Hope Nation

by Rose Brock (ed)

  NEVER DOUBT

  THAT A SMALL

  GROUP OF

  THOUGHTFUL,

  COMMITTED

  CITIZENS

  CAN CHANGE

  THE WORLD.

  It’s as if Mead is speaking to us across time. I stop to take a picture, already sensing that I’m going to need to collect moments from this day to get me through the next four years.

  Pockets of people cheer at Courtney’s sign and CK’s sign. They hold them up proudly. People start to chant, “Hate does not make America great!” getting louder and louder with each repetition. We get to the stairs by the side of Coca-Cola World, and as we’re walking up, I turn around to see what I think will be a trail of people behind me . . . and instead find people for as far as the eye can see. Pink hats and baseball caps. The full skin spectrum. “The future is STILL female,” and “I’m with HER. And HER. And HER. And HER. And HER,” and “White Silence Is Violence. Black Lives Matter,” and “All People Are Created Equal.” Behind me, a woman in a black Windbreaker holds a portrait of Ruth Bader Ginsburg saying “I Dissent.” We aren’t just marching through the plaza—we are surrounding it.

  “Our Bodies. Our Minds. Our Power.”

  Everyone is waiting her turn to march—and then everyone is taking her turn to march.

  We skirt around Coca-Cola World. As we stride, the city watches over us. We find our way to Centennial Drive, which is now the main artery of the protest. We enter the bloodstream.

  Courtney and CK are ahead of me again, are holding hands again, and from the way they lean in to each other, I can construct the rough shape of a heart. Next to me is a white girl who looks about twelve years old, wearing a white T-shirt with a similar red heart on it; she wears red lipstick, and her hair looks like it was shaped by 1920s Hollywood. She isn’t carrying a sign; she is enough of a sign herself, walking purposefully with her mother beside her.

  I fall a little farther back. The woman beside me is carrying a Hillary sign. In front of me there’s a dark-skinned toddler on one of his moms’ shoulders—a black-and-white-striped long-sleeve shirt underneath his orange tee. He looks fussy, so his mom turns around and walks backward so he can face his other mom, who makes faces to cheer him up. He bursts into a cloud-break grin, facing us all now like he’s conducting the crowd. Everyone around him welcomes this.

  “Choose Love”

  “If you’re not ANGRY, you’re not paying ATTENTION”

  “Ctrl Alt-Right Delete”

  “Women Made Me Who I Am”

  “We Belong”

  “Injustice Anywhere Is a Threat to Justice Everywhere”

  “#loveislove”

  I spot a row of portable toilets and see a bespectacled guy with a bright pink Radical Queer Librarians poster. As I pass, a blond spitfire of a librarian joins him. I’ve noticed many librarian-related signs in the crowd today, although I can’t explain why. I am happy to be librarian-adjacent.

  I catch up to CK and Courtney, who are now talking about the largest crowds they’ve ever been part of . . . which turns into a conversation about the first concerts they ever went to . . . which turns into a conversation about whether an affection for the Jonas Brothers is more or less shameful than an affection for Nelly. (The answer, of course, is that neither is particularly shameful.) Courtney starts to serenade CK with “Burning Up.” CK responds with “Just a Dream.” We’re passing the convention center (more librarians, cheering from the sidewalk) and getting close to the modernist monolith of the new stadium, which in its construction phase looks like something Darth Vader deemed too ugly for his own backyard.

  We’re heading for the elevated length of MLK Boulevard, and as we turn onto it, a brass band a few dozen feet ahead of us starts to play. I don’t recognize the song at first, but then the tune kicks in and I realize it’s “I’m Every Woman.” Courtney and a few other women in the crowd start to sing along. But CK, for the first time, looks bashful. I don’t get it, but as the song goes on and the bashfulness persists, my gaytuition kicks in—in my case, it’s most useful for making largely useless pop culture connections.

  “Holy shit!” I say to her, far too excited. “Your real name is Chaka Khan, isn’t it?”

  Courtney, thinking I’m making a dumb joke, groans, “Otis.” Then she turns to CK and says, “Sorry about him. He was raised by goats.”

  “No,” CK says. “Actually, he’s right. My mom is . . . a big fan.”

  “No shit!” Courtney says.

  “Mmm-hmm,” CK confirms.

  “Well then, dude, you have to sing,” Courtney says, pulling at her arm.

  “After all, it’s all in you,” I add.

  “Shut up,” CK and Courtney say at once, then sing along as the four tubas at the center of the brass band bring the tune home.

  As we walk across the bridge made by the boulevard, we can see that the line of people continues long past where we were by the convention center. It could be ten thousand people, it could be a hundred thousand—after a certain point, it’s hard for the mind to map, since we’re so far beyond the realm of counting.

  “This is what democracy looks like!” we call out again and again as we continue down MLK. I can hear waves of cheers coming from ahead—when we get closer to the spot where the cheers are emanating from, I realize that the crowd is cheering the police officers who are watching over us. People are calling out thanks, and many of the police officers are smiling and waving back.

  There are no protesters in sight.

  My phone vibrates, and I see it’s a message from my mom, checking to see if everything is okay. As I’m texting her back, I look at Courtney and say, “Hey, text your mom.” She turns to CK and says the same thing. CK then turns to the woman next to her and says, “Text your mom.” The woman says it to the guy next to her. And then, all of a sudden, people are starting to chant, “Text. Your. Mom! Text. Your. Mom!” People are pulling their phones out, taking pictures, sending them. I take a video for my mom of the chant, then send it to her with the message You did this. We’re all good.

  As we get to the edge of the Fulton County Courthouse, there’s an African American woman standing on a ledge above the sidewalk. She looks like she, too, could be a librarian—glasses, cool earrings, white T-shirt, black skirt. She is hoisting a sign above her head in a way that reminds me of that famous shot of Sally Field in Norma Rae. It proclaims, “I Am My Ancestors’ Wildest Dreams.” We call our admiration out to her, and she calls us forward.

  The brass band pipes up with “This Land Is Your Land.” Behind them, another sign is hoisted: “Protect Each Other.”

  I turn around and face two women with matching “Be a Good Human” sweatshirts. Behind them, the streets are filled to the horizon line.

  “Repro rights, not rape culture”

  “You’re Not Putin Your Hands on This Pussy”

  “Unite with love. Resist with love”

  And beyond that, behind other signs, I can only make out words.

  “Love—”

  “Same—”

  “Black—”

  “Justice—”

  “History—”

  There are rainbow flags. Star Wars caps. More and more pink hats of every shape and size.

  It is a sea of people, and I feel that one of the strengths of this is that it not only joins us to the other bodies of humanity that are forming in cities and towns across the world today, but reaches back and unites us with all the other marches in history that were about justice and fairness and resistance to those who would undermine equality and opportunity. It’s as if when we march today, we are retroactively marching behind John Lewis in the sixties and marching on the mall for gay rights and abortion rights in the nineties and marching to protest the war in Iraq in the first decade of this century and the brutality in Ferguson only a short time ago. All of
these histories overlap in us, and they are the fuel to our fire.

  We are nearing the state capitol, the end of our route. We have by now been out here for hours, and our feet are starting to feel sore. But it doesn’t feel like enough, not nearly enough.

  The capitol is in view now. The band unexpectedly fills the air with “I’ll Fly Away,” and we all start to sing along. People who learned it from their parents or their grandparents. People who learned it from church. People who learned it from Alison Krauss. People who learned it from George Jones or Johnny Cash. We sing it at the capitol and then past the capitol, right up to the heavens.

  I’ll fly away, Oh Glory

  I’ll fly away in the morning.

  When I die, Hallelujah, by and by

  I’ll fly away.

  As I watch, Courtney puts her arm around CK’s shoulders. CK reaches over and takes off Courtney’s hat. Then she reaches to her own hat, removes it, and places it on Courtney’s head. Next, she puts Courtney’s on her own head. They sing the whole time.

  We strangers are all smiling at one another. We are so much louder together than we are on our own. I knew I was here to protest; I knew I was here to unite. But what I didn’t know was that I was here to remember why I am so in love with the world. As hard as it is, as difficult as it may be, I am deeply, unfathomably in love with the world that can have us here like this. I will always fear losing this world, but I must always keep in my heart what having it is like, and what loving it can bring. I must remember that I am not the only one who loves it. This love is shared by multitudes. It is visible in tens of thousands of different ways right now. Because when you are in love with the world, you want the world to know it.

  There is a sniper on the roof of the capitol, watching over us. When we wave to him, he awkwardly waves back. John Lewis is probably on his way to a reception by now, or on his way home. This isn’t a race; there is no finish line. There is simply a corner where some people are going one way and some people are going another.

  I’ll fly away

  I’ll fly away

  We cheer as the band ends the song, because music is a victory, and our march is a victory, and we love each other so much at this moment, all of us in this together.

  I don’t want to breathe this in—breath passes through too quickly.

  I don’t want to simply remember it—memory starts to feel unreal.

  I want this in my DNA.

  I suspect it’s always been in our DNA.

  As we reach Capitol Avenue, we need to make way for all the marchers behind us. When we get to the corner, I will ask CK which direction she needs to go. When she says left, I’ll say I need to go right—and then tell Courtney I’ll catch up with her later, so they can continue their conversation wherever it may go. I will watch them walk away in their matching-yet-different pink hats, and then I will wander through the city as we marchers continue on, the glory remaining in our hearts. Were you there? we’ll ask each other. I was there, we’ll say. From this center, we will spread to the far reaches, go to our homes and to the places less welcome to us. We will not stop being together. Our love will endure.

  DAVID LEVITHAN LIBBA BRAY ANGIE THOMAS ALLY CONDIE MARIE LU JEFF ZENTNER NICOLA YOON KATE HART GAYLE FORMAN CHRISTINA DIAZ GONZALEZ ATIA ABAWI ALEX LONDON HOWARD BRYANT ALLY CARTER ROMINA GARBER RENÉE AHDIEH AISHA SAEED JENNY TORRES SANCHEZ NIC STONE JULIE MURPHY I. W. GREGORIO JAMES DASHNER JASON REYNOLDS BRENDAN KIELY

  LIBBA BRAY

  Before and After

  IT’S A SCOWLING JUNE MORNING, and the threat of rain weights my skin and sits on the back of my tongue with a metallic tang. I have plans to go to the Holiday Inn pool with my best friend, EJ, later in the day, and I’m hoping the rain will move through quickly, like it often does on summer days across the plains of North Texas. My precollege summer stretches out before me in mental, sun-drenched Polaroids of joyful freedom. I am eighteen. Nothing lingers. Nothing is permanent.

  Three weeks ago, I graduated from Denton High School, class of 1982. On my chest of drawers is a photograph of me in my purple-and-gold cap and gown, a pair of saddle Oxfords and ankle socks poking out below the hem instead of the heels my mother would’ve preferred. I’m posing beside my racing-green Toyota Corolla sports car with its stick shift that makes me feel like James Bond with every thrust into the next gear. It’s beautiful and small and quick. My brother has put in a kick-ass stereo and speakers, and I’m just pretentious enough to announce to every boy who cops a ride with me, “The speakers? Yeah, they’re Bose” as some sort of cool-chick mating call. There’s no AC, but if you roll down both windows and drive fast, the wind does the job fine. There are seat belts too, of course.

  But who needs those?

  I’m up early to give my father a ride to the DFW airport. He’s got a business trip to Connecticut, and now that I’m a big bad graduate, I’m responsible enough to make the twenty-five-mile drive to DFW and back. My mother has started her litany of Things I Must Do, but I barely hear. I’m thinking about the pool and my hopes that this will be the summer my pale, freckled skin finally achieves that elusive golden glow that makes EJ’s legs look so good in shorts. It’s the reason I can be talked into slathering myself in baby oil and iodine, the mixture shaken to a cosmetic pink in the Johnson’s bottle, then lying on a towel-draped pool chair under a take-no-prisoners sun for hours until I burn and flake and freckle anew. EJ and I will go to the pool later, after the rain. We’ll listen to Queen albums in the cool dark of her house, which will be empty as always. Her father travels constantly, and her mother abandoned EJ and her little sister six months after my parents divorced and my father moved to Dallas with his secret lover, John, the stepfather I am not supposed to tell anyone about for safety reasons. Or she and I might go into Dallas to flip through albums at Sound Warehouse on Lemmon Avenue, where the employees—a mix of Jesus-bearded hippies and spiky-haired, skinny-pants-wearing New Wavers—make us feel flirty and giddy. Maybe we’ll go to one of our small town’s three movie theaters, even though we’ve seen every movie out. We could walk the mall. Grab a dipped cone from the DQ. Some of our friends are still in town and not away on last family vacations before college. Come dusk, we could all trek out to Hog Valley and sit on the trestle bridge listening to Black Sabbath, telling ghost stories while we wait for a possible glimpse of our terrifying local legend, the Pigman, rumored to be a murderous half-man, half-pig “wereswine” possessed by the devil himself.

  The real action in our town doesn’t happen until after dark, though, when anybody with a driver’s license races up and down University Drive, a.k.a. “The Strip,” looking for a date, for a party, for a fight, for something to remind them they’re young and alive. But that’s not really our crowd. We wouldn’t be caught dead cruising with all the jocks and socialites . . . on purpose. I mean, if it happens accidentally, sure, fine. “We’re just driving, not cruising,” we’d surely sneer, and turn up AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” as loud as the radio could go. Then I’d punch the gas, shifting rapidly—first, second, third gear—as we’d squeal down the long flat of asphalt toward the distant rise of I-35, the highway that crosses our huge state from the Rio Grande Valley to the plains of Oklahoma.

  But we’ve done all that before. We’re itchy for something different. We are nowhere, wanting to be somewhere, idling at the starting line of adulthood. I’m impatient for it. I’m impatient for the life I’ve daydreamed about—boys, college, theater, travel, new adventures, maybe true love—to begin. That’s why I love driving and the freedom it offers. Rambling across country roads past sunburned fields populated by cattle and bluebonnets and the occasional faded windmill gives me space to think and dream. With each drive, I test myself to go farther from home and toward independence.

  “You ready?” my dad asks as I finish up the last of my Sara Lee butter pound cake.

  I will never eat Sara Lee butter pound cake again. I won’t
even be able to tolerate the smell of it.

  I smile and grab my car keys. “Yep.”

  And then the two of us are on the road, a trip that will forever divide my life into a “before” and “after.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “You’re doing a great job,” my father tells me, and I puff up inside. Competency feels good. Feels grown-up. I want so much all the time, but I’m unfocused, my considerable energy everywhere at once, like a sprinkler on high. My teachers often chided me, “You’ve got so much potential. But you’ve got to take things seriously.” It’s not that I don’t take things seriously. If anything, in the heart that I hide from most everyone, I take things too seriously. I want so much. I dream of being an actress or a comedienne, like my favorites, Gilda Radner and Bette Midler. I’m insecure, though. Especially about my looks. Most of my friends have already had sex. I’m the last virgin standing. My older brother, not known for his boundaries, has regaled me with unvarnished tales of his sexual exploits, and I can see and hear from what he and his friends talk about that how a girl looks is everything to them, which is disheartening, terrifying, and infuriating. How will I ever be enough? How will I ever stay enough?

  I’ve convinced myself that the only way I’ll ever be sure I won’t be discarded like my mother is if I’m perfect. On the surface, I’m funny, sarcastic. But underneath, I work impossibly hard at not letting any cracks show. I’m terrified of my own vulnerability. I keep it at bay with jokes most of the time and silence the rest, lost to daydreams and doodling and the never-ending hope that I will prove my teachers right about that potential, that I will find a boy who loves me and thinks me beautiful. That I will believe myself to be beautiful. That I will not spend the rest of my life working so hard at being perfect in order to feel I have the right to take up space. In college, I tell myself, things will be different. In college, my real life will begin.