Pride

by Ibi Zoboi

IT’S A TRUTH universally acknowledged that when rich people move into the hood, where it’s a little bit broken and a little bit forgotten, the first thing they want to do is clean it up. But it’s not just the junky stuff they’ll get rid of. People can be thrown away too, like last night’s trash left out on sidewalks or pushed to the edge of wherever all broken things go. What those rich people don’t always know is that broken and forgotten neighborhoods were first built out of love.

A NARROW DOOR at the end of the hallway opens up to a ladder that leads to the roof. This is our happy place, way above it all.

Late June in Brooklyn is like the very beginning of a party—when the music is really good, but you know that it’s about to get way better, so you just do a little two-step before the real turn-up starts. It’s still light outside at eight o’clock in the evening, and from up here on the roof, we can watch the comings and goings of everybody on Bushwick and Jefferson Avenues.

Every book is a different hood, a different country, a different world. Reading is how I visit places and people and ideas. And when something rings true or if I still have a question, I outline it with a bright yellow highlighter so that it’s lit up in my mind, like a lightbulb or a torch leading the way to somewhere new. It’s usually enough to make me forget I’ve barely left Bushwick.

My life motto from now on!

“No. Not really, but why can’t I just mess around with him? He does it to a bunch of other girls.” “’Cause you’re not a dude, Charlise. You’ll get a bad reputation,” I say. “See? That’s the problem. If we treat guys the way they treat us, then we’ll get a bad reputation? That’s messed up.” “Well, do you care about your reputation?” She pauses, looks up at the bright blue afternoon sky, rubs her chin, and says, “My reputation for playing ball? Yep. My reputation for playing guys? Nope.”

Perfect response!

Pride Comes before the Fall (Haikus) If I fall in love Will I sink to the bottom And swallow water Make my belly full With hopes of tender kisses Round like the moonlight High over Bushwick Playing Cupid with

I’m not dressed for this, but Madrina always has a wide, flowing white skirt for any newcomers to these ceremonies. So I pull one over my pajamas and it reaches my ankles. I dance barefoot so that I’m closer to the ground, closer to los antepasados, as Madrina says. There’s also a pile of fabric for anyone to use to wrap their heads. Madrina says it’s where the orishas enter. Tonight, it’s Ochún who’s supposed to fill our heads with thoughts and dreams of beautiful sparkling things, pretty faces, soft touches, warm hugs, tender kisses, and deep connections. So I wrap my head with plain white fabric because I want this Ochún out.

ZZ’s initiation into womanhood/adulthood is just as transcendental as the language of this scene.

am so hyped about this trip that I haven’t slept. I keep this giant ball of joy inside me so no one takes it away.

Not one writer before this sentence put into words what I feel when I’m anxious to begin a journey as perfectly as Zoboi’s text does here.

until we break past these invisible walls where glass ceilings are so high, we only look up and never scratch the surface with airbrushed and gel-tipped manicured nails hoping that maybe the stars will reach down instead and want to touch us

don’t say anything to that. I just sit back in my seat, letting this strange day wrap around me like new clothes. It’s familiar, but different, and makes me feel brand-new.

Damn boy, you got me thirsty over you. Mouth dry, lips chapped, I’m dreaming Of quenching waters and all I wanna do is swim deep in this thing Called lemonade where bittersweet elixirs sooth the soul like moist lips Touching, bodies merged in this dance while sugar stirs to the top, whirling Like Ochún in her yellow dress swirling to the drums, making all this Sharp-tongued bitterness submit to the queen bee called my heart. You got me.

don’t need no knights in shining armor Ain’t no horses in the hood I killed chivalry myself with a pocketknife A mean mug and a bad mood.

Thank you to the great literary figure Jane Austen, for writing and publishing Pride and Prejudice in 1813, amidst everything that was happening in her world at the time. Austen gifted us with a story about not only love but class, expectations, and a woman’s place in the world. Even as she, a woman in nineteenth-century England, had the audacity to write, observe, and speak truth to power with such wit, humor, and grace.