by Renée Watson
I step back. “Yes.”
“I work for the Washington Heights Reporter, and I’ve been following what you and your friend are doing. I’d love to have you write an op-ed piece for our newspaper. Would you be interested in that?”
I don’t let on that I kind of don’t know what an op-ed is. I mean, I know what it is but not how to write one. I think she can tell because then she says, “Here’s my card. Let’s talk more. I’d love to help get your story more exposure.”
OP-ED FOR WASHINGTON HEIGHTS REPORTER
When Silence Speaks
by Jasmine Gray
All I know is Harlem. The constant bustling of 125th Street, vendors calling out to you as you walk by, trying to sell you earrings, shea butter, incense. All I know is how sirens pierce the night sky, causing no real alarm because it is just background noise to a sleepless city too used to distraction, numb to sounds that are meant to alert, warn. In New York, someone is always talking, yelling, cursing, preaching, laughing, saying something. Birds chirp, horns honk, basketballs bounce, and if you listen closely you can hear the swish-swish of shoulders rubbing against shoulders when strangers bump into each other as they squeeze through crowded streets. You can hear the wind moving through leaves. These noises confirm that life is happening, that people are moving about their day—communicating and not, loving and not, but moving still.
This is the environment I’ve been raised in since I was born.
There is always noise. There is never silence.
Maybe since I am the product of a city that is always making noise, always a symphony of chaos, I expected my school to welcome my loud voice and the voices of my friends. I expected them to understand that we are not making noise just to be a nuisance. We are taking a stand for what we believe.
Is it too much to ask that my school be a place where I can share my story? A place where I feel safe and encouraged to be me? Is it too much to ask that the leadership of my school talk to me, not at me? Isn’t it reasonable for me, a black teenage girl, to want to be seen and heard?
So many girls—and women—are expected to be seen and not heard. In so many spaces we have been given a seat at the table, but we are expected to sit at the table, grateful to even be there, and shut up and eat whatever is served to us. Even if what is being served is stale, nasty. Even if it is not healthy for our well-being.
My friends and I decided that we would not just be grateful to be at a school like Amsterdam Heights. We decided that we would be grateful and say something. It is possible to critique the place you love. I love Amsterdam Heights, and this is why I am so determined to make it a better school.
The noise we are creating is not background noise. We do not want to be the siren blending in so much that no one pays attention. We are sounding the alarm. This is an emergency.
We are not only sounding the alarm to the leadership of our school, but to all adults and men, boys and girls, community members, and city officials who have known what’s going on and have not said anything. We do not want the whispers, winks, and side conversations when no one in power is looking. While I’m glad to know so many people support us behind closed doors, it would mean more to have this support out in the open.
Your silence is saying something. Loud and clear.
We hear you.
Now hear us.
girlhood
by Chelsea Spencer
[gurl-hood]
noun
1. the state or time of being a girl.
As in: When I was.
As in: Used to be, and not one anymore.
As in: Don’t tell me who I am, how to act, what to say,
what’s ladylike, what’s proper, what’s prim, who I’ll be.
As in: An infusion of cherry bomb, red balm
lemon-lime explosion sea of honey bun clip-on
bubble-gum soda pop purple rainbow eye shadow lip
gloss blush brush unicorn tie-dye diamond-crusted
necklaces scarves that shimmer shine. The whole
outrageous girlish coquettish. Sparkling dollhouse—
As in: Girlhood, you make me race forward
pop culture raining down streamers of tutus
and gloves with emojis. Heart necklaces to best friends.
Lockets and lace and hold on tight.
You make me see myself tiara’d and sculpt molded,
make me see myself in ribbon’d bows.
2. girls collectively: the nation’s girlhood.
As in: Girl Scouts, girls of a certain status.
The girls twirled, the sorority girls, class-act girls,
girls on fire. The smart girls, the brainy girls,
the bad girls, the good girls.
As in: Why does everything anchor toward glitter?
As in: You can’t mass market us, fit us in a bubble,
feed us chewing gum and lies.
As in: We see the way you watch us.
As in: Let us tell you who we want to be.
As in: Back up.
As in: You won’t forget us.
As in: Watch us shut it down.
As in: Watch us break it loose.
As in: Watch us rise.
What Girls Do—
by Chelsea Spencer
Watch the way we—wind wild, burst forth.
Froth & glow. A palette of gold wings
or what it means to fly. A magnificent
trundle of up-rocking. Watch us flaunt,
grind, break, do the work, get the jobs.
Levitate. Yes we know what we want.
Jet-fueling fire-walker women.
From french fries to tamales to tacos
in the Heights to sancocho & cornbread.
Don’t we eat this world. Alive.
Don’t we leg stretch, cherry gum,
bubble blow strike loose & low, light up,
chisel, shine. Don’t we blind the competition
when we want. Don’t we bless
and flourish, pray & sing. Don’t we crave.
Don’t we show off, show up, show out,
stay late, wake early, rock when we want.
Open fire, don’t we run international.
Executive directing renegades, graffiti
artists, waitresses, mystics, healers, cleaners.
Can’t we wield knives. Strut. Stunt.
Weren’t we born rooster, born
snake & wild horse. Born below ground
& now we volcano. Don’t we dip when we want,
post up or dance, deliver. Don’t we crack gold
if you try to break us. Defiant.
Don’t call us pretty. Not your perfect
or primed. Our mouths can be clean or dirty.
We sleep on your criticisms, choke back jealousies.
Not one slight can crack code our brilliant skulls.
Electric. Don’t we do what we want. When we want.
Whenever we want. Don’t we know what’s bitter
& what’s sweet—& don’t we want ’em both.
Unafraid of being all the woman we are. Globe
spinning, orbit rising, hip grinding, body banging.
So oh yes. We plan to stay.
Walking the Streets in NYC
Inspired by Emory Douglas and
the Black Panther Party
by Jasmine Gray
Hello, Men of New York City.
This is a teenage girl calling you again.
A girl who walks past whistling men
on my way to school, on my way from school,
to and from everywhere I go.
This is just to say
I am not an object to call back to you like a yo-yo.
Don’t tug at me, pull me close.
My body is not yours for taking,
grabbing, slapping, commenting on.
I am not the quench for your thirst.
Don’t tell me to smile,
Don’t call me bitch when I walk away.
&nb
sp; Don’t make my fatness your fetish,
Don’t tell me my fatness is your disdain.
My body is not yours for taking,
grabbing, slapping, commenting on.
Let me walk in peace,
let my feet be graceful or not,
be high-heeled or combat boot.
Let my face be in deep thought
or anger or laughter or just be.
Let me be without trying to make meaning
of who I am.
Don’t call me
baby, ma, sexy.
Do not rename me.
You can’t name what you do not own.
You don’t own my body.
My body is not yours.
This Body II
by Jasmine Gray
My body is
perfect and
imperfect and
black and
girl and
big and
thick hair and
short legs and
scraped knee and
healed scar and
heart beating and
hands that hold and
voice that bellows and
feet that dance and
arms that embrace and
my momma’s eyes and
my daddy’s smile and
my grandma’s hope and
my body is masterpiece and
my body is mine.
Please sit,” Ms. Lucas says as we walk into her classroom. She is not alone. Mrs. Curtis is sitting there, along with Ms. Johnson. They are seated at a round table and gesture to the two open chairs. Jasmine looks at me, and I almost start laughing because I’m so nervous. What is happening?
“Are we in trouble?” Jasmine asks.
“Again?” I add.
“No, no . . . just, please sit down. We have some things we wanted to talk about with you,” Ms. Lucas says.
We each take a seat.
“I’ll start,” Ms. Johnson says. “I want to first take a moment to thank you both.” We stare back, not having any idea what she is thanking us for. “You two have had a very adventurous year, full of interesting choices, and although I haven’t agreed with all of them, I do applaud you for the work you have done in the school.”
“You have made some very bold choices,” Mrs. Curtis adds, “and we wanted to let you know that we have all taken notice.” I feel like I am in the Twilight Zone for real.
Ms. Lucas starts in. “I want to apologize. I didn’t fight hard enough for you. But when I went to that open mic at Word Up, and I listened to what you were saying and saw all those young women from around the neighborhood, and I just . . . I saw myself up there, and I am proud of you.”
Ms. Johnson adds, “We wanted you to know that we see what you’re doing, and we are also planning to raise our voices in some of our own ways. So, we thank you. That’s all,” she finishes, and starts to gather her things to leave.
“Wait, wait,” Jasmine says. “I mean, thank you, we . . . thank you, but what do you mean? What are you planning?”
“Don’t worry,” Ms. Lucas responds. “We are working on that, but we did want to let you know that your questions and your statements really got us all thinking, and we appreciated it. Thanks for coming in.”
“No, wait,” I say, starting to wonder what the staff has been through that they aren’t telling us. “We have another idea too, a list of demands that we’re putting together. Maybe you all can help us. We can work together on an action,” I say.
“Oh, no, no, no, that’s not what we meant at all. We just wanted you all to know that we appreciated your thoughts,” Ms. Lucas finishes.
“It’s going to take all of us,” Jasmine says, looking around at our teachers, the ones who have helped to push us all year, the ones who’ve had our backs. “We’ve really been thinking of what we want—besides our club being reinstated. And I think having you all stand with us will help.” She pulls her journal out of her backpack and reads the following:
Write Like a Girl—Our Demands
1)We demand a space for our voices to be heard and our thoughts and ideas to be valued and shared. We will not be silenced or shut down or shut out of the conversation just because you don’t agree with what we are saying. Hear us!
2)We demand an end to sexual harassment of any kind, including: threats, intimidation, or violence. In the case that harassment occurs, we demand a jury of teachers and peers and restorative justice circles that honor our voices.
3)We demand an inclusive curriculum that honors and includes the voices of BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, People of color) and LGBTQIA+ communities.
“Wow,” Ms. Johnson says, standing up and looking at the list over our shoulders. “This is powerful,” she says. “And what were you planning to do with it? How were you planning to get everyone’s attention?”
“We want to stage a walkout modeled after A Day Without a Woman,” Jasmine says. “And it would be even better if we could walk out with the women who make Amsterdam Heights run.”
Our teachers exchange a look.
“We want in,” Ms. Lucas says.
A DAY WITHOUT WOMEN AT AMSTERDAM HEIGHTS
How would the school run without you?
Who would send the emails?
Who would answer all the phone calls that come in?
Who would make the copies?
Who would greet the families?
Who would file the forms?
Who would order food for staff meetings?
Without you—
Who would make the building clean?
Who would empty the trash?
Who would maintain the hallways?
Who would mop the floors?
Who would wash the windows?
Who would make us look good?
Who would nurture the future?
Won’t you please join us next Wednesday at 12:00 p.m. to see what a day without you all would look like?
Last week we hand delivered flyers to all the women who work at the school. It’s our last week, and today is the day. We walk in together—me, Nadine, Jasmine, and Isaac, the four of us bonded always through this year. We’re all wearing our favorite activist shirts, and we make our way past security and toward our classrooms. Ms. Lucas gives us a thumbs-up in the hallway, and I can’t believe we’re actually going through with this. Our plan is to all walk out right after the first-period bell rings. After Principal Hayes does his morning announcements, we will leave.
The bell rings, and I hear his voice. I look around my classroom. There are about eight other girls sitting around me. We are sitting in Mr. Smith’s math class. I look around to see if they’re watching me to make the first move, but no one even looks in my direction. I wonder if they know I’m behind the action, and I also wonder if anyone’s actually going to move, when all of a sudden I see girls walking out of their classes through the window in the door. Whoa. Samantha, who I’ve always thought is cool, stands up and grabs her book bag. So does her best friend, Kristen, and their friend Camisha. They all start packing up. Mr. Smith turns around from the board and asks them to take a seat.
“Not today, Mr. Smith,” Camisha says, and opens the door to walk out. The rest of us look around and grab our book bags and papers. We stand up, almost like a chorus, and file out together.
“Um, ladies, ladies . . . what’s, uh . . . ,” Mr. Smith starts.
“You know, ‘ladies’ is old-fashioned, Mr. Smith. I like to use ‘womyn,’ spelled W-O-M-Y-N, so I don’t have to include the word ‘man.’ ” I smile, and a few of the other girls clap. Mr. Smith moves to call the front office. “There won’t be anyone there to answer,” I say, and walk out.
When we start down the hall the noises get louder and louder. I see girls hugging each other and calling out as they walk. I see teachers smiling and hugging one another. Ms. Sanchez is holding the door for all of us on the way out.
When we get outside, Leidy is standing with about twenty-five people f
rom all over the neighborhood. They are holding signs with different sayings and drawings.
Leidy is holding a sign that says: I support my black, brown, trans, immigrant, Muslim, Indigenous SISTERS. And then I start to see some of the male teachers—some who look like they’re just getting word about what we’re doing, and some who seem to have already known, with signs that say #I’mWithHer, and #SayHerName, and Ally for Life. All of a sudden I hear music, and I see that all the women of the school jazz band are walking outside playing their instruments, and the basketball team is walking out in their jackets, calling plays to each other the whole time.
It feels like a big performance project, so I start to say some of my poems out loud—the ones I have memorized. I am standing on the corner of 182nd and Audubon with all the women of the school, and we are raging and rallying and celebrating together. The whole crowd feels electric and energized.
I run to Jasmine as soon as I see her walking out.
“We did this,” I scream, and hug her. “We did this,” I say again, and I can feel the lights from the camera at our backs.
“Excuse me, ladies, we understand you’re the two behind this movement,” the camera operator says.
“We prefer womyn. W-O-M-Y-N. And yes, it’s us.”
Dad told me once that most people don’t change because they want to, but because they have to. “People start living healthier lives after a health scare. Laws change because the people demand it and add pressure to our leaders. Most times the things that change happen after a lot of pain or strife.” This is what I am thinking about as I listen to Principal Hayes make the morning announcements. Just when we think he is finished, he says, “And I’d like to end by apologizing to the entire student body and specifically to Ms. Lucas, Chelsea Spencer, and Jasmine Gray. After much consideration and after a lot of soul searching and reevaluating our protocols with our staff and key members from our Parent-Teacher Association, I have decided to reinstate the women’s rights club and the Write Like a Girl blog, effective next fall.” I don’t even know what happens next, because the class starts screaming and clapping. Isaac just keeps repeating “wow” over and over.
Before I can even let it sink in, Chelsea is at the door waving me outside. My teacher nods and lets me step out into the hallway. As soon as I close the door, Chelsea swallows me in a hug, squeezing me tight and rocking from side to side.