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,
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.