This felt like a setup for a lot of work—exactly what Mr. Baker is known for.
“With that in mind, your fall project will be about a modern issue that you feel is a changing point,” Mr. Baker continued. “I want you to choose a topic about something important to you and write a report and then present your research to the class. You can choose any topic you’d like, but it has to be a modern issue or include some aspect of social justice and how it impacts today’s society. Some topics students in past years have chosen include the First Amendment, marriage rights, gender equality, and protecting the ecosystem.”
A report and a presentation? Great…I could feel the cotton mouth already.
“You’ll have eight weeks to complete the entire project, but please do start thinking about your topics now,” Mr. Baker said.
Grunts and hmmms filled the room as Mr. Baker handed out a piece of paper that explained the project details. Not one sixth grader was happy about the idea of a fall project—well, maybe Alyssa.
“Does the topic have to directly impact us?” she asked, right on cue.
“That’s a great question,” Mr. Baker said. Alyssa always asks good questions. “It doesn’t have to directly impact you, but I hope during your research you will find a common link to your life. The completed assignment should include a two-page report and a ten-minute presentation on what you learned during your research.”
Not only did I have to pick a topic interesting enough to write two pages on, I had to give a ten-minute presentation in front of the whole class. Sixth grade was turning out to be harder than I expected. One good thing was we’d have two whole months to work on it, so I pushed it out of my mind and waited for the ending bell to ring.
* * *
• • •
During lunch the next day, Jas convinced me to meet him in the band room to listen to his drum solo. Jas plays the snare drum and is section leader in the Grove’s marching band, which is unusual for a sixth grader, but he’s that good. At the end of his audition over the summer, Mr. Towns, the band director, begged Jas to join the band—well, that’s what his mom said.
The stuffy band room was not exactly where I wanted to spend my lunch, but it was better than listening to Alyssa talk about her women’s rights idea (yep, she’d already picked a topic) and listening to Brent go through a list of ideas that had nothing to do with social justice. Plus, this solo was a big deal for Jas; he had arranged the whole thing by himself. He’s like a musical scholar. He studies drumbeats the way I study puzzles.
He’s figured out his life plan: he wants to be a producer—his music, with someone else performing over the beat. It’s the perfect combo, since he can’t sing or rap but as a producer he can be fully into the music culture without being in the spotlight.
Jas and I had the band room all to ourselves, and he got busy on the drums as soon as I sat down.
“So what you think?” he asked when he was done.
“It was good,” I answered.
“Good? I need more than that,” he said.
“More?” I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to say; all his sets were good to me.
“Close your eyes and listen,” he said. “Tell me how it makes you feel.”
He started again. This time I closed my eyes and concentrated on the music.
Sticks tip-tapped against the drums.
Bass vibrated through the floor and up the walls.
Cymbals rang out short, sharp tones.
Sound echoed from every corner of the room, wrapping itself around me.
“Yeah, it’s better than good,” I said when the set crashed to an end. “It’s powerful. Kinda like how it feels after I beat you in NBA 2K.”
Jas just looked back at me with a satisfied smile. He was going to rock the solo.
After dinner that night, the whole neighborhood loaded into the community center for a board meeting about the Simmons offer. The community center is an old building at the back of the Oaks, five blocks over from our house. It’s just a big, open room with wood-paneled walls that make it seem darker than it really is. And there’s always a dusty smell in the air.
The center used to be a hangout spot for neighborhood kids to use after school or on the weekends, to play ball or study. That was before some of the older kids got caught smoking inside the building. After that, no one was allowed inside without a community board member.
I hadn’t seen this many people pile into the center ever. Everyone was mad about the offer letter, and this meeting was for them to talk things out. Plastic chairs were arranged in rows across the length of the room. Most everybody decided to stand, because the plastic chairs would stick to your butt in this crazy heat.
Loud talking started before the meeting even got going. It turned out everyone had an opinion about what to do, and all those opinions were different.
“I call this meeting to order at 6:05 p.m.,” Mom said. “Please take a seat and let’s go over the agenda. First the board will provide all the information we have so far. Then we’ve invited Carla Glass from Simmons Development Group to answer any questions we have on their offer. Lastly, we’ll talk about next steps. I ask that we all respect each other.”
Mom couldn’t even finish reading the letter everyone had received before people started talking again, but they did at least take a seat.
I searched the room for my friends—nope, no one, not even Alyssa. I should’ve known none of them would be caught dead at a community board meeting.
“Here’s what we know so far,” Mom said. “The current terms of this offer are good for sixty days. I recommend we have a unified front. Let’s come up with a standard response.”
“What will the response say?” someone from the crowd yelled out.
“That’s what we are here to talk about,” Mom explained, but no one was listening.
“The offer for my house is more than market value. If we reject it, we could get less money later,” someone called out.
“Right!” someone else agreed. “And they may not make another offer.”
So much for a standard response. Everyone started talking over each other again. Mr. Hank tried to calm the crowd: “Listen, if everybody settles down, we’ll all get to speak.”
“Yeah,” I said under my breath, agreeing with Mr. Hank.
“Look, if I can get paid more than my house is worth, I want the money!” another neighbor yelled. “What are you doing here, anyway?” she asked, looking directly at me.
I swallowed my smart-aleck response and slunk away to the other side of the room.
Mom tossed a worried look in my direction. She hadn’t heard what that lady said, but she had to see the steam puffing from my ears.
“It’s about more than the money. What about our neighborhood’s legacy and heritage?” That was Jas’s mom, Mrs. Silva.
Tap, tap, tap. Mom banged a small mallet on the table. “There seem to be a lot of questions, so let’s welcome Carla Glass.”
Dad escorted Ms. Glass into the room. Everyone’s eyes turned toward her.
Ms. Glass was a small, pale-skinned woman with spiked brown hair. I stared at her pointy heels and wondered how she’d made it across the gravel driveway without tipping over.
She click-clacked across the floor and stood beside Mom. “Thank you for allowing me to be a part of these important discussions,” she said. “I realize this is a very hard decision, and I’d like to answer any questions you have.”
Several people jumped to their feet.
“If we accept the offer, how much prior notice will we get before our move-out date?” Brent’s dad called out.
“That’s something we’ll negotiate with each homeowner separately,” Ms. Glass explained. “Which could be a long process, but ideally, Simmons Development Group would take possession of the land sometime before the
end of the year.”
My heart dropped. The end of the year? That’s only a couple months away.
“What if we all reject your offer?” Mr. Hank asked.
“Well, we’ve prepared a very convincing offer,” she said. “In fact, we’re in the last phase of negotiations with the neighboring community, Carolina Farms.”
“Oh no,” I said to myself.
“What are you planning to build on our land?” Mr. Hank asked.
“We’d like to build two new multifamily dwellings and a small retail center. I will be more than happy to share the renderings with you.”
“Multifamily dwellings? That’s fancy talk for a condo building for rich people!” Mr. Silva yelled from the back of the room.
Most people must have been thinking the same thing, because more and more neighbors started shouting out of turn or fussing at each other.
“You can leave now! We aren’t selling!”
“Wait, you can’t speak for all of us….”
“What about me? I’m a renter.”
This meeting was getting out of hand. Mom decided to let Ms. Glass go before things got ugly. After another hour of yelling, the group came up with a list of responses to vote on at the next meeting.
It was 8:30 p.m. when I left the community center. This wasn’t going to be an easy fight.
The next day, after school, I decided to look into all the new buildings going up around Kensington Oaks. Ms. Glass from Simmons had said they were working with Carolina Farms, but I wondered if they were looking at other neighborhoods around ours too.
I asked Alyssa to meet me at the library on the block over from the Oaks. She was the smartest out of our crew, and I needed her to help me figure this stuff out—plus, I wasn’t even sure Jas and Brent thought the offer was something we should be worried about.
I cut through the path behind Mr. Hank’s house to get there. The path used to be an official pass-through that joined the Oaks with the next street, which housed the library and corner store. But it’s overgrown, and since the corner store closed a couple years ago, people barely use it anymore.
The branches swept my arms and face as I walked along the path. It’s the only cool spot in the Oaks on a hot day. The sun barely peeked through the mini-forest of trees—in the right area, a slight breeze might even blow by. In this very spot, I had almost gotten my first kiss. Almost being the most important word.
It was the last day of fifth grade, and Brent had dared me to kiss Ava Sánchez. I didn’t really like Ava like that, but the rumor was she liked me. Since the dare was loud enough for the whole class to hear, I had to go through with it. After class, Ava and I went onto the path. We stood under the trees, staring at each other with wide eyes. I figured I should make the first move, so I inched closer, leaned in, and closed my eyes. A wet smooch landed on the tip of my nose. I opened my eyes just in time to find Ava and Brent running off the path, laughing. I still don’t know if it was Brent or Ava who kissed my nose.
Shaking the memory away, I got to the library first and dragged two lopsided chairs over to the computer desk at the back of the room. We had the place to ourselves, except for an occasional teacher-looking lady checking out books.
“What are we doing here?” Alyssa asked when she sat down.
“Not sure exactly. Looking for anything we can find about Simmons Development Group. At the board meeting last night, the lady from Simmons said they had already bought some other land around the city.”
Being in the library made me remember all the story circles Mom used to lead here. She was head librarian when I went to Oak Gardens Elementary, before she became leader of the community board. She insisted I meet her at the library after school every day. I would rather have hung out with my friends in the neighborhood, but nope, she wasn’t having it. Instead, I’d take the short, lonely walk over to the library by myself.
It was usually just me and Mom. Aside from a special meeting or program, the place didn’t get much use. When I got too bored I’d hide between the long rows of books and sneak a nap, which lasted no longer than fifteen minutes before Mom called me to help sort and stock the shelves. The only good thing that came from my time in library jail was I’d become a master librarian. I could restock a stack of books in minutes and research any topic.
Alyssa logged on, started a Google search, and typed in Simmons Development Group. She got 37,300,000 results. She clicked on the first link—some place in Tennessee called Simmons Property Group—not the same people.
Then, after clicking on the third article, Alyssa said, “Wes, look—Simmons Development Group is the same developer for that new condo building downtown.”
A knot started to grow in my stomach. That’s the same building we’ve been marching to stop. The same building where Kari used to live. The knot got bigger. Between our neighbors fighting and Ms. Glass saying they wanted to take possession this year, I wondered if we really had a chance.
Alyssa and I spent the next two hours reading every article we could find on Simmons Development Group. Simmons had been busy clearing out land right near us.
I was just about to log off when I noticed something in an article I’d just finished reading.
“What’s Mr. Baker’s first name?” I asked, turning to Alyssa.
“Why? His teacher badge says Brian…no…Byron. Byron Baker.”
“Read this, an article in the Observer, ‘Is Gentrification the New Segregation?’ It says when neighborhoods are renovated to appeal to richer residents, it’s called gentrification.” I’d heard that word before, at some of the marches, but seeing it spelled out made it feel way more real.
“It’s the cause of many poor families being forced to move,” I said, continuing to read the article. “This was written by a middle school teacher named Byron Baker.”
“That has to be him,” Alyssa said.
“That’s what happened to Kari. The same thing will happen to us if we don’t fix this.”
I wasn’t sure what we were up against, but I had a good idea where to start.
* * *
• • •
The next morning during homeroom, I couldn’t wait to get Mr. Baker alone. After announcements and attendance, I cornered him to ask about his article on gentrification. He told me to come back after school. I couldn’t tell if he was mad or grumpy or just being Mr. Baker, but he said, “We should talk about this later.”
I could barely stay focused during math—I mean, how is the absolute value of -5, 5? I spent my lunch period in the school’s library. It was the perfect place to be alone. Maybe it was Kari, or maybe it was all those marches Mom had forced me to go to, but a fire was rising in my belly. The offer letter from Simmons Development Group was the kindling; the information in Mr. Baker’s article was the firewood. I needed to find a way to put this fire out.
I was reading over Mr. Baker’s article again when Brent strolled into the library.
“You didn’t come to lunch,” he said.
“I know. I’m reading up on this stuff about the development group,” I said.
“My dad said we could make some real money by selling our houses.” Brent’s words hit me hard, like a brick.
“What? Selling our houses?”
“I’m just telling you what he told me.” Brent tossed his arms in the air.
“Brent, that’s crazy. We can’t give up our neighborhood. They’ll just build another condo building. Where will that leave us?”
“Dang, Wes, chill. I’m just staying it would be nice to have some extra money.”
I knew Brent hadn’t seemed all that upset about the offer, but I couldn’t believe his parents would even think about selling their house, and Brent seemed like he was down with it. He has one of the best yards in the Oaks. It has the perfect number of trees. And his first-ever pet frog, Jumper,
is buried under the big tree in his backyard—we’d had a funeral for him and everything. How could Brent be okay with moving away?
“I gotta go,” I said, storming past Brent.
I left the library with a pukey feeling low in my gut.
After school, I went to Mr. Baker’s classroom. My brain was overloaded with so many things. I needed answers.
I found Mr. Baker sitting behind his desk, looking toward the door—almost like he was waiting for me. I’d never asked a teacher for help on something not about school stuff, but I took a deep breath and started talking—spitting out all at once that I’d read his article on gentrification and we needed to save the Oaks.
“Whoa. Wesley, let’s back up,” said Mr. Baker. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”
I started again. “I read your article, and the stuff you wrote about is happening in my neighborhood, Kensington Oaks. A development group made an offer to buy our houses, but we don’t want to move—I for sure don’t want to move.”
“Okay, go on.”
“You said gentrification is the new segregation. We need to stop it.”
Mr. Baker motioned for me to sit down. Then he leaned toward me.
“I didn’t say gentrification was the new segregation; I posed the question. I wrote that article to start a conversation about ways to combat unfair displacement.”
“It is unfair! That’s why we have to stop it.”
My voice was starting to rise.
“There’s no way to stop gentrification, Wesley.”
“So do we give up?” I asked, my voice completely raised.
“Not at all. You need to collect the facts first, and then you need a plan. Have you talked to your parents about this?”
“Kinda, not really,” I said. “I went to the community board meeting, but that was just a bunch of yelling.”
“Talk to them. And there are some city organizations you can team up with,” Mr. Baker said. “Wesley, I am proud of you for standing up for your community.” Mr. Baker’s usually booming voice was a bit softer.
Take Back the Block Page 5