“Save Our City, this is Monica speaking,” a sweet voice poured into my ear.
“Ms. Monica?” I hadn’t expected anyone to answer this late. I’d pumped myself up to leave a message, not have a real conversation.
“Yes, Wesley? Is this Wesley?”
“Yes. This is Wes. I mean, Wesley. I was calling because you told me to get creative, and I think I have a good idea to stop Simmons Development Group.”
“Okay, I’m listening,” Ms. Monica said.
“Can we meet tomorrow, after school in Mr. Baker’s class? I have a lot to show you.”
“Of course. See you then.”
That night in bed, images of kings and queens filled my head. Kensington Oaks was the most regular-degular neighborhood around; there was no way we were named after some fancy people dressed in velvet short pants, long socks, and pointy shoes.
* * *
• • •
Ms. Monica was right on time for our meeting the next day. I’d also invited Mr. Baker—I figured he could help too. I was so hyped that before they could sit down, I started explaining everything I’d found about Mr. Pippin and Pippin Village and what I’d read about that other town and the historic designation.
I rambled on and on about the mill, and how the city officials ran Mr. Pippin off, and how the Oaks should be named after him, not some royal people.
Mr. Baker turned to Ms. Monica and asked, “Did you know any of this?”
“I’m ashamed to say I didn’t,” she said.
“Me either,” Mr. Baker said.
“He was the first Black mill owner in the state,” I added. I knew that had to be a big deal—back then Black people didn’t hardly own anything.
“Unfortunately, this happens a lot to Black people’s history,” Mr. Baker said. “Their achievements are often buried or stolen.”
Dad had told me stories of that happening a lot with musicians and inventors back in the day.
“I think the city hated him so much that they just acted like he was never here,” I said. It kinda made me sad to think about all the good he’d done creating jobs and a whole community, and no one even knew about it.
Mr. Baker was super quiet. I didn’t even hear him breathing. Maybe I was talking too much.
Then Mr. Baker took a deep breath and said, “Wesley, I’m so proud of you for finding this. Even if the state doesn’t designate Kensington Oaks a historic district, you’ve discovered a historic hero in Frederick Pippin.”
I was proud of me too. This could really help the Oaks and show people how important Frederick Pippin was.
“I’ve never gotten a district designated as historic—it takes a lot of paperwork and time and a lot of luck.But I’m certainly up for the challenge, and you have the full support of Save Our City!” Ms. Monica said.
“For real?” I asked.
“Yes, you do. Give me what you have so far and we’ll figure out what’s needed to file the paperwork.”
“Okay, sure….It’s just, I do have one problem…,” I started, lowering my voice. “My parents kinda banned me from working on the Simmons offer.”
“Kinda banned?” Mr. Baker asked.
“Well, banned…like a complete ban,” I said.
“What happened?” Ms. Monica asked. “I thought they were okay with you helping.”
“Well…I haven’t exactly been keeping up with my schoolwork…,” I said.
“This process stops right here until you get your parents on board,” Mr. Baker said.
“Yes sir.”
“After you get your parents’ permission, I’ll be happy to help,” Ms. Monica said.
I nodded. “One more thing, Mr. Baker. I was wondering if I could have more time on my fall project. Maybe a couple of weeks? I want to add the information about Mr. Pippin to my presentation, but I don’t think it will be ready in time,” I said.
“I’ll give you an extension on your presentation, but your report has to be turned in on Monday,” Mr. Baker said.
I headed home with a twisted-up feeling. Mom and Dad had said the adults needed to handle this, and I’d gone behind their backs. I knew they’d be happy to learn about Mr. Pippin; I just needed them to tag me back in so I could help.
* * *
• • •
The next morning, I paced my bedroom floor back and forth, trying to think of the best way to tell my parents that I’d disobeyed an order. The clock on my nightstand blinked 00:00—it was old and needed new batteries—but I guessed it was around seven-thirty. I decided to just present the facts. They would understand why I did it. Right? I hoped so.
It was Saturday; the music should be starting any moment. I stopped pacing and sat on the end of my bed, waiting for the first sound of life outside of my room. As soon as Mary J. Blige’s raspy voice filled the air, I knew it was time. I crept down the hallway to the kitchen and found Mom half sweeping the kitchen floor, half dancing while Dad danced behind her.
“Excuse me,” I said loudly, before they could get any closer.
“Good morning, sweetie,” Mom said.
At least she’s in a good mood.
I took a deep breath. “So…I found something interesting when I was working on my social studies project. Can I show it to you?”
“Sure, we’ll look at it later,” Dad said, his face buried in Mom’s neck.
“It’s kinda important,” I said. “Can I show it to you now?”
“Of course you can,” Mom said, easing away from Dad.
“Okay, good!” I said.
They grabbed a seat on the couch while I ran to my room to get the research I’d collected. I came back and placed the overflowing folder of articles, pictures, and newspaper clippings on the table in front of them and explained that I’d switched my topic from climate change to gentrification.
“About eighty-five years ago, Kensington Oaks was called Pippin Village,” I started. “It was named after Frederick Pippin, a Black man who owned a lumber mill and a bunch of houses on this land.”
I went on to tell them everything I’d learned and how the history of Mr. Pippin had been buried. I kept expecting them to yell at me for not dropping it when they told me to, but right in the middle of my explanation Mom pulled me over and gave me a hug. I took in the smell of lemony floor cleaner on her skin and let her hold me for a minute.
“Son, this is incredible. You found all of this? On your own?” Dad asked.
“Well…yeah…I was looking for something to add to my presentation, but when I saw how another community dealt with gentrification, I was thinking we could use this information to get the Oaks named historic, and then Simmons can’t redevelop it.”
“That sounds great, but I’m pretty sure that process is a long, hard road,” Dad said.
“It’s better than waiting for Simmons to kick us out and build another condo building,” I said. “We have to protect our history, right?”
Dad smiled. He knew that I’d just used his line against him.
“Wes is right,” Mom said to Dad.
Mom was on my side. I wanted to jump up and down, but I decided against it. The last time I got this excited—when the first offer expired—that good feeling was over quick.
“So, can we try to get the designation?” I asked, looking at Dad.
“Let’s see what we need to do,” he said.
From what I read about getting a community named a historic place, Kensington Oaks had to have some kind of important historical buildings, structures, or objects and proof of their importance. Mom, Dad, and I went back through all the pictures and articles looking for something we could use. And after an hour, we’d come up empty.
When we didn’t find anything after another hour, Mom got on the phone to talk to Ms. Monica about what we needed to file the paperwork with the Nati
onal Register of Historic Places through our State Historic Preservation Office. We also decided to keep this new strategy and the information about Pippin Village just between us for now. We couldn’t risk word of it getting out to Simmons Development Group. I couldn’t wait to spring it on them like, bam!
Monday morning during homeroom, I caught myself staring over at Mya’s old desk. The class had voted to retire it like an old NBA jersey, so there it sat—empty. Only Mya could get a desk retired after only a month and a half. Alyssa said she was doing fine at her new school and even asked about me on Halloween, but I wasn’t ready to talk to her yet.
“Hi, Wes.” Alyssa interrupted me from my thoughts. The smell of cocoa butter and vanilla lingered around her. I couldn’t tell if it was her hair or skin—it could have been both. Her braided-up ponytail was tied with a green ribbon. It matched her dress perfectly.
“I didn’t see your name on the presentation list for today. When do you go?” she asked.
“Ummm, I finished my report, but I’m not ready to do my presentation yet. Mr. Baker said I could have a little more time.”
I hated keeping anything from her, but I couldn’t talk about my new research yet. We weren’t sure the historic designation would work, and with her mom being on the board, we couldn’t risk word getting out.
For the first time all year, I was excited for social studies block. Both Alyssa and Brent were presenting, and I couldn’t wait to see their presentations.
Brent went first.
He was cool as iced tea when he approached the front of the class—something I only wished I could be. His topic was “Preserving the First Amendment.” He started by explaining that the First Amendment gives us the freedom to practice whatever religion we choose, freedom of the press to report things, freedoms of assembly and petition, and freedom of speech to not get into trouble for saying what we think. Brent’s focus was on how the freedom of speech of athletes was being violated and slowly taken away because some people think athletes should just play sports and not talk about things going on in the world around us.
It was the least boring social studies presentation I’d ever seen—Brent even had the SportsCenter theme music playing during his intro.
He also included a slideshow that displayed over twenty instances of football, basketball, soccer, and baseball players being punished for speaking out against social injustices, like police brutality.
His closing line was a quote by Colin Kaepernick: “I’m going to speak the truth when I’m asked about it. This isn’t for look. This isn’t for publicity or anything like that. This is for people that don’t have the voice.” That last line made me think about Kari and how Officer Stewart had silenced his voice. At the end of his presentation, Brent dropped to one knee in front of the class to drive home the point. Of course, he got a standing ovation.
After Brent’s presentation, Jaslene did hers on immigration rights and Dex did his on climate change—it was really good, so I’m glad I didn’t do mine on the same thing.
Alyssa’s was the last presentation of the day. I knew she’d kill it. She’d chosen women’s rights as her topic. Her voice was calm and confident as she explained how even at our ages we should be thinking about preserving women’s rights.
The boys in class shifted nervously in their seats, trying to avoid Alyssa’s eyes.
This was nothing new to me; Mom had preached this sermon before. Just this spring, I’d marched in a women’s rights rally. Dad and I were the only men there yelling, “My body, my rules!”
Alyssa passed around photographs of women and girls marching together in rallies all over the country. She told us about the pay gap between men and women and especially between men and Black women. Black women earn only sixty-one cents for every dollar white men earn. Then she explained how Black women aren’t treated the same as white women, mainly with medical treatment in the United States, because doctors don’t always believe them.
My favorite part of her presentation was a videotaped interview with her mom. Ms. Watkins talked about her own experience with childbirth. When she was pregnant with Alyssa, she was rushed to the hospital twice—both times she was sent back home. At some point, she got really sick and had to have an emergency birth.
Alyssa was born two months early and stayed in the hospital for a whole month. Her mom almost died during the delivery. Ms. Watkins ended her interview by saying, “I believe I got worse care because I am a Black woman.”
Alyssa finished with “Black women are almost four times as likely as white women to die from pregnancy- or childbirth-related causes.”
After the video was over, the whole class sat silent, our butts glued to our seats. The air was smog thick. Mr. Baker let us sit there quietly until the bell rang. I was so proud of Alyssa. I knew how hard it must have been to share that much of herself with the class.
“Alyssa,” I said, walking over to her. “You did a great job.”
“Thanks. I wasn’t sure about showing the video, but I’m glad I did.”
“You know, my mom had some bad stuff happen when I was born too. That’s the reason I’m an only child.”
“I thought you always said there was only room in the family for one fresh Henderson.” Alyssa smiled a smile sweet enough to warm up my insides. I felt even closer to her now. We were cut from the same cloth, like Mr. Hank would say.
Brent was leaving.
Dad told me, not Brent. Without warning, my legs got noodley. I would’ve collapsed on the floor if the couch hadn’t caught me.
My friendship with Brent was in this strange back-and-forth game—like an endless Ping-Pong match with no winner. We weren’t fighting or anything, and he was still my best friend, even if neither of us was acting like it.
Deep down I’d known it was possible he would leave, but I never thought it would really happen. Simmons had been hard at work trying to get families to accept the new offer. Mom and Dad had gotten three more calls from them just last week. I figured someone would give in, but I hated that Brent and his parents were the first family to take the offer.
After I heard, I called him to ask about it.
“My dad told me y’all are moving…,” I said.
“Yeah, it’s true,” Brent answered.
“Dang, that’s messed up.”
“Yeah…”
I sighed. “So, when you leaving?”
“Not sure, but soon….We already found another house.”
“Oh…dang. Where is it?”
“Like fifteen minutes away.”
“You still going to the Grove?”
“Yeah, of course.”
I sighed again but felt a little better. “Well, see you around, then.”
“Yeah, see you around,” said Brent.
That left me with nothing else to say. It was really happening.
On the day of the move, I watched from my bedroom window as Brent’s dad, Mr. Williams, backed the moving truck into their driveway. Their house was on the street behind mine. There was nothing but a raggedy fence and an overgrown oak tree separating our backyards. I remembered six years ago when I’d watched the Williamses move in.
It was a muggy summer day and we’d just finished dinner. I watched from the kitchen window, excited to have a new kid move in, and he looked like he was my age. He’d kicked his football over the fence and was attempting to climb over after it. A lady appeared at his back door and yelled for him to get down. She said he could get the ball in the morning.
I’d waited and waited the next morning for him to come. While I ate breakfast, I’d watched for the boy to appear and try to climb the fence again. When he didn’t, me and Dad went over to take it ourselves. I begged Dad for a whole hour before he said yes. I tucked the football under my arm and knocked on the door. It swung open and there was a tall, dark-skinned boy with a grin as w
ide as his face. “I’m Brent,” he said. I knew right away we would be best friends.
Brent and I spent the next six years doing everything together—playing video games, shooting hoops, cracking jokes—everything. Our parents said we were brothers, and even though I knew we weren’t, I wished we were.
Maybe that’s why it felt like somebody was kickboxing my heart as I watched Brent pack his stuff into the moving truck. I knew I would have to go over and say goodbye, but I didn’t want to.
I pulled my hoodie low and tight and headed toward the fence. I hopped it with one easy jump. Brent was waiting for me with the same smile he always wore. “What took you so long?” he asked.
I put on a phony smile and said, “I was waiting for you to do all the heavy lifting.” Brent punched my arm and laughed. We stood there tossing random chatter back and forth. Then Brent brought up how big their new house was.
“It has a whole extra room. My mom said we could use it for when people sleep over,” he said.
“Oh yeah? That’s cool,” I said, more to myself than to him.
We went on trading words I would never remember. The lump in my throat got bigger every time I saw another box lifted into the truck.
When all the boxes were loaded, Mr. Williams called Brent inside for one last sweep. I followed Brent into his room. A gloomy haze hovered over us. This was it, the last time I would be in Brent’s room. No more wrestling on his too-little bed. No more banging out beats on the door of his closet—it had the perfect bass. No more fake study sessions while we snuck to play NBA 2K instead.
I thought about who would move in next. No matter who it was, they would never replace my best friend. Brent must have read my mind, because he said, “I bet some corny kid will move in after we’re gone.” I wasn’t in a laughing mood, but I giggled a little just to make Brent feel good.
We made our way to the front of the house and out the door. Brent’s parents were waiting.
Take Back the Block Page 11