Pride (Page 25)
We all spill into the giant auditorium, where there’s a huge stage and screen in the front. Janae told me that some classes are held in auditoriums like this, and I’ll have to always sit in the front to get the professors’ attention. I do just that so I can be seen, noticed, and heard.
But other kids have the same bright idea, and the first few rows close to the stage are almost full. There’s one last empty seat at the other end of the stage, and I head straight for it. This is musical chairs, and I’m trying to stay in the game.
But a girl places her hand on the seat’s armrest, looks dead at me, and says, “Are you with Alpha Kappa Alpha?”
“Who?” I ask.
“The AKA scholarship group? These seats are reserved for them,” she says with an even brighter smile.
“Oh” is all I say, even though I want to know what an AKA is and how I can get into their scholarship group. But I decide that girl doesn’t need to know that—I can look it up online later.
A tall girl with flowing hair and a pink blazer walks over to the seat that should’ve been mine and sits down. I look around at the first few rows and notice that everyone’s already teamed up. They’re talking to each other and laughing, and I wish that I had brought one of my sisters with me. But still, I grab a seat near the back and stay focused. I didn’t come here to make friends.
The first part of the session begins. I listen to every word those Howard students say about the different majors and clubs and activities the school has to offer. I hear about their newspaper, the Hilltop, and their literary journal, Amistad. I’m at the edge of my seat, and my heart feels like it’s about to leap out of my chest from excitement. If only I could skip my senior year at Bushwick and move in, like, next week.
Sage joins the students on the stage to take questions from the audience. “Now keep your questions to just questions,” she says into the mic. “No comments or reciting your application essay.”
The audience laughs, but I don’t. I’d be the one to recite my essay as a spoken-word piece if it would increase my chances of getting in.
I keep raising my hand, but Sage doesn’t call on me. So I stand up and raise my hand high. I hear whispers around me, but I don’t care.
“Yes,” Sage says, finally noticing me. “With the afro.”
A girl standing in the aisle with a mic passes it over to me. As soon as I take it, my stomach sinks, but I swallow back my fear. “Hi,” I say, clearing my throat. “How can I get a scholarship to Howard?”
Everybody shifts in their seat, and some even giggle. My voice echoes, and my whole body goes warm. Still, I hold my head high and wait for an answer as the girl takes the mic away.
“Howard University reviews applications on a case-by-case basis. You can ask your guidance counselor for help. We look forward to hearing from you,” one of the students on the stage responds.
It’s an answer I already knew, but I sit back down and tell myself that I won’t stop asking questions until I get in. I don’t care how I look.
When Professor Bello begins her lecture, I take out my notebook to write down everything she says. Her words fill my ears, the students fill my eyes, and I have the overwhelming sense that I belong here. I imagine myself in this place, getting dressed for class, walking with my new friends to the dining hall, joining the poetry club. I sigh big and feel my body swell with hope about this new beginning. The professor keeps talking and I keep dreaming and I begin to write a letter to the founder.
Dear Mr. Oliver Otis Howard,
I wonder if when we name places
after important people, we’ve made them
immortal in some way. That their ghosts
can linger in corners and halls and dusty
dorm rooms to see me writing this letter
to some dead white man who probably could
never have imagined that I’d exist. Have you
heard of the Dominican Republic, Mr. Howard?
Or maybe you’ve heard about a slave revolt
that happened in a country called Haiti? These are the
places that made the people that made me. Those are
places that, in 1867, girls like me would not dream of being
in somewhere like your university. And this is why I want to
come to your school, Mr. Howard. There is more to learn
about my old, old self, and black and brown girls like me
from hoods all over this country want to take over the world,
but there’s something missing
in our history books the public schools give us.
At least that’s what my papi says,
so he makes me read a lot, and that’s where I found out
about the Mecca in this book called
Between the World and Me
and I’m thinking that I need to come here so I can gather
these wisdoms found in old, dusty books written by
wrinkled brown hands and gather them within the folds
of my wide skirt, tuck them into the pockets of my jeans,
and take them with me back home to sprinkle all over
Bushwick like rain showers, Mr. Howard.
Sincerely,
ZZ
Fifteen
“HI, I’M SONIA,” a girl says as she reaches for my hand to shake. We walk up the auditorium stairs and into the hallway. I see that she’s about my height and my age. “Thank you for that question. Just about everybody up in here is trying to get a scholarship.”
“Really? Oh,” I say. “I’m Zuri, by the way.”
We head out into the yard.
“Yes, really. You know how many people get in and can’t pay? Some can’t even finish,” Sonia says.
“I hope that doesn’t happen to me,” I say. Fear settles in my belly like one of Mama’s heavy meals.
“Well, you just gotta play your cards right. Get them grades up, and extracurricular activities are your ticket. Where you from, anyway?”
When she says this, I immediately think of my poems. I hope that’s something that’ll set me apart. I’m willing to use any skills I have to get into the school of my dreams. “Bushwick,” I say. I rep hard for my hood wherever I go.
Sonia scrunches up her face.
“It’s in Brooklyn,” I add.
“Oh. Why didn’t you just say Brooklyn?”
“’Cause Brooklyn is not Bushwick” is all I say.
“Oh, that’s really cool. If you’re from Brooklyn, then you probably liked Professor Bello’s lecture.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I thought people from Brooklyn are extra woke or whatever. And besides, Professor Bello is from Brooklyn, or that’s what I read in her bio. Bed-Stuy do or die, or something like that.”
“Really?” I feel my whole soul light up when she says this.
“Yeah, really. You should really try to get to know her. She runs an open mic at Busboys and Poets.”
We were walking toward the exit of the campus, but I stop dead in my tracks. “What did you just say?”
“An open mic at Busboys and Poets . . . it’s a bookstore that’s really close to here, if you want to check it out.”
“How do you know all this?” I ask. The Brooklyn in me is not ready to trust this girl all the way.
“I’m from D.C., so I know all about Howard.”
“Thanks, Sonia,” I say with a genuine smile. If she’s from around here, then she must be keeping it real with me.
“Nice meeting you, Zuri,” she says. “Maybe I’ll see you back here for freshman orientation.”