My problem is that for a long time sirens have been Black women. Not just mostly. Exclusively. Now that it’s just us, the romance is dead. Instead of inspiring songs and stories, now our calls inspire defensive anger. Our power’s not enchanting or endearing anymore; it offends.
Once on par with elokos, all that changed long before I was born. Now the consensus is clear: the world is better off when we’re silent, and if the system skews toward making that happen— if Rhoda Taylor’s just another in a long list of victims whose pain or death seem justified by her identity …
Well. Everybody’s safer for it.
Sirens might be exclusively Black women, but all Black women aren’t sirens. We’re not even only sirens. Naema, for instance, is a different kind of different—one that manifests in any and every racial ethnicity, which is probably why despite having a pretty creepy mythos attached to them, elokos are still thoroughly adored. (The mythos is untrue, of course, but then so is mine and that hasn’t changed anyone’s mind.)
“I’m sorry, Tavia,” Naema’s saying. “Did I interrupt?”
“Nope.” I smile because no one will mention how her eloko-ness comes up in every rehearsal. Today it’s a new student, but it’s always something. I’m not at all fooled. “We were just about to get warmed up.”
“Let’s do, then.”
And it really isn’t fair, but when I crinkle my nose to match her exuberant expression, I consider using the power in my voice just one more time.
* * *
I’m always glad to put Monday behind me, like whatever happened—Naema being the worst, my dad’s attitude shifting whenever I entered the room—was only because it was the first day of the week. It’s ridiculous, but I can’t help hoping Tuesday’ll be better, and the next afternoon finds me in Mr. Monroe’s classroom, the lone student already in my seat and patiently waiting for the bell to ring, and meditating on the way that junior year was actually going pretty well before a maybe–Siren Trial threw a wrench in it. High school, in general, really—Mondays and first heartbreak aside.
There’s this thing called sunshine, and even though Portland doesn’t grasp the concept for full seasons at a time, it seems like the last few years there’s been more of it. It’s more than that, though. After all, there was plenty of sunshine in Santa Cruz, the beach town where I was born, and I hated my life.
Mr. Monroe teaches IB Social and Cultural Anthropology and IB English 3, and if we were discussing it in the latter, he’d explain that when I say “sunshine,” I’m really speaking figuratively. He’d say I’m talking about things like “illumination” and “warmth”—things that help me see more clearly and feel more comfortable in my own skin, and he’d talk about how those are things that bring “growth.” In short, he’d say that what I really mean by “sunshine” is my network in the choir, my own personal sense of agency, and my sister-friendship with Effie, all rolled into one.
I mean, that’s what he’d say if he knew about any of those things besides Effie being my play-sister. And coming from him, I’d really consider it.
There’s a reason I adore Mr. Monroe, and it started in anthro, the day he asserted that there’s no such thing as cross-cultural empathy without cultural competency. Not only did he acknowledge “dog-whistle politics,” but he knew how to demonstrate it in a classroom. Legend.
He had three students each stand on a stack of books at the front of the room. I was one of the chosen three, but I didn’t get the slip of paper; Altruism did—which is literally someone’s name because this is Portland.
Anyway, Mr. Monroe had the three of us stand there while he gave a short, seemingly harmless presentation, but every so often Altruism took a book from her stack until finally she was standing flat on the ground and me and the third kid were towering above her.
See, every time he said something related to whatever he’d written on that paper, she got demoted. Beside me, she just got smaller and smaller, and it was strangely difficult to watch. It was hard to have the class’s eyes on me while I processed that someone understood. When it felt like I might be ready to cry, I imitated Effie when she doesn’t want to look someone in the eye and I found a focal point. I fixed my gaze on the speaker right beside the classroom door until the swell inside me passed, and by then Allie had both feet on the floor.
Mr. Monroe gave us a chance to guess what he’d written on the paper, but we couldn’t. Even when he reread his presentation and Allie indicated which parts of it brought her down, few people got it. Only Allie understood that he’d been talking about her.
He made something plain to a room full of mostly white kids, and it meant I didn’t have to. He was the teacher, so, at least on that topic, I didn’t have to educate my peers. He became the best teacher I’ve ever had with that one class period, and I seriously doubt anyone’s gonna top that.
Still. As much as I think the real Mr. Monroe is everything, I’m not sure I agree with his imaginary analysis of my “sunshine.” There’s a lot he doesn’t know. For one thing, that “agency” we’re always debating in fictional characters? I displayed mine by concocting a story to hide behind. I figured out that not using my siren calls at all is not an option. I tried that. It almost cost my family everything. But I also can’t always have a choir entourage, and sometimes the call rises, replacing my human voice, and if I open my mouth, it’s coming out.
So, I took a page from my parents. Without my consent, they came up with a cover story to explain the belt I tied around my neck in sixth grade; I came up with a cover story to explain why I sometimes lose my voice. Why I need to use ASL sometimes, and why I need an interpreter.
I got what I wanted when I stumbled on a disorder called spasmodic dysphonia, but … I’m not sure that counts as agency. And it sure doesn’t feel like “sunshine.” It doesn’t feel like “illumination” and “warmth,” not always. Most of the time, it just feels like surviving.
As random as it sounds, it’s Camilla Fox that makes me feel both awake and at peace. She was the first natural-hair diva I found when I decided to take my hair care into my own hands (literally), and she’s still my favorite. Her perfect lips are always some gorgeous matte, her septum piercing is real and forever gleaming, she basically looks eternally like some envy-inducing photo from Afropunk, and I am obsessed.
She’s everything I want to be when I grow up, everything a lot of Black girls want to be.
She deals with her fair share of drama, and she taught me the L.O.C. method of hydrating my hair, so if “agency” is breaking the rules, I’m gonna use it for Camilla. For my sanity, really.
I’ve already pulled up her latest video when a few more classmates wander into Mr. Monroe’s room. I glance up and give an acknowledging smile to the two Jennifers and Altruism.
“Whatcha watching?” Allie comes around to peer over my shoulder. We’re not close anymore, but when I moved to PDX the summer after sixth grade, Altruism was my first friend. Back when she went by Allie. It was easy then; her dad’s Latinx, so even though her mom’s white, they were the only other family of color in our neighborhood, and no one had to tell us what that meant. We just knew it was nice to see each other on the hill.