Some Places More Than Others: Chapters 1–12

Dad laughs. “You have my persistence, that’s for sure.”

She looks at my shelves and picks up the Jason Markk kit Dad bought me to clean my sneakers. “When I was your age an old toothbrush, detergent, and warm water did the trick. I guess this makes you a bona fide sneakerhead, huh?”

“I’ll try that one on,” I say, pointing to the shirtdress. I think I’ll wear it to school tomorrow—to make her see I am willing to compromise.

“You know most girls your age would love to have one-of-a-kind clothes designed especially for them,” she says. “When I was a little girl I loved wearing dresses. I’d sneak in my mother’s closet and play dress up in her clothes, strutting around in her high heel shoes. I don’t know whose child you are.”

“What if you promise your mom that you’ll do a report or something on Harlem. Like, maybe if you go and visit all the famous places of the Harlem Renaissance you can—”
“I am not going to give myself an assignment. Not going to happen.”

Mr. Rosen tells us that our suitcases will be on display at the school-wide spring festival. “And the more creative, the better. Maybe your suitcase carries actual, tangible items. But some things you won’t be able to put in your suitcase; some things are intangible, and yet, you carry them with you. Think about how you will represent the places you come from, the people who are important to you.”

Was it a gift on her wedding day or something she splurged on?

When Mom and I walk in the building, an usher who is wearing a black T-shirt and jeans says, “Welcome, and help yourself to our coffee corner.”

Mom’s been fussing at me all week because every free moment I have, I’ve been on my phone or laptop looking up things to do and making my lists of places I want to go. I have all the things Titus suggested, plus seeing a Broadway play. But more than going to any of those places, I want to sit on the stoop of Dad’s childhood home.

Dad reaches for his earbud, and just before he puts it back in, he says, “And I have to take you to Canal Street and teach you how to haggle for good deals. You’ll like that. We can get some souvenirs for your friends.”

Would her house be the mecca for family gatherings, where all the cousins and aunts and uncles come together to have summer cookouts and Thanksgiving feasts?

Grandpa puts on a navy blue coat and a brown fedora.

Grandpa laughs. “I reckon we’re everywhere, but some places more than others, that’s for sure.”

Nina and Ava look just like Aunt Tracey, who looks like Dad. Not just in features but the way they move, how their faces make the same expressions, have some of the same mannerisms.

She teaches me how to make gumbo, and we make corn bread, too.

Aunt Tracey comes over to me, says, “Don’t worry. I had false contractions with Ava. It’s normal. Your mom is okay and the baby will be healthy.”

There’s a crowd of people crossing the street going both directions and cars forging their way through and whizzing by.

There are vendors set up on both sides of the street selling everything from purses to black art to incense and perfume, to jewelry, to gloves and scarves.

“I think he was both,” Nina says, not at all masking that she is irritated with her sister. “The point is, he did a lot for Harlem. He organized rent strikes and fought to integrate places of business so that black people could work anywhere and get fair pay.”

We keep walking, and then I see marquee of the Apollo just ahead of us.

Two kids go under the turnstile, not paying their fare.

Two kids go under the turnstile, not paying their fare.

The tiled walls have colorful mosaics of black activists, musicians, and artists flying through the sky.

The tiled walls have colorful mosaics of black activists, musicians, and artists flying through the sky.

A man sways his backpack over the threshold of the door to keep it open.