“It’s something you’ve wanted for a long time. A really long time,” he says. “I don’t know why. You don’t ever frame the photos you take. You just cut ’em up or change them.”
“Well, no need to wrap it now,” I say. I laugh when he looks at me, all confused, like he has no idea how I figured it out.
Dad goes into his bedroom and brings out two boxes. One has a digital camera in it, the other a mini photo printer.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Anything for my baby girl,” he says. “I’m, uh, I’m sorry I couldn’t see you on your actual birthday. Something came up.”
“You could have called,” I tell him.
“My cell died. I need to figure out what’s wrong with the thing. Make one call and the battery is drained.” Dad starts rubbing his head. “Don’t give me that look,” he says.
“What look?”
“Looking like your mother.”
I conjure Mom—what would she say? “The point isn’t your phone dying. Why did you need to cancel, anyway?”
Dad opens his mouth to give me his reasons but then closes it, sits back, and says, “No good reason, Jade. I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to hurt my queen. I’m sorry.” He walks to his room and comes back out. “I forgot about these.” He hands me a new pack of batteries. I put them in the camera and start taking pictures right away. “Come on now, not of me,” Dad says. “I didn’t get you this thing so you could take pictures of me.”
“One more,” I tell him.
He doesn’t smile, but at least he sits still.
As I take the photo, I am reminded that we have the same eyes.
“Okay,” Dad says. “That was your one more. Now get out from behind the lens and come join me in here. He walks into the kitchen and takes out leftovers from the fridge. Three containers of Chinese food. He puts the rice, shrimp and broccoli, and egg roll on a plate and heats the food in the microwave. “How is school? What are you into these days? Besides art.”
“School is okay, I guess. I love my Spanish class.”
“What do you like about it?” Dad asks. He never lets the first answer be the only answer.
“It makes me feel like I’m learning a secret code or something. I don’t know. It’s powerful.”
“Powerful? Really?”
“Yes, all language is. That’s what you used to tell me.”
Dad puts his fork down. Leans back in his chair. “Me? I told you that?”
“Yes, when I was little. When it was story time and I didn’t want to stop playing to go read and you would tell me I ought to take every chance I get to open a book because it was once illegal to teach a black person how to read,” I remind him.
“I told you that?” Dad asks, smiling.
“Dad, I’m serious. You told me that knowing how to read words and knowing when to speak them is the most valuable commodity a person can have. You don’t remember saying that?”
“Yeah, sounds like something I’d say.” Dad laughs. “Didn’t realize you were really listening.”
“Of course I was. And ever since then I’ve wanted to be a black girl who could read and write in many languages, because I know there was a time when that seemed impossible.”
“So you’re saying your passion is my fault.”
“Yep.”
“I wish I could take all the credit for you. But you know you get that big dreaming from your momma,” he says. “Back when we were in school, she talked that same way. You just like her.”
18
fotografiar
photograph
On the way home from Dad’s I take as many photos as I can: Naked branches and tree trunks.
Fallen leaves.
A little girl falling asleep in her mother’s arms on the bus.
The hands of a man holding on to the pole.
The blur of buildings and houses as we drive by.
Frank’s Corner Store.
Lee Lee’s house.
The street sign at the corner of my block.
The door to my house.
And before I go inside, I turn the camera on me.
19
libros
books
“This place feels magical,” I say to Maxine. When she first told me she was bringing me to a bookstore, I wasn’t that excited to go. But Powell’s isn’t just any bookstore. It’s a massive haven that sells any book you can think of. There are so many rooms and floors, they give you a map. I’ve never ever heard of a bookstore giving you a map so you can get through it. We go to the art section, which is not a section but a whole room.
A short tan woman with a kinky Afro walks over to us. “Can I help you with anything?”
“Hi,” Maxine says. “This is Jade. She’s an artist—a collagist—and we’re looking for some books for inspiration that show the work of black collagists.”
Afro Woman says, “Oh, so you’re an artist?” She starts walking fast through the aisles. “What do you make art about?” She turns down an aisle, starts slowing down, and then stops when we get to the middle.
I tell her all the things I love making art about.
“Well, I have the perfect books for you,” she says. She pulls a book off the shelf. “Have you heard of Romare Bearden? He’s one of the greats. You’ll love his collages.” We walk to another aisle, in search of more books. Afro Woman scans the shelves. “Ah, here we go.” She pulls out another book. “This is a small collection of work from the artist Mickalene Thomas,” she says. “She does mixed-media collages.”
“This is gorgeous,” Maxine says. She hands me the book.
I look through the pages. I have never seen art like this before—not in a book.
Afro Woman walks us to another aisle. “Yeah, Mickalene used to live in Portland,” she tells us. I don’t hear all of what she is saying because I am looking through the book, staring at these brown women and their faces that are pieced together with different shades of brown, different-size features, all mismatched yet perfectly puzzled together to make them whole beings. “I want to do this,” I say out loud. They don’t hear me because they are too busy talking about Mickalene and where she went to school and where she lived in Portland.
The whole way to the cashier, I am trying to choose which book to get now and which one to come back for. When we get in line, Maxine takes both books and says, “Anything else you want?”
Is that a trick question? I say no.