Love Is a Revolution Read online

  Verse 1

  and what the mirror whispers is:

  girl you are exquisite

  every strand of hair on your head is accounted for

  you are that rare find, that one-of-a-kind

  and no one—no one—is a better you

  Refrain

  see how big and brown and beautiful you are

  see how big and brown and beautiful you are

  Verse 2

  and what the mirror whispers is:

  you standing here a somebody, a whole body

  big and brown

  and full lips and wide hips

  and unmanicured and untucked

  and unbothered

  and all right

  you alright, girl

  Chorus

  if beauty is in the eye of the beholder

  then look at yourself, take in your whole body

  if beauty is in the eye of the beholder

  then look at yourself, take in your whole body

  Refrain

  see how big and brown and beautiful you are

  see how big and brown and beautiful you are

  The next morning, I take my time getting out of bed and getting ready for the day. This afternoon, I’m going to Grandma’s because I promised I’d come over to work more on her puzzle. Harlem is wide awake. The streets are full of traffic, horns are blowing, and there are bumper-to-bumper standstills even on the side streets. There are boys shooting hoops at the basketball court at the end of the block, and the man who sells flowers from his van is setting up in his usual spot right across the street from the bus stop. I think maybe I’ll take the bus, but instead I walk and stop at the bodega to get chips and something to drink. Grandma used to have the best snacks, but now that she’s not eating much sugar or salt, there’s nothing to raid in her cabinets.

  When I get to Grandma’s I go straight to her hangout spot. She is there with her crew, sitting at her table, like always.

  “Hi, everyone.”

  “Well, good afternoon, Miss Nala,” Ms. Norma says. “I sure do like your hair.” Ms. Norma’s voice is like the wind; it blows through the room, and suddenly the others start in with singsong compliments like chimes blowing in her breeze.

  After they go on for a while, they all get back to talking about whatever it was they were discussing. Grandma doesn’t join in their conversation. Instead, she turns to me and says, “How is everything?”

  “Everything is fine,” I say.

  Grandma’s eyebrows rise, and she whispers, “And how is your new friend?”

  The women all start paying more attention to us.

  “He’s fine,” I say. I try to sound neutral. No smile, just a straight answer. I sit down at the table across from Grandma and start helping out with the puzzle. There’s been a lot more added since the last time I was here.

  “And how is Imani? Can’t even remember the last time I saw her.”

  “She’s good,” I say. “Busy with Inspire Harlem.”

  “Humph.” Grandma snaps in a puzzle piece that completes the bottom right corner—a man sitting outside in a meadow playing his guitar, a rooster at his feet. “She’s the busiest teenager I know.”

  Ms. Norma says, “Girl, it’s not like it was when we were raising our children. These young folks have full itineraries. Places to be, people to see.”

  Ms. Louise nods. “You right about that. I haven’t seen not one of my grandchildren in, well, what, two months. This is the generation of go, go, go.”

  Ms. Mabel adds her opinion. “Busy doing nothing, if you ask me.”

  I feel bad that they’re all being so hard on Imani. I tell them, “Well, she’s not doing nothing, she’s actually doing a lot of good for the community. She’s—”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean no harm, Nala. You don’t have to explain.” Ms. Norma’s knitting hands are moving fast, and it amazes me to watch someone make something so precious without even looking. She clears her throat and tells me, “I know all about that program Imani is in. My granddaughter is in it too. I’d sure rather have her occupied with volunteering than out there in the streets causing trouble.”

  Grandma scatters the puzzle pieces trying to find the one she’s looking for. “Nala, we’re just saying that a person can be so busy trying to care for their community that they don’t even have time to care for the people closest to them. That’s all.”

  And then, as if we aren’t having a serious conversation, Ms. Norma holds up the blanket she is knitting and asks, “What ya’ll think of this? It’s for my first great-grandbaby. They haven’t picked a name yet, but we know it’s a girl. My first great . . . ain’t that something?”

  We all ooh and aah at the blanket, and there is so much pride in Ms. Norma’s eyes. And she’s right—that is something, that her family is expanding and growing, that she has mothered generations.

  I take my phone out and take a picture of Ms. Norma without her even noticing. There is something about the way that she is careful with it, like her actual great-granddaughter is already here in her hands.

  “You over there being the paparazzi, Nala?” Grandma sees everything.

  “Just taking a few photos, that’s all,” I say.

  And of course it’s Ms. Louise who says, “Well, let me know, chile.” She straightens her clothes and poses. “I’m ready now.”

  And for the next ten minutes I have become a photographer doing a photo shoot at the Sugar Hill home for seniors.

  “Now, send me those, okay?” Ms. Louise says.

  Ms. Norma says, “Louise, you don’t have a cell phone or email. How you think she’s going to send ’em to you?”

  Ms. Louise looks a little confused.

  “I’ll figure out how to get them to you,” I say. I put my phone away.

  Grandma and her friends bounce from topic to topic. In this past hour we’ve gone from talking about Imani and all of us young people to politics to the sale on bananas that the grocery store is having, and then Grandma brings up the wall again. It must really be annoying her for her to keep complaining about it. “What are we going to do about this sad, dingy, plain wall? Should we ask them to at least paint it a warm color?”

  “It’s not just the color, it’s that only one little picture is there looking all lonely,” Ms. Louise says, laughing. She is adorned in pearls today and a sleeveless navy blue sun-dress. Her nails look freshly manicured. Of course she wants it to be something other than plain.

  “Once my great-granddaughter is born, maybe I’ll hang a big photo of her on the wall. Make this into my extended living room,” Ms. Norma says.

  We all laugh.

  Then, I get an idea. “You all should hang up photos in here. Like, make this wall a tribute to all the families represented in the building.”

  They all sit, quiet. Maybe my idea is horrible and they don’t know how to tell me.

  Grandma sits up straighter in her chair. “You know, Nala, that’s something to think about.”

  Knowing Grandma is even a little interested in this makes me sit up too, makes me think maybe I really should start doing some service projects here at the residence since I keep telling Tye that’s what I do. Maybe my lie could turn into the truth. “I can help,” I say. “I can ask for permission and collect the photos and frame them.”

  “Well, I think you should,” Grandma says. “I think you should.”

  I get excited about this. I want to do something special this summer. I mean, it’s not as big or important as what Imani and Tye are doing, but adding some warmth to this room and making it welcoming, honoring the people who live here? That’s something.

  My phone buzzes. It’s Tye asking what I’m doing. I type back, Planning a photo legacy project for the Open Studio at Sugar Hill. Okay, it’s maybe a tiny—well, a big exaggeration, but typing it out makes me really want to do it now. For real.

  A photo legacy project.

  I might not be a serious community organizer or a change-the-world type of girl l
ike Imani and Toya, but this I can do, this I want to do.

  Tye replies to my text: That sounds amazing. And then: I want to be a part of this. Let me know how I can help.

  I’m trying to think of a way to tell him that I don’t need his help. I don’t want to drag him into this fake-but-kind-of-real project. I text back: Okay.

  After I leave Sugar Hill Senior Living, I walk over to 135th and Lenox and meet Tye at the halal food truck that parks right outside the Schomburg Center. When he sees me walking down the street, he smiles, and I don’t care what Imani says, this smile is not a friend smile. He hugs me, tight, and when he lets go he says, “Every time I see you, your hair is different.”

  I laugh because if only he knew the story behind my hair.

  “I like it,” he says. “You’re so beautiful.”

  “Thanks,” I tell him. I’m beautiful to Tye. I let the words sink in.

  “Do you know what you want?” Tye asks. We’re up next. He pulls out his wallet.

  “Um, whatever you’re getting,” I say.

  He steps up to the truck and orders. “I’ll have two falafel gyros, please.”

  “Oh, and a bottled water,” I say.

  Tye looks at me. “Um, you don’t have water?”

  “No, I . . . ​no.” I think he’s going to lecture me like Imani does. She thinks I should carry around a reusable water bottle, but those things get heavy when they’re filled with water and I don’t want to lug that around in my bag all day. Plus, on every block you can get ice-cold water for a dollar and I always put the plastic bottle in the recycling bin, so what’s the big deal?

  Tye orders the water without saying anything, but I can tell he is bothered. Once our order is called, Tye says, “Where to?”

  “Let’s just walk and see,” I say.

  We walk slow because we are eating and talking, making our way down 135th toward St. Nicholas Park. We’re not saying a whole lot, mostly talking about how good our gyros are and how we should have got an order of fries to share. Once we get to the park, we climb the stairs and I hope I am not out of all the breath I have by the time we reach the top. We find a bench to sit on, and now that I am finished with my food, I am thirsty but I feel awkward bringing out my bottled water. I do it anyway because it is too hot out here and after walking up the steps, my throat is dry. I drink my water, trying not to guzzle it down like I really want to.

  Tye says, “I’m so glad we’re doing this. I wanted to talk more about your photo legacy project.”

  “Is that all you want to talk about?” I say that with an attitude. I can’t help it. But I did not come out here to see Tye today to only talk about old people and pictures.

  “Well, I don’t only want to talk about that, but—”

  “Tye, what is this? What are we doing? Is there a we?”

  Tye looks at me, smiles. “Do you want there to be a we?”

  “I do, honestly, but I don’t know how you feel. And I don’t know how you feel about Toya.”

  “Toya?” Tye’s eyebrows frown. “What does she have to do with any of this?”

  “It’s obvious that she likes you. Do you have feelings for her too?”

  “I don’t think Toya likes me, and I definitely don’t like her. Not like that. I mean, we’re just friends.”

  “Yeah, but you said we were just friends.” We even toasted to it.

  “Oh, but no—when I said you were my friend, I meant, you know, like . . . ​well, my friend that hopefully becomes more than that.”

  “That’s not what you said.”

  “That’s what I meant.” Tye takes my hand. “I don’t like Toya. Toya likes Toya. A lot.”

  I laugh. Tye laughs too.

  “Well, I just want to make sure. I needed to know. I mean, you two have a lot in common.”

  “So do we,” Tye says. “I love that you volunteer at Sugar Hill Senior Living; you’re focused and know what you want to do as far as college. Oh, and you and I like the same kind of food.”

  Maybe Imani was right. Tye likes the fake me, not the real me.

  I tell Tye, “I want us to get to know each other. Like, actually talk about more than Inspire Harlem or Sugar Hill Senior Living.”

  “Well, tell me something I don’t know about you.”

  You don’t know anything, honestly. “Um . . .” This is harder than I thought it would be.

  “Okay, well, I know you and Imani are cousins. Tell me about your family—your parents.”

  “There’s not much to know,” I say. “My dad lives in Jamaica, so I don’t see him too much. My mom? Well, we do better when we don’t live together. I love her, but she’s not good at being a mother.” I don’t know if that sounded mean, so I just turn the question to him. “What about you? Are you close to your parents?”

  “My mom. Yes. She’s my everything. My dad—not so much. Now we’re good, but when I was younger, it was rough. My parents divorced when I was eight. Back then, my dad was not good at being a father at all. Or a husband. But now, he’s remarried and he’s a better man.” Tye sounds sad when he says this, and then he says, “I’m proud of him for getting his life together, but I hate that he couldn’t do it for my mom. He has a whole other family. They get the best version of him.”

  We stand and start walking through the park. There are families out sitting on blankets, a cyclist riding his bike, couples strolling hand in hand, and down the path I see a little girl chasing bubbles and popping them with her hands as the woman with her blows gently through a wand.

  Tye keeps talking, and I’m so glad I am finally getting to know him and not just what he does for Inspire Harlem. “My dad lives in Connecticut and has a whole new family—two other children with his new wife. My uncle kind of stepped in and helped my mom. He’s like my dad. So I get what you mean about not being close to your mom and having a stronger relationship with your aunt.”

  I notice that Tye said “new wife” and not “stepmom.”

  “My dad and I would probably get along better if he didn’t lie so much.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He just doesn’t keep his word. He’s always making plans with me and then canceling them at the last minute.” Tye shakes his head, lets out a long sigh. “I can’t stand when people don’t follow through. Make a plan, stick to it. Say what you mean and mean what you say.”

  9

  It’s the Fourth of July, and the whole family is gathering at Aunt Liz’s. Her rooftop is the perfect place to view fireworks. Every time I come over to Aunt Liz’s I see the kind of future I want for myself. She’s a regular kind of fancy, nothing too over the top, but she is not simple by any means. Today, she has catered a feast. Jerk wings, pork ribs, curry shrimp skewers, rice and peas, mac and cheese, Jamaican festival—the best fried dumplings in the world—fried plantains, and serrano lime slaw. And the dessert table is full too. I’m already eyeing out my three favorites: rum cake, gizzada, and sweet potato pudding. Before we begin eating, we dig into the platter of mango, pineapple, and strawberries.

  Aunt Ebony thinks having all this food catered is the most ridiculous thing. “You know, Randy could have grilled the meats, Liz. And I could’ve made side dishes. You didn’t have to do all this.” And then later, “What do I owe you?”

  “You don’t owe me anything,” Aunt Liz says.

  A few people have started their fireworks even though it’s not dark yet. With the view from Aunt Liz’s rooftop, we don’t need to have our own fireworks. Soon, we’ll be able to see the colors burst against the night sky.

  The elevator opens, and out comes my mom and Asher. “Look who I found in the lobby,” Mom says. She walks over to the table and looks everything over, talking loud and oohing and aahing about all the food Aunt Liz ordered. Mom’s extra-long nails are painted a bold yellow. Her hair is wavy today, hanging to the middle of her back. And I will absolutely be asking her for those sandals she’s wearing. The heel is perfect, and that shade of brown goes with everything. I th
ink about how Mom used to always tell me she didn’t have money for this and that but always—and I mean always—she knew how to put an outfit together. She always looks like she has money even though she doesn’t. Mom says hello to everyone and then comes over to the table and kisses me on my cheek. “How’s your summer going?” she asks.

  “Good.”

  “Well, you’ve got to give me more than that. What are you up to this summer?”

  “Just, I don’t know. I’m not up to anything. Whatever comes up.”

  Mom says, “And what about you, Imani?”

  Imani tells her about the million and one things she’s doing with Inspire Harlem.

  Mom turns to me again and asks, “Why aren’t you in that program? You don’t need to be wasting your summer.”

  I stuff my mouth with a chunk of pineapple to keep myself from saying something disrespectful. That feeling of being happy to see my mom dissolves. She is who she is, always. No matter what, she finds a way to pick at me. Usually we last at least thirty minutes without an argument, but today she’s in a mood.

  Aunt Ebony comes to my rescue, saying, “Did you all know Nala had perfect attendance and a 3.5 GPA this past school year?”

  “This your way of showing off that she’s doing better with you than with me?” Mom rolls her eyes and goes to sit down at one of the tables covered by an umbrella.

  “All right,” Aunt Liz says. “Um, let’s . . . let’s eat.”

  “Yes, let’s,” Mom says.

  Then Aunt Liz opens the cooler and says, “Oh no, I forgot to get ice.”

  This means Imani and I will be walking to the bodega on the corner to get two bags of ice for the cooler.

  I am the first one at the elevator.

  Asher comes with us. We head down on the elevator, and when we get outside it’s like we’ve entered a whole different world. Up top, things were serene, but down here the noise is piercing, especially the man with the bullhorn who is reading from a book, loud and passionate like a preacher on Sunday morning, “What, to the American slave, is your 4th of July? I answer . . . ​the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim. To him, your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity . . . ​There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices more shocking and bloody than are the people of the United States, at this very hour . . .”