“What does curate mean?” one of the kids asked.
“If you curate something, you’re choosing what to display and considering how others will see it. You’re making sure what gets seen has the intended effect. Does that make sense?”
The girl nodded.
“Men do the same thing, of course. Appearances are important to pretty much everyone,” Martin told his students. “But my larger point is this: Powerful women—some famous, some not—have always existed in world history, just as they exist today. There were influential women in every culture, in every time.”
He closed his laptop. “In my class, I don’t save discussions of women for women’s history month, because if we don’t talk about women, we’re not addressing half the population. If you don’t know what they were doing, what rights they did or didn’t have, how they affected their culture and government and economy, you don’t know history. Period.”
After letting that declaration sit for a few seconds, he continued. “The same principle applies to other marginalized groups. History is written by those in power, but those deprived of power deserve to be seen too. For the sake of their humanity, but also because their stories are crucial in understanding world history. Our job this year is to see everyone, not just great leaders. Even leaders as great as Hatshepsut.”
In that moment, Rose definitely felt seen by Martin. Whether she enjoyed the feeling or not was less certain.
When her thirty minutes of observation ended, she slipped out of the classroom and returned to the social studies office. She typed a brief but glowing observation report and e-mailed it to Keisha and Martin. Then she pulled out a stack of grading and stared at it, green pen motionless.
She’d just watched Martin—who knew full well she was observing him that particular period—walk his high-school class through a well-considered discussion of gender, power, and the historical erasure of women and the marginalized. Heard him declare with quiet passion that their stories mattered.
That, by inference, her story mattered. That she mattered.
Brandi Rose Owens. Born female and poor. Unlikely to appear in any history textbook.
She understood her own worth and power. The choices she’d made to honor the former and preserve the latter.
Now she knew he did too.
But what he’d intended by the lesson, she hadn’t the slightest idea.
Seven
The Marysburg High School Seasons’ Greetings Festival, as far as Martin could tell, was experiencing a full-fledged identity crisis.
On the one hand, the mid-December gathering featured an inflatable Santa, a giant wooden dreidel, and a colorful, beaded unity cup, not to mention all the baked goods one would expect from a winter fundraising festival. Fudge, fruitcakes, rugelach, sugared doughnuts, sweet potato pies, and more types of cookies than he could count.
His stomach growled, and he tried to remember how much cash remained in his wallet. Not enough, that was for certain.
A veritable blizzard of paper snowflakes hung overhead, and colored strings of light draped over every booth. All appropriate for winter. Fair enough.
But there also appeared to be a limbo contest occurring off to the right. Plastic bags of cotton candy jostled for retail space next to pumpkin pies. An enormous fake palm tree hovered over a selection of grilled burgers and hot dogs for sale. And if he wasn’t mistaken, a cluster of girls dressed all in black was gathered around…
A dunk tank? Really? In December?
From behind the circle of girls, he heard a distinct thunk. Then a breathless squeak, quickly followed by a splash and gleeful cackles from the surrounding crowd.
Yup. A dunk tank. In December.
“The girls’ softball team holds a mean grudge.” Keisha appeared next to him, braids swaying with the shake of her head. “It’s been two years, and they still haven’t forgiven her.”
He blinked at her, confused. “Excuse me?”
“You’ll see.” Keisha grinned. “But you may not believe what you’re seeing.”
Whatever. He had more pressing questions to ask. For instance: What the actual fuck?
“I don’t…” He swiveled his head to survey his surroundings, spotting a hula lesson in the far corner next to a pin-the-red-nose-on-Rudolph game. “I don’t quite understand the theme of this festival.”
“It’s exactly what it says. A Seasons’ Greetings Festival. Seasonzzzzz,” Keisha emphasized. “Plural.”
His brows rose. “I thought that was a typo.”
She recoiled. “Are you kidding? The English department would slaughter us all in our sleep if we abused our apostrophes so badly.” Her eyes had gone wide, and after darting a look around them, she pointed an accusing finger. “Don’t even joke about that.”
He raised his hands. “I won’t. I promise.”
The English department did seem rather intense, now that he thought about it. He should have noticed during the whole Frankenstein Is Not the Monster Initiative earlier in the year, given all their posters and morning announcements and costumes and yelling during staff meetings. Not to mention the assembly.
A quality production, but the hand puppets had been overkill.
Keisha directed a hard stare his way. “Good. Anyway, we used to have two festivals. One for winter, another for summer. But we had trouble getting enough volunteers for both, so we merged them into one big fundraiser in the middle of the year. Then the decision had to be made about which season to celebrate, and no one could choose. So Principal Dunn said screw it, let’s do both.”
“Thus the caroling snow-cone purveyors.” He rocked back on his heels. “This festival truly has it all.”
“It does.” Keisha patted him on his arm. “I need to get eggnog in a coconut before they run out of those little umbrellas. While I do so, I suggest you study the dunk tank a bit more closely.”
Bea would want pictures of the festival, since she and her mother were visiting Virginia Tech that weekend, so he got out his cell and wandered in the direction of the splashes and a veritable army of black-clad young women.
After greeting a few of his students and taking several photos—notably, of an island-themed menorah—he finally edged his way through the crowd surrounding the dunk tank. Only to discover a waterlogged, laughing mermaid inside that tank, her red-and-green tail impeding her progress up the ladder to her little wooden seat.
He didn’t even recognize her at first. Not with her face devoid of noticeable makeup and her hair plastered to her cheeks and along her neck. Not wearing what appeared to be the top of a short-sleeved wetsuit and a long, fishy tail, both clinging to the generous curves of her body.
Rose. But not the same Rose he’d seen to that point.
“C’mon, Bianca.” She finally managed to plop herself back onto the wooden platform. “Take your best shot.”
The apparent ringleader of the girls had dyed her curly hair a shade of black that absorbed all light. Her eye makeup did the same, and what he’d guess was naturally golden skin had been powdered to a deathly ivory. A goth, just like all the young women arrayed around her.
Queen of the goths, he amended, as she gestured peremptorily for another softball.