“Oh, months now, I think. Been so long, I can’t really remember.”
“And that’s good. You don’t need no ice cream,” Grandma says.
When did she get back?
Grandma is standing in the doorway, hand on her hip. She walks across the room and sits next to JT. I wonder how long she was eavesdropping and if she heard JT say he loved her. Somehow, I think she knows even if he’s never said it to her. You know when someone loves you.
“So, what’s the verdict?” Grandma asks. “When do we start on our photo wall?”
“Well . . .” I tell her all about my interaction with Sharon. Just as I am finishing, Ms. Norma, Ms. Louise, and Ms. Mabel come in. They each take their favorite seat and join in the conversation.
Grandma is eager to fill them in. She says to me, “Tell them what happened.” Her accent comes through when she is upset. She sucks her teeth and shakes her head as I tell the story for the third time. I repeat the story about the woman at the front desk who was rude and seemed uninterested in my idea. When I finish, Ms. Norma shakes her head and says, “These new folks coming in here with no respect at all.” And that sets off a whole nother conversation about all the changes that have happened since new management took over. “They act like how we did things wasn’t good enough,” Ms. Norma continues.
Ms. Louise nods. “There used to be a time when management asked us for our opinion on what kind of things we wanted to do around here, how we wanted the space to look. Remember that Christmas we asked them to get us a real tree instead of that small fake one they put up every year?”
“Yes, I remember,” Ms. Mabel says. “That was the first time we decorated the tree together and had our own lighting ceremony right there in the lobby.”
JT shakes his head. “And ever since then we get a real tree. Bet these new people don’t even know that we started that tradition.”
Ms. Norma adds, “And they don’t know that we’re the ones who asked for the movement classes. Wasn’t it you, Louise, who got your daughter to come do a seniors’ dance class for us two years ago?”
Ms. Louise seems so proud when she leans over to me and explains, “My daughter teaches at Alvin Ailey.”
Ms. Norma takes a drink of water from her water bottle and says, “Had one of them young girls try to lecture me about coming to the movement class—the one we started—only now they are calling it the health and wellness class and it’s yoga and meditation. Not dance.”
“Bougie Black people,” Ms. Mabel says.
And we all laugh, except for Ms. Mabel. She goes on, “I’m serious. And don’t get me started about all these new recycling requirements.”
Then Grandma says, “What you got against recycling?”
“Nobody has time for that,” Ms. Mabel says.
“Now, come on, Louise,” Grandma says. “We’ve been recycling our whole lives. You know how many butter containers I use as Tupperware?” She laughs. “And I’ve seen your stash of plastic bags that you reuse in your small garbage cans.”
“That’s recycling,” JT says.
Ms. Norma is finished with her blanket. She holds it up and shows it off. We all ooh and aah and take a moment to tell her how we know her daughter is going to love this blanket. Ms. Norma looks at Ms. Mabel all serious and stern and says, “I didn’t use to be so strict with recycling, but I do want to leave this world better for our children and grandchildren. I figure throwing trash in the right bin is the least I can do. We s’posed to take care of Mother Earth, s’posed to love her and leave her in good shape for the next generation.”
“Well, I guess you all have a point,” Ms. Mabel says. “But they need to put some respect on it. I’m their elder. I don’t like that chastising tone. Mess around with me and get accidently run over by this here scooter.” She rolls her eyes but then gives in to a smile.
We are laughing again—at Ms. Mabel, at bougie Black people, at the thought of Ms. Mabel running them over in her scooter. When the laughter settles and they go on to talking about something else, I think about Imani and Toya, and how a conversation with them about recycling would have quickly turned into one of them being condescending and judgmental. I think about how it definitely would not have ended in laughter. I think about how Toya called me an honorary member of Inspire Harlem, but really, sitting here with Grandma and her friends, I think maybe this is all the inspiration I need.
15
Every summer Imani and I go to at least one of the basketball tournaments at Dyckman Park. Last summer we went with Sadie and Asher. This year, Sadie can’t come but Asher and Tye can. I didn’t intend for this to be a double date, but here I am riding the number one train uptown to Dyckman Street. The closer we get to our stop I start seeing who’s on here heading to the tournament too. I love these moments when you are riding along with strangers and then all of a sudden realize you are all going to the same place. There is something magical about a whole train of people getting off together, walking up the steps together, making a journey toward a concert, festival, or game.
We get off the train and walk the long street alongside the housing complex till we get to the park. The sun is fading just a bit so it isn’t as hot as it was this afternoon, and thank goodness for that, because otherwise I’d be a sweating, hot mess. We haven’t made it yet, but already I can hear music that the DJ is spinning. There’s hardly space to walk, there are so many people. Boys are posted along the block checking out the girls who walk by—but pretending not to. Girls walk in groups of twos, threes, fours, some of us with intention to get to the tournament; others have that slow stride, wanting to be seen in the outfits they’ve been waiting to wear, even though they are trying to make it seem casual. Tye takes my hand, and it makes me feel good that he wants everyone here to know he is with me, we are together.
“Look up there,” Tye says, pointing to the fire escapes on the building across the street. There are people leaning out of windows, sitting on fire escapes, perched like the crows in the morning lined up on telephone lines, watching everyone below. “They’ll have a better view than we will,” he says. “I don’t know if we’re even going to get a spot on the bleachers. We might have to stand at the gate.”
The four of us squeeze our way in and are lucky enough to find good seats because people are still standing outside the court showing off, talking, dancing, so even though it’s beyond crowded, not everyone has come in to get a seat. The DJ is playing all my favorite songs, and I can’t keep still so I move and groove in my seat, but once Blue comes on, I can’t stay seated. I get up, start dancing, and grab Tye’s hand, pulling him up to dance with me.
“Come on, you know I don’t dance,” he says.
He tries so hard to stay seated, but I keep pulling him up. “Dance with me.”
He gives in, gets up, and moves with me. We’re in bleachers, so we can’t go full out, but I work my hips into his, winding to the rhythm. I don’t know why he doesn’t dance—he definitely knows how to move, how to be easy with it, laid back, smooth.
Another song comes on, and this one brings Imani to her feet. “Yeeeess.” She dances next to me, and Tye steps back to let us do our thing. Imani and I feed off each other’s energy, and the row of people behind us starts dancing too. And now there are pockets of dancers showing off their moves all over the court.