Love Is a Revolution Read online

  Imani sets her shake down and says, “So, anyone notice the songs on the playlist that Marcy put together for tonight’s intermission? Ms. Lori is going to have something to say about that, for sure.”

  Toya nods her head, eating the last bit of her fries. “Oh my goodness. I was so embarrassed. What was Marcy thinking?”

  “What was wrong with the music tonight?” I ask. And why did I ask that? All of them look at me like I have just asked the most ridiculous question. Except for Sadie. Sadie and I have similar taste in music and movies, so most of our conversations start with have you seen? or have you heard?

  Toya says, “First of all, our name is Inspire Harlem, so maybe it would have been a good idea to have some kind of inspirational songs. Not songs with vulgar lyrics that actually undermine the work we are trying to do and all we stand for.”

  Sadie gives me a look, telling me not to push it. I should take her advice and just let them talk because I am not a part of Inspire Harlem so why should I care, but for some reason I keep talking. “But all the songs were edited versions. What’s the—”

  “If it needs to be an edited version, maybe it doesn’t need to be played,” Lynn says.

  That sounds like something my grandmother would say.

  “It’s okay, Nala, you wouldn’t understand,” Imani says.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, we . . . ​being a part of Inspire Harlem means we’ve had to take workshops about how to read the media and how to see all the messages that music, commericals, and even the news are sending to us.”

  Lynn jumps in, as if I need more explanation. “We’ve discussed how capitalism has made us go after things that we don’t need and how music sometimes reinforces those toxic ideals.”

  And now Toya wants to teach me something. “So, like, it’s not just the music, but the videos and everything that goes into the production of it—think about how the women in those videos look. It’s very rare that a woman has natural hair or is big—”

  “As in fat, not thick,” Imani adds.

  “Right, so you know—like you straightening your hair, wearing makeup, all your life you’ve been given messages telling you that you have to do that to be beautiful. I get it. I used to be the same way. But when you know better, you do better.”

  “Or, when you have freedom, you are free to do what you want with your body and your hair,” I say. And I didn’t need a special program to tell me that.

  “All right, can we just . . . ​let’s talk about something else,” Sadie says finally.

  “Yeah, let’s drop it.” Imani looks at me, an apology in her eyes.

  I look away.

  “I didn’t mean to start anything,” Imani says.

  But there is no stopping because Toya has more to say. She keeps going on about how the songs on Marcy’s playlist were reinforcing harmful beauty standards and full of misogynistic lyrics.

  Sadie rolls her eyes and I smile at her. I know at least two songs that were played tonight are songs Sadie loves. At least someone at this table agrees with me.

  Tye, Asher, and Jackson haven’t said anything.

  “You don’t have an opinion on this?” I ask them.

  “I’m just trying to listen more. I wanted you all to speak first,” Asher says, pointing to us girls. He puts his hand on Imani’s leg; she scoots closer to him and rests her head on his shoulder.

  I feel like maybe there’s a hidden camera somewhere and at any moment they are all going to start laughing and tell me they are just kidding. That this is some kind of social justice How Woke Are You? prank. But no. Asher continues. “I’ve been raised on those images and lyrics, and yeah, they are degrading to women. Even the edited versions. I’m not going to lie, I still listen to problematic songs but not as much as I used to, and I definitely wouldn’t have played that mix at the event we had tonight.”

  Tye nods. “I’m surprised Ms. Lori let it go on.”

  Jackson doesn’t say anything, and I think it’s because he disagrees or maybe doesn’t have a strong opinion either way. He just keeps eating, keeping his mouth full so he doesn’t have to talk.

  Toya balls her napkin up and puts it on top of her half-eaten burger. “You should join Inspire Harlem, Nala. You’d learn a lot.”

  Not if it’s going to stop me from listening to all the music I love. No thank you.

  I lean back and force an I’ll think about it smile. And then Sadie changes the subject, and they all start gossiping about Inspire Harlem drama—who wasn’t there tonight, who might be getting kicked out of the program because they haven’t completed enough community service hours.

  I don’t think I’ve said a word for the past fifteen minutes so I pull out my phone and pretend to be looking at something important. I can’t even read what’s on my screen because all I can think about is what Imani said, how she’s been treating me like just because I disagree with her on certain things means I don’t understand. If it wasn’t her birthday, I’d get up and leave. And we still haven’t talked about what she meant when she said, “It’s never about what I want.” What did she mean by that?

  Tye scoots closer to me, snatches my phone out of my hands. “Are you always this quiet?”

  “No. It’s just that no one is talking to me.” I grab my phone back.

  “Sorry. They just tend to get caught up with Inspire Harlem stuff when we’re all together. It took me a while to feel a part of the group too.”

  Who said I’m trying to be a part of this group?

  “So, what do you want to talk about?” Tye asks.

  I want to know if you like Toya as much as she likes you, because she clearly likes you, but I can’t tell if you like her too. “Um, I don’t know. That’s a weird question.”

  “Is it?”

  “Conversation should just happen naturally. I can’t just come up with a topic to talk about. That feels forced.”

  “Okay, okay,” Tye says. He is silent for just a moment and then says, “So, tell me more about the program you volunteer for. What’s the name again?”

  I never told you a name because there is no name. “Sugar Hill Senior Living. That’s, uh, that’s the name of the residence. Most of the people living there are all on their own. They cook and take care of themselves, they go as they please. But there are some who have assisted living. Anyone who lives there can attend the programs I do. It’s just a small thing in the lounge. We don’t have, like, an official name for it.” I am talking low to make sure Imani doesn’t hear me. But she is so into her conversation with everyone else, I think I am the last person on her mind.

  Tye says, “What you’re doing doesn’t sound small to me. It’s a big deal to be company for people who need it. I’m sure they love having you. You should come up with a name. That could make it even more special.”

  Great. I have Tye’s attention, and all he can talk about is old people doing arts and crafts with me. Really?

  Before I can answer him, Imani stands up. “Ready to go?” she asks, caught in a long yawn.

  We all stand up and leave Harlem Shake. We’ve been in the air conditioning so long that I forgot how hot it is outside. We walk into Harlem’s steam, and Sadie, Jackson, and Lynn are the first to say goodbye. They cross the street toward Fifth Avenue. Toya gives us all a hug but holds on to Tye the longest. She walks to the left and turns one more time to say goodbye, but I think this last wave is just to Tye.

  Imani, Asher, and I head home; Tye walks with us. I walk slow on purpose, wanting to be beside Tye as long as I can. Imani is in front of us, holding hands with Asher. They’ve been dating for two years. At first Aunt Ebony and Uncle Randy weren’t too excited about their daughter dating anyone, but Asher won them over once they realized he was just as serious about his grades and integrity as he was about having a girlfriend. Asher has become a part of the family. He’s over for dinner at least once a week.

  I watch them walk, hand in hand, and I wonder if I will ever have that.
Imani has always had someone to love and be loved by. Always a boy flirting with her, asking her for her number. Her first kiss was when we were in the sixth grade. I remember because I was the one on lookout duty, had to make sure no teachers were walking by. The two of them had snuck off around the back of the school building while we were outside for recess. Don’t tell, Imani said afterward.

  I never did.

  I want to strike up a conversation with Tye, but I don’t know what to say, so I go to the generic question I always ask when there’s too much silence. “What are you thinking about?” I ask.

  “Naming your program.”

  “What?”

  “I’m trying to think of a good name. I’m pretty good at brainstorming this kind of stuff.” Whenever Tye’s shoulder brushes against mine, I feel an ocean flood my heart. I’d much rather talk about something more interesting. Something true. But he keeps going. “So, what if the name is a reference to the time you spend together. Like if it’s an hour, it can be called the Sugar Hill Arts and Crafts Hour,” Tye says. “But that’s too simple. We can do better than that. That’s just the first one off the dome.”

  “I like that idea,” I play along. “What about Sugar Hill Art Studio?”

  “That’s better, but let’s keep thinking,” he says. “Maybe instead of art studio, you call it open studio since you do more than art in that space. Don’t you do yoga and storytelling too?”

  Oh yeah. I forgot I said that. He knows my fake program better than I do.

  “I like that. What about, the Open Studio at Sugar Hill Residence?” I say.

  “Perfect,” Tye says. Then he asks me for my phone. I give it to him. “I want to come check it out. Here’s my number. Text me and let me know when it’s okay to drop by.”

  And just like that I have a name for my pretend volunteer program and I’m a vegetarian. And I have the phone number of the cutest guy—and maybe the nicest—I’ve ever met.

  I’m not sure how or if I can keep this new me up. But I sure am going to try.

  4 SECRETS ABOUT IMANI THAT I’VE NEVER TOLD

  1.That Imani kissed a boy in the sixth grade at the back of the school building between the trash bins and the rusted desks that had been tossed out.

  2.That Imani snuck out of the house once to meet up with Asher and came back just as the sun was waking up, just before Aunt Ebony knocked on her bedroom door to say, Rise, shine.

  3.That sometimes Imani uses Inspire Harlem events as an excuse to spend time with Asher. Sometimes the days end earlier than she admits, sometimes the special project she’s working on is him.

  4.That the day after she kissed the boy in the sixth grade, he tried to kiss me. I wouldn’t let him. But I wanted to. I wanted to be wanted. Wanted to know what it felt like to be Imani for a day.

  4

  BLUE PLAYLIST, TRACK 1

  Summer Hips

  Spoken Voice: The primary function of the hip joint is to support the weight of the body in both still and active postures.

  Verse 1

  Sun is out, strobe light, sidewalk dance floors.

  Cars driving by blasting music. Let’s dance.

  Move your hips, glide, slide anywhere, everywhere.

  Everywhere, anywhere

  being free, doin’ me.

  Wearin’ what I want to wear.

  Big body on display. This skin I’m in, so free, so me.

  Hips hypnotizing, hips mesmerizing.

  All this me walking down the street.

  Chorus

  These hips sweet.

  These hips wild.

  These hips steady me, carry me,

  hold all my history.

  Verse 2

  These hips ground me when I march the streets mourning bodies who look like me. Killed, terrorized blatantly.

  You see this Black girl dancin’, think I’m sexy.

  You see this Black girl dancin’, think it’s for you, not me.

  But this dance a celebration of my story, my glory.

  Chorus 2x

  These hips sweet.

  These hips wild.

  These hips steady me, carry me,

  hold all my history.

  These hips sweet.

  These hips wild.

  These hips steady me, carry me,

  hold all my history.

  These hips free.

  These hips free.

  I can’t prove it, but I think New Yorkers are happiest in the summer. We aren’t bundled up, walking fast, fast, fast to get out of the cold, so people actually say hello, look you in the eyes, and ask how you’re doing. Music hangs off the clouds, hovering above my head. Sometimes it’s R&B, sometimes hip-hop. Sometimes, it’s merengue, Afro beats, reggae, or soca. Depending on the neighborhood you are walking through, you accidently walk into a family BBQ or a neighborhood street festival. This is July, hotter than June but not as humid as August. Now that school has been out for a full week, it really feels like I am on a break, and I am ready to make every day count.

  Today, I am visiting Grandma. She’s lived at Sugar Hill Senior Living for a year now. She didn’t want to move here at first, but once we came and did a walk-through she saw that it was just an apartment complex where all the residents were her age. It wasn’t a place where we were throwing her away, forgetting about her. Instead, she’d still have her independence, just with less space to have to look after and no more brownstone stairs to climb. I think about how old Grandma is now, how it is not just about the number but the way she looks, the way she moves. She looks older, moves slower, and doesn’t call us over for her last-minute family dinners as much as she used to. I miss the days when she’d call saying, “I cooked too much food—come on over and fix a plate.” I miss the days when she’d call me over to teach me how to make one of her recipes, how she’d say, “I’m cooking pepper pot soup tomorrow. You want to learn how to make it?”

  I think about how much longer she’ll be living here on earth, not because she is sick or anything, but just because of common sense and math. She is eighty-four, so that means she has fewer years to be alive. That’s just the truth, that’s just math. Whenever I say this to Imani, she says I am being morbid and that I shouldn’t think about that. But I think she’s in denial and when Grandma really does die, Imani’s going to wish she had thought about it more, that she had prepared herself.

  I walk down the hallway toward Grandma’s apartment, and the closer I get I hear mento music. Grandma must be cleaning. She always plays mento when she is washing dishes or straightening up. I knock on the door.

  Grandma opens the door, gives me her Grandma-hug, and ushers me in. “Haven’t seen none of you in a while,” Grandma says. I see the broom leaning in the corner against the wall. Yeah, she was cleaning. “You talk to your momma lately?” Grandma wastes no time getting to the topic she wants to talk about. She doesn’t ask how I’m doing, or how the weather is today—not even if I’d like something to drink. “You only have one momma, Nala. Just one.”

  “I know,” I say. I step inside, take off my shoes, and sit on her sofa. It is covered in a slipcover hiding how old it really is. Aunt Liz offered to buy her a new one and she refused—it still holds you up, don’t it?—she said. And so Aunt Liz bought her this floral slipcover instead.

  “She hasn’t called me.”

  “You gonna call her?” Grandma asks.

  I don’t answer her. She knows I won’t. I think maybe her question is more of a suggestion. Grandma starts washing the few dishes that are in her sink. She washes everything right after she eats, dries them, and puts them away. “You know your momma is doing the best she can, right? Now, I’m not saying it’s your fault her best not good enough, but, well, it is her best.” Grandma turns the water off, takes her dish towel and begins drying a plate. “Love don’t come natural to everybody. Love is something you’ve got to practice in order to get good at.” She puts the plate in the cabinet and finishes drying the silverware. “You want to get good at loving?
You’ve got to be patient with your momma, be kind toward your momma. You’ve got to forgive your momma. Even if she don’t ask for no forgiving. That’s love.”

  I don’t respond. I know Grandma is right, and besides I know better than to talk back or act like I’m not agreeing with her. I wait a little while and then strike up another conversation, hoping to focus on something other than me and my mom. “What are your plans for the day?” I ask.

  “I was just straightening up a bit here before I head down to the lounge to work on my puzzle. I’ve started a new one. Finished that other one you and I were working on a while ago.”

  This is Grandma’s way of telling me I need to come by more often.

  “I’ll help today,” I tell her. While she finishes up in the kitchen, I scoot to the edge of the sofa and read the open Bible that is on the coffee table. At the homes of some of my friends, I’ve seen Bibles open to the middle of the book so that both sides are even. I’ve also seen it open to the same page every time, a favorite scripture or something. But not Grandma’s Bible. Grandma’s Bible is always turned to a different page when I come over because she actually reads it, actually has her own personal devotion right here in her living room. She fusses at my mom and aunts for not going to church anymore, reminding them that they were raised going to church every Sunday, that Sunday is the Lord’s day, not a free day to lounge around the house, have brunch, and hang out. I never go to church—only a few times with Grandma when I was younger. So now, every time I come over, I make sure I at least read the scripture she has on display. I call it my three-minute church service. Sometimes, we discuss the scripture I’ve read, but most times, Grandma just lets me be, lets me take in the words for myself.

  Today, the scripture is turned to James 2. She’s highlighted verses 14 through 18.

  What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if someone claims to have faith but has no deeds? Can such faith save them? Suppose a brother or a sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to them, “Go in peace; keep warm and well fed,” but does nothing about their physical needs, what good is it? In the same way, faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead. But someone will say, “You have faith; I have deeds.” Show me your faith without deeds, and I will show you my faith by my deeds.