Watch Us Rise

by Renée Watson

  A week later, there’s an envelope on the kitchen counter with my name on it. Mia and I smile when we see it, since we know that Mom’s favorite thing to do is write letters to us—she likes to document her advice in writing, make sure we hear her sometimes quiet voice loud and clear.

  My dear sweet Chelsea,

  I want to start by saying that you are beautiful and strong and bright and cool and brilliant and funny. We all love you so much. I love who you are in the world—love how you care about it and want there to be justice and equal rights and love all over. My daughter, I know that you will thrive and curate a gorgeous life for yourself. And you will be successful in high school and beyond—and toward whatever it is you choose to pursue. What I’m saying is: you will make this life work for you. You always have, and you always will.

  Now, what I want you to understand is that you CANNOT let some boy rule the narrative. Men should not get to tell your story or shift where your life is going. You cannot let idiots change your perception of yourself. You need to stay rooted and strong in who you are (refer to the paragraph above to know how the rest of the world sees you). Now you really have to see that in yourself. Your junior year is important, yes, but it’s only a few more months in the span of a lifetime, which is a relatively small amount. You have to use these months to figure out who you are and what you want. And you want a boyfriend or partner who is going to love and adore you—someone who respects and honors you. That’s what it’s about. You are too powerful, and you need to show up to school knowing who you are—and not letting anyone change your mind.

  You will be okay. Everyone around you loves you. Talk to us, get advice, rest, eat, do some self-care. You have to start figuring out what makes YOU happy, and what makes YOU satisfied. What kind of life do YOU want? You are so young still, and you have so much life ahead of you. Don’t let some jerk ruin your high school experience. You need to remove yourself from that negativity and shift the focus back to yourself.

  I want you to know that I have been in your situation—I made some bad decisions during high school—but I knew there were people around me who loved me and who wanted me to succeed. We are here, and we’re not going anywhere. You can ask me or Mia anything, and we will answer honestly.

  I love you. I am here—always.

  Love,

  Mom

  The tardy bell rings, and I am still trying to get my locker open. This is the second time it’s jammed up this week. I kick it, jiggle the handle.

  And then I hear Meg’s voice.

  It is not her usual, annoying voice. This time she is yelling. “What did you just say to me?”

  “I was just thanking you for wearing my favorite jeans.”

  I know that voice too. Jacob Rizer.

  “You’re so disgusting,” Meg says.

  Meg’s eyes catch mine.

  I stand there, let her know I am watching.

  Jacob continues making comments about her clothes, her body.

  “Leave her alone,” I say.

  Jacob turns, sees me, says, “Jealous that I’m not into you?”

  “Don’t talk to her like that. God, you’re such a jerk,” Meg says.

  I look at Meg, surprised those words just came out of her mouth. We stand side by side and stare Jacob down. He backs away, blows a kiss to Meg.

  I watch while Jacob walks away. Just to be sure he’s really leaving. Once he’s out of sight, I turn back to my locker. Now I’m really late. And my locker is still jammed. Meg comes over to me, says, “Let me try.” She works some kind of magic, and with one try, it opens. “This happens to mine all the time.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “You’re welcome.” Meg hesitates, sliding her hair from the left to right. “And thank you. For that.”

  “No problem.” I grab my coat and book for science class, close my locker, and walk away. I almost leave it at that, but then I turn and say, “Meg, can we talk?”

  She stops, stands in the middle of the hallway. She doesn’t come closer to me and I don’t move either. “I know you apologized about the costume but really, my issue with you is so much more than that.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t. Don’t say sorry to me. Instead of an empty apology, you could try to be a better person and actually stop being judgmental and stop patronizing me because I’m big.”

  “Jasmine, I understand. I feel so bad that I—”

  “No. Just listen. Listen to what I have to say.” I stop talking for a moment, try to think of what it is I really want to tell Meg. “The blog Chelsea and I started is about us being seen and validated, and you disrespected us. You mocked it. And in class you tried to make me feel like I need to fix my body in order to get a leading role in a play. But my body isn’t broken. I am not beautiful in spite of being big. I’m beautiful because I’m big.”

  I walk away, leaving Meg standing in the middle of the hallway. My heart is thumping and thumping and I am feeling just as anxious as I felt on that stage when I performed my poem. Anxious. But also proud.

  I get to class just as Mrs. Curtis is explaining an activity. “In the four corners of our classroom, I’ve hung signs that say Strongly Agree, Strongly Disagree, Agree, Disagree.” She points as she talks and continues, “And here, in the middle, is where you can come if you are Unsure.” Mrs. Curtis says, “I will read a statement, and you will stand under the sign that best describes your answer.”

  From there, she says, “Finding quality vegetables and fruit is easy to do in New York City.”

  Most of the class stands under the Agree sign. I stand under there, too, but I am leaning toward Disagree.

  Mrs. Curtis tells us to turn and talk to the people standing with us. “Ask them why they chose their answer,” she tells us.

  My group talks ourselves out of our answer. One of the boys says, “Well, I’m kind of torn because I know it’s definitely possible to get quality vegetables and fruit, but is it easy? I mean, are we talking about it being easy for everyone?”

  “Good point,” I say. “I was thinking the same thing but wasn’t sure if I was overthinking it.”

  He laughs a familiar laugh that tells me he knows what it’s like to turn an idea over and over in his head.

  “Next statement,” Mrs. Curtis says. “Owners of grocery stores should decide where they want to build.”

  Most of us stand under Strongly Agree. One person is in the middle of the room as Unsure.

  My group is in total agreement. Someone says, “I mean, if I’m the one who has the vision for the store and am taking the risk to even be an entrepreneur, I should be able to decide where my company builds.”

  We are all nodding and agreeing, and the conversation is getting good when Mrs. Curtis says, “Okay, another one. It’s easy to have a healthy diet.”

  When she says this, I immediately walk over to the Strongly Disagree section expecting the whole class will be walking with me, or at least half here and half under Disagree, but instead there are only three of us standing here and the rest of the class is under Agree.

  I don’t want to talk about this one, so when she tells us to discuss, I just listen to the girl next to me who is saying exactly what I know to be true. “If it was easy, everyone would have a healthy diet,” she says.

  When we return to our seats, Mrs. Curtis projects a map on the screen at the front of the room and says, “Today, we are going to talk about food deserts.” Mrs. Curtis gives a short lecture and then focuses back on the projected map. We are looking at New York City, and different shades of blue dots show where people have or do not have access to fresh vegetables and fruit. Mrs. Curtis asks us what we notice, and someone says, “I notice that the neighborhoods marked as low income have fewer and less-healthy options.”

  “Good observation,” Mrs. Curtis says. “Who else notices something?”

  Hands go up, and she calls on the next person. I stop paying attention when James comes in. He’s never late, but when I look at th
e door as it closes behind him I see Meg standing there waving and then walking away. He sits next to me, whispers, “What did I miss?”

  I don’t answer him.

  Mrs. Curtis passes out a handout and says, “Get with your partner. We’re going to take a neighborhood walk. Be sure to follow the prompts on the worksheet.”

  There are moans and grumblings because it’s cold outside. “I checked the weather; this is going to be the warmest day of the week. And at least it’s dry,” Mrs. Curtis says. “No rain today. Let’s go.”

  This is why she told us to bring our coats to class.

  I put my coat on, zip it, and walk with James outside. We’ve been partners all year, and Chelsea loves it. She is always asking me what happened in class and if James talked about her. I usually don’t like being a spy, but today I am all about questioning James.

  The first question on our worksheet is to count the number of liquor stores and bodegas within the nearest four blocks of our school. We walk down the block. I make tally marks on the paper while James counts out loud. “One liquor store, one bodega. Two bodegas, another bodega. One more liquor store.”

  “Do you like Chelsea or not?” I ask. There really isn’t another way to say it. I just want to know, and we’ll only be out for a short time, so I have to jump right in.

  “She’s, yeah. I guess you could say I like her,” James says. “Are you happy now? I admitted it. One more corner store . . . ​one more for liquor.”

  “Am I happy? Am I supposed to be happy that you reluctantly, halfheartedly said you liked my best friend? No, I’m not happy, James.”

  “Does that count? It’s a convenience store, but it’s attached to the gas station. Technically it’s not a bodega.”

  “It’s not a grocery store,” I tell him and add another mark. “You need to leave her alone. You’re using her, for, well, I don’t know what you’re using her for—attention? Whatever it is, you can’t keep doing this. You know how much she likes you, and it’s not right—”

  “Chelsea can’t talk for herself?” James asks. “Two more for bodegas.”

  We head back to school, walking slow so we can continue our conversation. The wind pushes through my coat, chills all of me, the weather not deciding if it’s truly ready to be spring just yet. “Chelsea can absolutely speak for herself. She didn’t ask me to say any of this. I’m saying it because I am her friend and I don’t want to see her hurt.”

  He doesn’t say anything to that. We pass another pair from our class, and James waits till we are far enough away from them before he says, “I don’t want to hurt her. I just, I don’t think I’m, I don’t know. Chelsea is too serious for me. I mean, I know this is a school all about social justice, but you and Chelsea—she’s just—”

  “You can’t seriously be saying that you don’t like her because she’s passionate—”

  “No, I didn’t say that.”

  “Sounds like an excuse to me. To put it on what’s wrong with her instead of what’s wrong with you. You like her. You just admitted that, so whatever it is that is keeping you with Meg has nothing to do with Chelsea.”

  When we get back to the school, we go in, pass Ms. Sanchez at the security desk, and head back to Mrs. Curtis’s class. Before we go inside, I say to James, “You don’t deserve Chelsea. She deserves someone who isn’t afraid of who she is.”

  I’m still thinking about how I almost kissed James Bradford—almost felt his beautiful mouth on mine, could almost say we made out in the park on the first sunny day of spring, and there were birds out and the sky was shining, and it was perfect. Almost. But just the fact that I am still calling his mouth beautiful is a major sign that I am not over it. I want to be—I want to stop thinking about the way he made me laugh, and the way he’d put his hand on the lower part of my back a little longer than he had to if he was passing me in the hall. I want to stop imagining going to prom together and getting married—having kids, a dog, and trips to the Caribbean. I know I’ve gone too far when I can see us as an old married couple sitting on the stoop of our brownstone in the Heights. As Mia would say—join us back on planet Earth, Chelsea.

  So I pretend he doesn’t exist—or at least I try to. Ignoring James Bradford—and yes, I still say his whole name, which Jasmine has told me I really need to stop doing—ignoring him is nearly impossible. I send him a note that says:

  James—It’s Meg or me. You decide.

  It feels simple enough, and in my mind—which is a very dangerous place to be lately—I imagine him responding immediately—You, you, you. But every day he walks past me, and every day I think more and more about how I fell for someone who didn’t much care about my feelings at all, or did but couldn’t admit it. I fill my journal with enough crap love poems to make a whole book.

  Potential Titles for My Upcoming Poetry Collection

  by Chelsea Spencer

  1.Love in the Time of Feminism

  2.Womanist Uprising: No Time for Your Fake Trash Existence (feels like too much, maybe)

  3.Love Like a Girl

  4.Men Always Come Back

  5.Devastation Station

  6.James Bradford Sucks and Other Poems

  7.Teenage Love Supreme

  8.Why?

  9.Boys Lie

  10.Don’t Want You Back—Even If You Ask

  And I write endless haiku poems, since I’m on a kick. I keep starting poems I think I will send to James, but they stay tucked inside my drawer. I can’t bring myself to do it.

  Haiku for a rainy (and lonely) Saturday afternoon

  by Chelsea Spencer

  Consider the frame

  all this body, all these lies

  woman on display.

  Scientific bind

  dissected anatomy

  bust, butt, shoulder, spine.

  Examination

  chest forward, eyes wide, mind dull

  extrovert this build.

  Systemic, systematic. ­

  Manic—panic pleads

  conform proportion.

  Personality

  package it perfectly prim

  proper, prestigious.

  Weigh the part. Spandex

  spit shine, girls wild, lemon drop

  dance floor, curve at this.

  Freak, funk, fantasy

  suite life, lady luck, closed legs

  back straight, teeth white, smile.

  Be and look the part

  the girl always on the side

  never the girlfriend.

  “Hey, can we talk?” James asks at my locker.

  I’ve already given up on him, already cried myself to sleep and hated myself in the morning, hated that I could let some boy make me feel less than, or not good enough. I’ve already tried every pep talk possible and tried to convince myself he’s not worth my time, and that he’s not about to make me question my self-worth, but when he’s standing in front of me smiling I get weak, and my stomach tumbles into itself, and I feel like I’m gonna start crying again all at the same time. I hate feeling this way.

  “I gotta get to after-school,” I say.

  “Can I just . . . just lemme talk for a second, okay?”

  I stop in front of him, waiting. I realize that I don’t care anymore about the way I look in front of him—if my hair is a frizzy mess, or if I ate the hummus at lunch—so what if I have garlic breath? I don’t care that I’m wearing jeans and my plain sweatshirt—I’m just me, and if he doesn’t like me, if he’s not into me this way, then who cares? It’s time for me to find somebody who can handle all of me—just the way I am.

  “Look, I just . . . ​I want you to know I’m not hiding you like Jasmine thinks,” he starts.

  “What? What did Jasmine say? Did she say that? I didn’t . . .”

  “No, she’s right. I haven’t really been honest about . . . whatever. I just . . . ​I like you, but I just, I can’t . . . ​right now, I just . . .”

  “Stop. I get it,” I say, closing my locker and starting
to walk away.

  “You don’t, I don’t think you do.”

  “Don’t tell me how to feel,” I say, stepping back, trying to avoid the chemical energy that seems to be pulling me to him like a reckoning force. “I know exactly how I feel. I feel like you can’t treat me like this. If you want me, you gotta show me, and you gotta be for me. I am not a receptacle.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not some side chick, or whatever, that you can keep around when you want to feel all important. I’m not here for you in that way anymore.” I throw my book bag over my shoulder and start to walk away.

  “Look, I’m sorry, okay?”

  “Prove it,” I shout back. “Or don’t. I’m good either way. Really. I am.” And for the first time, I believe it myself.

  By the time I get to Jasmine at the bookstore, I’m shaking but not crying. In fact, I don’t even feel like crying. Screw him, I think. Hotness can only get you so far. I hug Jasmine and open my notebook. No matter what, I have my best friend, who has been there through everything. She’s my constant.

  FROM THE DESK OF PRINCIPAL JOSEPH HAYES

  Dear Amsterdam Heights Community,

  I am proud to announce that our school is being honored with the Chancellor’s Award for being a model of social justice education. Chancellor Carmen Freeman will be visiting our school to present the award and give special recognition to our staff and teachers who work tirelessly to ensure that our community is a safe place for everyone. This event will be a grand celebration and is open to the public. We hope you and your family will join us in celebrating.

  With gratitude and in solidarity,

  Principal Hayes

  Chelsea: Did you all see this yet?

  Nadine: Deleted it.

  Isaac: Haven’t checked email all weekend.

  Me: No. Thanks for the screen shot.

  Chelsea: A model school?

  Me: If by model they mean an example of how to shut down student voice. True.

  Nadine: LOL.