floor is covered with mosaic tile. Grandpa Earl tells us, “This cosmogram is a tribute to Schomburg and the poet Langston Hughes.” He points to the words engraved on the floor. “Langston’s poem, ‘The Negro Speaks of Rivers,’ was his first critically acclaimed poem, and this installation honors his life and the diaspora. His ashes are buried underneath.”

  “His ashes?” I say, a little too loud, because a woman walking by looks at me with the sternest eyes.

  “Yes, this is a sacred place,” Grandpa Earl says. “I’ll leave you here so you can take it all in. When you’re finished here, go on upstairs to see the exhibi
t on James Baldwin.”

  Ava says, “But, Grandpa, I’ve already seen all of this. My school came on a field trip.”

  “Look again. There’s always more to see.” He walks away, leaving me, Nina, and Ava standing in the middle of the cosmogram.

  Ava tells us that she is going to the gift shop, and Nina says, “I’ll be upstairs,” and walks away, so now I am alone. I step into the center, place my feet right at the tip of the words to his poem: My soul has grown deep like the rivers. I don’t take my phone out to capture this. I just want to stand here, just want to be.

  People walk by, coming and going. The elevator dings, voices echo, footsteps tap against the tile. But I don’t move. I breathe in this place, think of all the activists and artists, politicians and preachers and teachers who’ve walked in here, think how Grandpa Earl said this was created with me in mind.

  I wonder if my ancestors saw me coming. How far into the future could they imagine? Just the idea that people like Harriet Tubman, Adam Clayton Powell, and Langston Hughes were thinking that one day someone like me would exist in a free world makes my heart pound, my eyes water.

  I study the cosmogram, which looks like a map to me. Like a blueprint of all the places black people have been, all the places we bring with us, all the rivers and stories that come with us. The Euphrates, the Nile, the Mississippi.

  I think about Mr. Rosen—how he told me, “Some things you won’t be able to put in your suitcase; some things are intangible, and yet, you carry them with you.”

  Now I know what he means.

  We eat lunch at Jacob’s, a soul food buffet, then Nina and Ava say goodbye and head home. I walk back with Grandpa Earl to his house. When we get inside, I see Dad isn’t home yet. I text him: When are you coming home? After spending the day with Grandpa Earl, I am wondering what Harlem treasure Dad will take me to.

  Dad writes back, Finishing up my last meeting. I’ll be there soon.

  Grandpa Earl tells me, “I’ll be in here if you need anything,” and walks into his sitting room—or at least that’s what I call it. There is no TV in there, no phone, nothing but bookshelves against the wall, two armchairs, and a radio on a small table in the corner. Nothing to do in there but sit. Grandpa Earl has the radio on and is leaned back with his eyes closed.