and full lips and wide hips
and unmanicured and untucked
and unbothered
and all right
you alright, girl
Chorus
if beauty is in the eye of the beholder
then look at yourself, take in your whole body
if beauty is in the eye of the beholder
then look at yourself, take in your whole body
Refrain
see how big and brown and beautiful you are
see how big and brown and beautiful you are
The next morning, I take my time getting out of bed and getting ready for the day. This afternoon, I’m going to Grandma’s because I promised I’d come over to work more on her puzzle. Harlem is wide awake. The streets are full of traffic, horns are blowing, and there are bumper-to-bumper standstills even on the side streets. There are boys shooting hoops at the basketball court at the end of the block, and the man who sells flowers from his van is setting up in his usual spot right across the street from the bus stop. I think maybe I’ll take the bus, but instead I walk and stop at the bodega to get chips and something to drink. Grandma used to have the best snacks, but now that she’s not eating much sugar or salt, there’s nothing to raid in her cabinets.
When I get to Grandma’s I go straight to her hangout spot. She is there with her crew, sitting at her table, like always.
“Hi, everyone.”
“Well, good afternoon, Miss Nala,” Ms. Norma says. “I sure do like your hair.” Ms. Norma’s voice is like the wind; it blows through the room, and suddenly the others start in with singsong compliments like chimes blowing in her breeze.
After they go on for a while, they all get back to talking about whatever it was they were discussing. Grandma doesn’t join in their conversation. Instead, she turns to me and says, “How is everything?”
“Everything is fine,” I say.
Grandma’s eyebrows rise, and she whispers, “And how is your new friend?”
The women all start paying more attention to us.
“He’s fine,” I say. I try to sound neutral. No smile, just a straight answer. I sit down at the table across from Grandma and start helping out with the puzzle. There’s been a lot more added since the last time I was here.
“And how is Imani? Can’t even remember the last time I saw her.”
“She’s good,” I say. “Busy with Inspire Harlem.”
“Humph.” Grandma snaps in a puzzle piece that completes the bottom right corner—a man sitting outside in a meadow playing his guitar, a rooster at his feet. “She’s the busiest teenager I know.”
Ms. Norma says, “Girl, it’s not like it was when we were raising our children. These young folks have full itineraries. Places to be, people to see.”
Ms. Louise nods. “You right about that. I haven’t seen not one of my grandchildren in, well, what, two months. This is the generation of go, go, go.”
Ms. Mabel adds her opinion. “Busy doing nothing, if you ask me.”
I feel bad that they’re all being so hard on Imani. I tell them, “Well, she’s not doing nothing, she’s actually doing a lot of good for the community. She’s—”
“Oh, I didn’t mean no harm, Nala. You don’t have to explain.” Ms. Norma’s knitting hands are moving fast, and it amazes me to watch someone make something so precious without even looking. She clears her throat and tells me, “I know all about that program Imani is in. My granddaughter is in it too. I’d sure rather have her occupied with volunteering than out there in the streets causing trouble.”
Grandma scatters the puzzle pieces trying to find the one she’s looking for. “Nala, we’re just saying that a person can be so busy trying to care for their community that they don’t even have time to care for the people closest to them. That’s all.”
And then, as if we aren’t having a serious conversation, Ms. Norma holds up the blanket she is knitting and asks, “What ya’ll think of this? It’s for my first great-grandbaby. They haven’t picked a name yet, but we know it’s a girl. My first great . . . ain’t that something?”
We all ooh and aah at the blanket, and there is so much pride in Ms. Norma’s eyes. And she’s right—that is something, that her family is expanding and growing, that she has mothered generations.
I take my phone out and take a picture of Ms. Norma without her even noticing. There is something about the way that she is careful with it, like her actual great-granddaughter is already here in her hands.
“You over there being the paparazzi, Nala?” Grandma sees everything.
“Just taking a few photos, that’s all,” I say.
And of course it’s Ms. Louise who says, “Well, let me know, chile.” She straightens her clothes and poses. “I’m ready now.”
And for the next ten minutes I have become a photographer doing a photo shoot at the Sugar Hill home for seniors.
“Now, send me those, okay?” Ms. Louise says.
Ms. Norma says, “Louise, you don’t have a cell phone or email. How you think she’s going to send ’em to you?”
Ms. Louise looks a little confused.
“I’ll figure out how to get them to you,” I say. I put my phone away.
Grandma and her friends bounce from topic to topic. In this past hour we’ve gone from talking about Imani and all of us young people to politics to the sale on bananas that the grocery store is having, and then Grandma brings up the wall again. It must really be annoying her for her to keep complaining about it. “What are we going to do about this sad, dingy, plain wall? Should we ask them to at least paint it a warm color?”
“It’s not just the color, it’s that only one little picture is there looking all lonely,” Ms. Louise says, laughing. She is adorned in pearls today and a sleeveless navy blue sun-dress. Her nails look freshly manicured. Of course she wants it to be something other than plain.
“Once my great-granddaughter is born, maybe I’ll hang a big photo of her on the wall. Make this into my extended living room,” Ms. Norma says.
We all laugh.
Then, I get an idea. “You all should hang up photos in here. Like, make this wall a tribute to all the families represented in the building.”
They all sit, quiet. Maybe my idea is horrible and they don’t know how to tell me.
Grandma sits up straighter in her chair. “You know, Nala, that’s something to think about.”
Knowing Grandma is even a little interested in this makes me sit up too, makes me think maybe I really should start doing some service projects here at the residence since I keep telling Tye that’s what I do. Maybe my lie could turn into the truth. “I can help,” I say. “I can ask for permission and collect the photos and frame them.”
“Well, I think you should,” Grandma says. “I think you should.”
I get excited about this. I want to do something special this summer. I mean, it’s not as big or important as what Imani and Tye are doing, but adding some warmth to this room and making it welcoming, honoring the people who live here? That’s something.
My phone buzzes. It’s Tye asking what I’m doing. I type back, Planning a photo legacy project for the Open Studio at Sugar Hill. Okay, it’s maybe a tiny—well, a big exaggeration, but typing it out makes me really want to do it now. For real.