Piecing Me Together

by Renée Watson

“I’m good with salads,” Maxine says. “But, ah, everything else? Nah.” Mom laughs. She waves Maxine into the kitchen. “Come on in here and let me show you a thing or two,” she says.

I like being able to say I’m not just getting an opportunity from Woman to Woman, but that I am helping to keep it thriving.

I think about these people who don’t even know me but want to support me, and I am feeling seen and heard.

The faces lie on top of newspaper articles and headlines, only I take the words from the headlines and spell out new titles, rewrite history. Make it so all these people are living and loving and being.

“Sometimes, I don’t know—I’m just uncomfortable talking about this stuff. And I don’t know what to say to you when something’s happened to you that’s not fair. Like that day at the mall. I felt horrible, but what was I supposed to do?” “Sometimes, it isn’t about you doing anything. When you brush it off like I’m making it up or blowing things out of proportion, it makes me feel like my feelings don’t matter to you.”

When we misunderstand each other, we listen again. And again.

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

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.