Watch Us Rise: Chapters 23–29

“No, it’s more than that. I’m just...I’m just into celebrating as a community. I mean, even the lobby of our building is all-inclusive with a tree, a menorah, and a kinara—for Kwanzaa,” I add, showing off a little, “and so I feel like celebrating everything too. I’m for everyone. I also wrote a poem for Jasmine. Do you wanna hear it?”

Makeup meant to cover up and whitewash
Resolve to go natural, obliterate your machine

“Well, she would say that as women, we have to fight for our bodies and minds, and that no one can silence us or shut us down, and people should value our opinions. That’s what she would say. And on top of that, Mom should really stand up for herself more, and she shouldn’t always be so quiet and subdued. If I’ve learned anything so far this school year, it’s that women need to raise their voices.”

My parents are very progressive when they want to be, and, I’m beginning to think, when it’s convenient for them.

“Oh, honey, I just never thought I’d be alive to see a man do all the work in the kitchen. I mean, it’s fine if you want to work and leave your kids in daycare all day and choose different life paths, but, honey—I would imagine you would want to still do a bit of the domestic work around the house.”

“Not that it’s all bad,” my grandma continues, “but a woman's work is with the children too, you know? A man can only do so much before he feels taken advantage of, and begins to resent his situation.”

I’ve always known my mom and grandma have a testy relationship.

Hospice.
The first time I heard that word was in a family meeting with Dad’s doctor. The doctor talked with Jason and me about what to expect in the coming months. He said as Dad’s cancer progressed Dad would go to hospice or have a nurse come during the day and help keep him comfortable.

Dad was adamant that he wanted to die at home, not in a facility with strangers.

Forever, you are with us.
Scrutinizing sculptures, paintings,
mixed media, monologues & poems.

She just talked about how much she would miss Sunday mornings in the kitchen with him, listening to old-school R&B and gospel, making cheese grits and sausage gravy—a holdout from when he grew up Down South.

I resolve to practice guitar and get some new DJ gigs.

Isaac writes: I do solemnly swear to blow up as an artist—make art that matters.

You are too full
on your own corrupt metaphors & similes to see that
You don’t own me.

You can keep your brazen, outrageous,
hateful hands—to yourself.

Actually, sometimes I agree with that last sentiment, and I consider writing a check plus next to it but stop myself.

I resolve to see black women as multidimensional,
be multidimensional.

“And he also might have been singing some of the statements,” Nadine finishes, and as if on cue, Ramel and James walk down the hallway, Ramel singing, “I resolve to raise my hand more. I resolve to answer more questions in algebra. I resolve to use my voice.” He enters a falsetto on the last note, and we all start laughing.

I started crying right there, standing in a crowd of people, surrounded by noise and the early bustle of the city.

“Girls,” she says. “I’m sorry, there was nothing I could do. Principal Hayes dissolved our club.”
“Dissolved?” I ask. “You mean he shut it down?”

“Yes, he can. You two are way outside the usual boundaries. I mean, personally, I applaud what you are doing, but this just can’t exist within the confines of a school club. It’s becoming a distraction to the education of other students.”

We dump the remnants of lunch into the trash and walk outside.

It’s the night before Valentine’s Day, and I’m spending it at Word Up with Chelsea for our weekly Write Like a Girl meet up. We have about eight girls who come consistently, but on some nights we have more.

Chelsea thinks he’s going to go all out and profess his love for me.

Nadine thinks he'll be more subtle but will definitely make it clear that he wants to date me.

“Raised by Women” by Kelly Norman Ellis. A poem about loving the people who raised us. This is about loving every kind of woman: the scholar, the debutante, the artist.

“Phenomenal Woman” by Maya Angelou. A poem about loving yourself. This poem is a powerful declaration of self-affirmation, of resilience, and of confidence. The ultimate self-esteem poem.

Hold me close. Kinship, comfort
me when it matters.

Can I be a feminist and watch shows where women do 90 percent of the housework, the cooking, the cleaning, and on and on? Can I still love shows that subscribe to super-sexist ideas about women?

I pull the black spiral book up and open it. It has blank pages, and at the back, the last pages are perforated along the spine so they can be torn out easily.