Piecing Me Together

by Renée Watson

  56

  liberar

  to release

  I print the photos I took today. Leave all of them intact, except the ones of the officers, their cars, those merry-go-round lights.

  Every tear I’ve been holding in goes onto the page.

  Tears for Mom’s swollen ankles after a long day of work, for her jar of pennies. Tears for every “almost,” for every “Things will be different next time.” Tears for what happened with Mrs. Weber, the lady at the mall, the boys at Dairy Queen.

  I didn’t realize how much I was holding in. How many cries I’ve buried.

  I have no more room.

  So I let it all out.

  Tears for every name of unarmed black men and women I know of who’ve been assaulted or murdered by the police are inked on the page. Their names whole and vibrant against the backdrop of black sadness.

  Their names. So many, they spill off the page.

  57

  silencio

  silence

  I know Sam is back from Costa Rica. I sit on the bus, and the closer we get to her stop, the more my stomach turns. I don’t know what to say to her, but I know I need to say something. The bus pulls up to her stop. A man gets on and walks all the way to the back, even though there are free seats closer to the front. A pregnant woman gets on and sits in the first available seat.

  Sam is not there.

  I think maybe she’s so exhausted from the trip that she overslept and now is running late. I look out of the window, thinking I might see her running down the block, calling out for the bus not to leave. But she is not there.

  My stomach settles. But just a little. Sooner or later we’re going to have to talk.

  Not having Sam’s company makes the ride seem longer. When I get to school, Sam is already there, which means she took an earlier bus or her grandpa dropped her off. I see her walking down the hall toward her first-period class. Instead of running up to her and trying to start a conversation, I test out a wave to see what her response will be.

  She waves back, but there is no smile. There is no stopping and waiting for me to catch up with her so we can talk. And so I know her coming to school on her own this morning was not about being too tired to get up early. It was about not wanting to be with me.

  58

  pieza por pieza

  piece by piece

  Today Maxine takes me to the Esplanade. I’ve never walked the whole thing, and I have a feeling Maxine is going to want to do just that, because she is dressed in sweats and Nikes. Portland’s Esplanade is a path for cyclists and pedestrians, and it goes along the Willamette River. I love seeing Portland’s waterfront park and bridges all at once. Camera in hand, I take photos as we walk, capturing the boats on the water.

  A cyclist dings his bell, so we step aside.

  We find a bench and sit down. The Tilikum Crossing bridge behind us, the Hawthorne Bridge in front of us. The sun is warm, but every few minutes Portland’s breeze embraces us.

  Maxine asks, “So, what’s been on your mind lately?”

  I tell her how I’ve been thinking about being stitched together and coming undone. “Do you ever feel that way?” I ask.

  “Absolutely,” Maxine says.

  “Really?”

  “When I went to St. Francis, most people assumed that because I was black, I must be on scholarship.”

  “I’m on scholarship,” I remind her.

  “I know. But you were awarded a scholarship because you are smart, not because you are black,” Maxine says. “I got tired of people assuming things about me without getting to know me.” Maxine squints and goes into her purse. She digs for a moment and then pulls out her sunglasses. “Sometimes, in class, if something about race came up, I was looked at to give an answer as if I could speak on behalf of all black people,” Maxine says. “It was exhausting.”

  “Very exhausting,” I say.

  A couple walks to the edge of the boardwalk and takes a selfie.

  I tell Maxine, “I didn’t think you dealt with any of that at St. Francis. Seems like you really liked it there.”

  Maxine crosses her legs, leans back against the bench. “I loved a lot about St. Francis, but just because I had a good experience there doesn’t mean everything was perfect,” Maxine scoots closer to me, lowers her voice and says, “And to be honest, not all of the negative messages were from white people.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “You remember my dad is in real estate, right? Well, when I was a little girl, like elementary-school age, I’d overhear him tell his clients who were black that they should take down the photos and artwork in their homes in order to have a better chance to sell.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. And I never heard him say that to white families,” Maxine says. “And so, I don’t know. I think I internalized all of that.” She stops talking for a moment, like for the first time she is realizing something. “I guess it made me feel like blackness needed to be hidden, toned down, and that whiteness was good, more acceptable,” Maxine says.

  Then she laughs as a memory comes to her mind. “I remember being so embarrassed about having friends over to my house.”

  “Are you serious? Why? You have a nice house; it’s like a mansion.”

  “Well, it’s, you know—black.”

  We laugh. Hard.

  “I mean, the art on the walls, the food my family eats,” Maxine explains. “When I was in high school, I wasn’t sure how my white friends would react. Remember—I grew up with parents who believed you should tone down your blackness when in public. I didn’t know how to function when the public came to my private home. I grew up feeling tremendous pride in our culture, what we as a people overcame and accomplished, but at the same time there was this message from my parents telling me not to be too black. At school, with my white friends and teachers, there were all these stereotypes I felt I had to dispel, and, with a lot of my black friends, I had to prove that I was black enough—whatever that means. It was complicated,” Maxine says.

  All this time I’ve been thinking how easy Maxine has it. How she has no idea how I feel, what I go through. We start walking again, making our way back to the car. The boardwalk is crowded now, cyclists and joggers whizzing by. Every now and then we see two women speed-walking and pushing strollers. Makes me wonder if they planned to get pregnant at the same time so they could have their children together. Makes me wonder if I will ever have a child and if Lee Lee will ever have a child and if we’ll ever push strollers and walk along a boardwalk together.

  Clouds are moving in. Maxine lifts her sunglasses up and nestles them into her hair. I ask Maxine, “What are you thinking about?”

  She smiles and says, “My grandmother. I’m thinking about how she’d say that sometimes, it’s just good to talk it out, you know?”

  “Yeah.”

  “My grandmother called it bearing witness. She’d sit on the porch with her sister and talk the night away. Sometimes gossiping, sometimes praying. I’d hear them confide in each other, telling each other things I knew I wasn’t supposed to know anything about.” Maxine hits the button on her keychain to unlock her door. We get in. “I didn’t get it as a kid. I mean, nothing got resolved, necessarily, so I thought it was silly to just sit and rehash everything that was wrong with the world,” Maxine says.

  “Yeah, that’s kind of depressing,” I say.

  “But I think what my grandmother was saying is that it feels good to know someone knows your story, that someone took you in,” Maxine says. “She’d tell me, it’s how we heal.”

  59

  escuchar

  to listen

  The next time I see Maxine, it’s for Woman to Woman’s very first Money Matters workshop. We’re having the meeting at a small church not too far away from my house. The pastor is letting us use the space. I love that I didn’t even need to take a bus or get a ride from Maxine to get here. I love that once it gets started, Sabrina says, “I’d like to
give a big thank-you to Jade, who is the one who suggested today’s workshop topic. So if you like today’s session, you owe it to her.”

  Jasmine starts clapping, and then everyone joins in.

  Sabrina pauses, letting the applause fill the space. “I want you all to know that your feedback is welcomed here. This is your program, and we want you to get the most out of it.”

  Sabrina introduces our guests for the day. The first person is Maxine’s friend Bailey, which is a surprise to me. Maxine leans in and whispers to me, “I couldn’t let you in on everything.”

  Sabrina tells us, “Bailey is going to focus on how to make and manage your money in college.” Then she says, “Aka don’t get any credit cards!”

  The panelists laugh, and our mentors all respond with a chorus of agreement.

  Sabrina introduces the rest of the panelists and tells us, “This is the first of many conversations, so if your question doesn’t get answered today, don’t worry.”

  By the end of the panel, my fingers are cramping because I’ve been taking notes nonstop. There are handouts, but I didn’t want to write on them. I want to save them and share them with Mom and E.J. and Lee Lee.

  Bring back something other than food this time.

  60

  anticiparse

  to anticipate

  I post my schedule on the fridge for Mom. I’ve put a big circle around the third Saturday of the month because that’s when Woman to Woman is going to visit Maxine’s sister’s gallery. Sabrina was not playing around when she said she took our input seriously. Mia is going to talk to us about being an entrepreneur, and then we’ll get a tour of her gallery. She’s closing to the public that day, and it’ll be just us.

  Mom teases me, “You can hardly wait, huh? Bet you are counting down the days.”

  “No, I’m not,” I tell her.

  But Mom knows me better than anyone could ever know me.

  Three more weeks.

  Twenty-one days.

  Five hundred and four hours.

  61

  las manos

  hands

  E.J. has a gig deejaying for a new restaurant. He works every Thursday and Friday night now, so usually it’s only me at home. Maxine calls and asks what I’m up to. I tell her, “Nothing, about to take out my braids so my mom can redo my hair.”

  “Want some company? Four hands are better than two,” she says. “I can help you take them out.”

  I call my mom, ask if it’s okay for Maxine to come over. She doesn’t mind.

  I tell Maxine to come over because I could really use the help. These braids are small, and I don’t feel like being up all night, doing my hair. As soon as I hang up the phone, I realize I just agreed to let Maxine come over and stay awhile. I am used to her stopping by for only a moment to pick me up, maybe look at my new art projects. But to stay, for hours at a time? I get anxious about the things she’ll see that maybe she hasn’t noticed before, like how the dining room table isn’t a real dining room table and how none of the furniture matches, or how there’s a crack in the ceiling, chipped paint on some of the walls.

  When Maxine gets to my house, I get a brown paper bag, open it, and set it on the floor next to the sofa. I go to the bathroom and return with two small combs, a pair of scissors, and a small squirt bottle full of water. “Ready?” I ask.

  “Yep.” Maxine grabs a throw pillow from the sofa and gives it to me. She sits on the sofa. I sit on the floor, propped up by the pillow between her legs.

  Maxine holds a handful of braids and clips the ends with the scissors. We start unbraiding, throwing the used added hair into the bag. After my hair is unbraided, Maxine sprays my hair with water to make it easier to comb through. The mist tickles the back of my neck. She parts my hair into fours, gathers the bottom section in her palm, and pulls the comb through my hair. It feels so good to get my hair combed. To feel the teeth raking gently against my scalp.

  I tie my hair up and clean up the living room. Maxine is just about to leave when Mom’s key opens the door. “Hi, Maxine,” Mom says. “Hey, Jade.” She kisses me on my cheek. Then she looks at my scarf. “You still want me to braid your hair tomorrow? We better get started on taking that down. It’s getting late.”

  I take my scarf off. “Maxine helped me.”

  Mom looks at me. “Well, let me comb it out for you—”

  “She did,” I tell her.

  “Oh,” Mom says. “Well, that was nice of you, Maxine.” Mom’s face is smiling, but her voice is not.

  “No problem at all,” Maxine says.

  Mom walks into the kitchen. “Well, since you don’t need me to do your hair, guess I’ll get dinner started. Unless Maxine already fed you.”

  “I haven’t eaten yet,” I say.

  “I better go so you all can have dinner,” Maxine says.

  Mom comes back to the living room. “You don’t have to leave, Maxine. Stay for dinner.”

  “Oh, no. You two haven’t seen each other all day—”

  “I insist,” Mom says.

  “Okay, well, thanks.” Maxine sits back down.

  Mom calls out from the kitchen, “One of these days, I’m going to try some of the recipes you gave Jade.”

  “You’ll have to tell me how that goes,” Maxine says. “I’m still experimenting and learning.”

  “Learning what? How to cook?” Mom peeks back into the living room.

  “I’m good with salads,” Maxine says. “But, ah, everything else? Nah.”

  Mom laughs. She waves Maxine into the kitchen. “Come on in here and let me show you a thing or two,” she says.

  Mom and Maxine start cooking. I ask if I can help, but Mom says I need to finish my homework. So I sit at the table in the kitchen and practice new vocabulary, purposely saying out loud the words that pertain to cooking.

  To Peel—Pelar

  To Cut—Cortar

  To Chop—Picar

  To Add—Agregar, incorporar

  To Mix—Mezclar

  To Combine—Combinar

  The aroma from Mom’s chopped herbs and sprinkled spices swims through the house. The pots are shaking to a boil; the oven is warming. I get Mom to try a few words. And while I am teaching Mom, she is teaching Maxine what a pinch of that and a dab of this means. While we wait for the food to cook, Mom adds in lessons on love and tells Maxine the remedy to a broken heart. Tells her how to move on. Mom looks at me, says, “You paying attention? You’ll need this one day.”

  62

  practicar

  to practice

  It’s the third Saturday of the month.

  Maxine and I are on our way to Mia’s gallery. The radio is on, and we are singing along as loud as we can. When it goes off, Maxine asks, “What do you know about that song? That was out when I was in middle school.”

  I laugh.

  Too many commercials come on, so Maxine changes the station.

  We get to the gallery just in time for Sabrina’s introduction. “I am so honored to be in this space today and so very excited for you all to meet the woman who owns this art gallery,” she says. “I hope you enjoy this conversation with our host, Mia, one of the few black entrepreneurs on Jackson Avenue. Her gallery opened last year, and we are very fortunate she is giving us her time today.”

  We all cheer and applaud as Sabrina welcomes Mia to the front of the room. Mia speaks about her journey to becoming a business owner. Then she shows us slides of her art gallery when it was just an abandoned building, and all the ways it’s transformed into what it is today. “I like to think of this gallery as the people’s gallery. That means, I curate work that speaks to current issues, that is made by artists from marginalized groups, and I also make it a point not to showcase only well-known artists who you all may learn about in school. I want to introduce audiences to contemporary artists, young artists. Black and Latino artists. And so this exhibit is in line with that.” Mia points to the walls.

  I look around the gallery, and I can’t w
ait to get up close, really study the work. We are surrounded by life-size portraits of black women. They look like if you walk up to the paintings and say hello, they will say hi back to you. They look like regal queens but also like my next-door neighbors. Mia says, “This collection is Kehinde Wiley’s first series dedicated to African American women. He’s a contemporary artist, and in this work he used women from the streets of New York City as inspiration and based the poses off historical portraits by painters like Jacques-Louis David and other painters who almost exclusively painted white women. So this is an exciting day for me, to be able to share this work—a work celebrating black women and giving them a place in art history—with you all, young black girls who I hope find your place in this world one day,” Mia says. “Any questions?”

  A few people ask questions, and then Mia releases us to roam around the space. Sabrina calls out, reminding us to think about what we’re feeling and experiencing as we take in the images, because we will close the day with a reflection.

  I look at the collection up close, taking my time to notice every detail. My favorite portrait is of a woman who is thick like me, and dark brown like coffee beans. I can’t wait to bring Lee Lee here. And Mom.

  Maxine stands next me.

  I tell her, “I think this might be the best outing we’ve had.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that,” she says. “I wasn’t sure you were enjoying yourself. You didn’t ask any questions.”

  “Oh, that’s because I wasn’t sure if my question was appropriate to ask right now,” I tell her.

  Maxine laughs. “What could you possibly want to know?” Her eyebrows are arched with suspicion.

  “Nothing bad—I just wanted to know if Mia offers internships. I’d love to work here and learn more about the business of running an art gallery.”

  “Oh! You could have totally asked that,” she says. “Just go over to her and let her know you’re interested.”

  “I can’t do that,” I tell her.