by Renée Watson
The only noise in the kitchen is her pen on the page crossing out and adding in, writing and rewriting stanzas, mixed with the slicing of scissors, the tearing of paper. On and on we go until the sun meets moon.
70
arreglar
to fix
Mr. Flores tells the class we will be working in pairs today. He puts me and Sam together. “These are your conversations for the activity,” he says. The words on the cards are written in English. It’s up to us to say them in Spanish. The answer key is on the back of the card. He gives each pair three cards with different conversations on them. “It doesn’t matter if these are or are not your real answers,” Mr. Flores says. “The point is to practice having conversations.”
Sam bites her lip and picks up the card that’s on top.
Sam: “Jade, ¿qué vas a hacer esta noche?”
Me: “Voy a ir a bailar. ¿Quieres venir?”
Sam: “¡Me encantaría!”
Me: “A las diez.”
Sam: “¡Buenísimo!”
And then we switch roles. But instead of saying what’s on the card, I talk to her in my own words.
Me: “Lo siento.”
Sam: “Yo también.”
Me: “Maxine has been on me about quitting things. She says I can’t just give up so easily. Especially on people.”
Sam: “My grandpa says I have a lot to learn. He says I need to listen more.”
Sam puts the cards down on the table. “He’s been giving me a ride to school. That’s why I haven’t been on the bus.”
Me: “I figured.”
Sam’s shoulders settle into her body, and she sits back in the chair. I am fine to leave it at that. This is a good start. Maybe we can talk more after school, but then Sam says, real low, “Sometimes, I don’t know—I’m just uncomfortable talking about this stuff. And I don’t know what to say to you when something’s happened to you that’s not fair. Like that day at the mall. I felt horrible, but what was I supposed to do?”
“Sometimes, it isn’t about you doing anything. When you brush it off like I’m making it up or blowing things out of proportion, it makes me feel like my feelings don’t matter to you.”
Mr. Flores calls out to us that it’s time to go on to the next activity. He walks past our desks to collect the cards. He looks at us, like he knows we weren’t doing the assignment. Like he knows we really needed to talk about something else.
71
redimir
to redeem
At the end of Spanish class Mr. Flores asks if I can stay and talk with him. He makes small talk with me while everyone gathers their things and leaves the classroom. “Well, I have to say, I’m very proud of you for what you’re doing for Natasha Ramsey,” Mr. Flores says. “I’ll be there for sure. And I’m giving extra credit to students who go. I’ll announce that tomorrow,” he tells me. “The art department is also encouraging students to go.”
“Thanks.”
Mr. Flores closes the door once everyone is out of the room. “I wanted to talk to you about the study abroad program,” he says. “I’ve really been thinking about what you said. And I wanted to let you know I am so sorry I overlooked you.”
It feels strange hearing these words from a teacher.
“I wanted to let you know I spoke with Mrs. Parker and shared your concerns. I told her I agreed with you. I also asked if I could secure you a spot for next year, and she said yes.”
“Wait. Really? She said yes?” I want him to repeat it. Just to make sure I heard him right.
“Really,” Mr. Flores says. “And so, as long as you continue to meet the requirements, you have a guaranteed spot for next spring.”
“Thank you, Mr. Flores. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. You did this.”
72
perdón
forgiveness
How I Know Sam Is My Friend
We ride the bus to and from school together.
When Mr. Flores tells us to choose a partner, he says we can’t be partners because we’re together all the time.
When something is funny, we laugh loud and long even if that means we’re the only ones laughing.
When something is sad, we don’t hide our tears from each other.
When we misunderstand each other, we listen again. And again.
73
microfono abierto
open mic
Mom comes home. She sees me sitting with Lee Lee and Sam at the table. Her smile can barely be contained on her face. I look at her, begging her to leave, not to embarrass me. She disappears into her room.
The three of us keep planning.
E.J. is going to deejay at the event while people file in and in between each performance. Mia is in charge of any donations made or art purchased. Maxine said she’d help out with that. Mia and Maxine also took over promotion for the event, and all of us have been passing out flyers at Northside and St. Francis. We took flyers to the Native American Youth and Family Center, too. Josiah agreed to set up a live stream of the open mic for people who can’t come. He has a few people from St. Francis coming to live tweet during the show. Sam is our greeter. She’ll make sure guests have programs and direct them to the art exhibit.
“Are we forgetting anything?” I ask.
“What about people who aren’t performing a poem or showcasing their art?” Sam asks. “I know that being in the audience is participating, but I don’t know. Maybe we can think of something for people like me to do.”
“What if we have poems printed out that people can read if they want?” I ask.
Lee Lee pulls out a folder from her book bag. “Yeah, people can choose from any of these. Mrs. Baker has been giving us poems as examples to use when we write our own.” She flips through the handouts and pulls out a few. “These are some of my favorites,” she says. She hands a stack to Sam.
Sam looks them over. “I’d love to read one of these,” she says. She reads through each poem as Lee Lee cleans off the table and I make lunch. When I set the sandwiches on the table, I ask Sam if she found one. She says, “I think so,” and holds up a poem by Martín Espada. “It’s called ‘How We Could Have Lived or Died This Way,’” she says.
“I love that one,” Lee Lee says.
I ask to see the poem and then read it to myself. “Yeah, this is perfect.”
74
la gente
the people
The gallery is full of family, friends, and community members. Everyone from Woman to Woman is here because Sabrina made this an official monthly outing. I try to get Jasmine and Mercedes to sign up for the open mic, but they are acting shy. Mr. Flores says he’ll read and so does Hannah, who I am surprised to see here. We haven’t talked since that day in the cafeteria. Bailey and Kira choose a poem to read together. And Maxine convinces Gina to do the same. They stand on the side, practicing before the show starts.
I don’t realize how many people are actually here until I stand at the front of the room, which we’ve designated as the stage. From here, I see Dad and Mom, their eyes beaming with pride. I see Andrew, who brought some of his colleagues. Mrs. Parker is here too, with her daughter and son-in-law.
And then Lee Lee grabs my hand and says, “Look.” With her eyes she points to the door. Mr. and Mrs. Ramsey are here. “We can start now,” she says.
“Wait a minute.” I get my camera and take a photo of the crowd. This one, I will not rip or reconfigure. This one, I will leave whole.
75
poema
poem
Black Girls Rising
by Lee Lee Simmons
Our black bodies, sacred.
Our black bodies, holy.
Our bodies, our own.
Every smile a protest.
Each laugh a miracle.
Piece by piece we stitch ourselves back together.
This black girl tapestry, this black body
that gets dragged out of school desk, slammed onto linoleum floor,
<
br /> tossed about at pool side, pulled over and pushed onto grass,
arrested never to return home,
shot on doorsteps, on sofas while sleeping
and dreaming of our next day.
Our bodies a quilt that tells stories of the middle passage,
of roots yanked and replanted.
Our bodies a mosaic of languages forgotten,
of freedom songs and moaned prayers.
Our bodies no longer
disregarded, objectified, scrutinized.
Our bodies, our own.
Every smile a protest.
Each laugh a miracle.
Our bodies rising.
Our feet marching, legs dancing, our bellies birthing, hands raising,
our hearts healing, voices speaking up.
Our bodies so black, so beautiful.
Here, still.
Rising.
Rising.
76
libertad
freedom
In 1832 Clark reported that York was on his way back to St. Louis to be reunited with him. Clark said that once York was free, he didn’t enjoy his freedom, and wanted to come back and work for Clark. Clark said York died of cholera along the way.
But not everyone believes that story.
Many believe that after York obtained his freedom, he traveled west again. A fur trader in north-central Wyoming said he saw a negro man who told him that the first time he came to that part of the country, he was with men named Lewis and Clark.
I see York traveling west again, knowing which way to go this time. I see him crossing rivers, crossing mountains, seeing the Native Americans who were so awed by him. This time he is no one’s servant or slave. This time he tells them the whole story, tells how he is the first of his kind.
This time he speaks for himself.
Of the art I’ve been making lately, this is the only one where I’ve included myself. I am with York, both of us with maps in our hands. Both of us black and traveling. Black and exploring. Both of us discovering what we are really capable of.
Acknowledgments
“She is a friend of my mind. She gather me, man. The pieces I am, she gather them and give them back to me in all the right order. It’s good, you know, when you got a woman who is a friend of your mind.”
–Toni Morrison, Beloved
Thank you to my mother, Carrie Watson, and my sisters, Cheryl, Trisa, and Dyan, for being my first up-close-and-personal mentors. What strong and brilliant women you are. We didn’t have much growing up, but we had each other and that was enough. What a gift to have sisters who are also my friends.
To my Oregon sister-friends: Chanesa Hart and Jonena Lindsey, your love is my buoy. So many times you have kept me from drowning. Thank you. Velynn Brown and Shalanda Sims, thank you for self-made writing retreats and for dreaming big with me.
Jennifer Baker, Tracey Baptiste, Tokumbo Bodunde, Dhonielle Clayton, Nanya-Akuki Goodrich, Cydney Gray, Lisa Green, Rajeeyah Finnie-Myers, Ellen Hagan, Kamilah Aisha Moon, Robin Patterson, Olugbemisola Rhuday, Kendolyn Walker, and Ibi Zoboi, you are my home away from home. You each came into my life at the perfect time. I am forever grateful to lean on, learn from, and be loved by all of you.
I feel so blessed to have been nurtured and raised by “the village.” Thank you to mentors past and present, especially Katina Collins, Crystal Jackson, and April Murchinson, who deeply impacted my high school years.
And to “I Have A Dream” Foundation, Self Enhancement, Community-Word Project, and DreamYard: working with your organizations deepened my understanding of what it means to teach for social justice, what it means to really see a young person and to come into a community with a listening heart. Every mistake, misunderstanding, challenge, and success has shaped my teaching practice and made me the educator I am today. Without your organizations, I would not have met Desiree, Ivory, Serenity, Brookielle, Domonique, Ebony, Kapri, Kia, or Sommer. I would not have witnessed Haydil, Denisse, Destiny, and Lydia setting the stage on fire with their poems. I am forever changed because of my work with these young women.
Jennifer Baker, Linda Christensen, Kori Johnson, and Meg Medina, thank you for reading early drafts and for encouraging me to tell this story. And thank you to my editor, Sarah Shumway, and the Bloomsbury team as well as my agent, Rosemary Stimola, for your continued guidance and support.
Copyright © 2017 by Renée Watson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First published in the United States of America in February 2017
by Bloomsbury Children’s Books
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Watson, Renée, author.
Title: Piecing me together/ by Renée Watson.
Description: New York : Bloomsbury, 2017.
Summary: Tired of being singled out at her mostly white private school as someone who needs support, high school junior Jade would rather participate in the school’s amazing Study Abroad program than join Woman to Woman, a mentorship program for at-risk girls.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016023127 (print) • LCCN 2016049667 (e-book)ISBN 978-1-68119-105-8 (hardcover) • ISBN 978-1-68119-106-5 (e-book)
Subjects: | CYAC: Mentoring—Fiction. | High schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | African Americans—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.W32868 Pi 2017 (print) | LCC PZ7.W32868 (e-book) | DDC [Fic]—dc23LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016023127
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