Watch Us Rise(18)

“All right, thank you. That’s good, that’s good,” Mr. Morrison says.

I keep going. “I don’t need your fake compliments, your pity. I know I am beautiful. Inside and out.”

A few students start clapping. My heart is pounding, my hands sweaty. We stand for a while like stone statues.

“All right, let’s take a break,” Mr. Morrison says.

Meg steps away, sits back down next to her fan club.

I sit next to Isaac.

Mr. Morrison jumps up, grabs a stool from the corner of the room, and says, “I am very impressed with what I’ve seen today. I’d like to develop some of these characters that showed up. Especially yours, Jasmine.”

When he says my name, I am stunned.

Mr. Morrison continues, “You were giving us so much sass today. I think we should tap into that energy and keep going in that direction. I love your idea, Meg, of developing a scene around dieting and all the issues you young women face. And, Jasmine, your ‘Girl with an Attitude’ confidence is perfect,” he says.

Perfect?

I raise my hand. “I, um, I actually have something I started in my science class that I’d like to work on.” I tell the class about Henrietta Lacks. I tell them my idea of turning her story into a one-act or how I could do a solo piece. Only two people like my idea. And Isaac is one of them. I’m not sure if his is out of obligation.

Mr. Morrison says, “I think that’s predictable for you. We haven’t seen this side of you and, well,” Mr. Morrison looks around the room and says, “I think you may be the only one who can pull it off in such an authentic way.”

I can’t believe that after the variety of roles I performed, he is most enthusiastic about me acting sassy and being an angry and emotional woman. Even after he’s seen me perform Beneatha Younger’s monologue—which was all about why she dreams of being a doctor, how she believes giving people medical attention is one of the most powerful things a person can do, how it is the closest thing to being God—all that resonated was sass and anger. And today, after seeing me in the arms of Isaac, after seeing my hand in his, the syncing of our eyes, all that stood out was sass and anger?

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think this character would break any stereotype at all. It plays right into it. A big girl on a diet is the plot point for most movies, TV shows, and books. Why can’t I just be big and be a character in love? Or be big and be a scientist? I am not playing a role where the big girl has to focus on losing weight.”

Mr. Morrison doesn’t respond, so I just keep talking.

“Mr. Morrison, if we’re writing our own scripts, shouldn’t I have some say about the character I develop?”

“I’m not saying no to your idea. I’m saying I’d like you to consider exploring this new voice you discovered today. I think there’s some nuance we can build into that character. Plus we haven’t seen you sassy and angry—”

“Please stop saying sassy—”

“Yeah, isn’t that like, so offensive?” a freshman whose name I keep forgetting says.

“Thank you,” I say to the girl.

Isaac adds, “It’s definitely offensive.”

Having them have my back makes me speak up even more. “Mr. Morrison, I just, I don’t know. I’d rather play roles that are not stereotypical for black women. To be honest, I don’t even want to play the sad, depressed role this year. The type of character I’m talking about is bold and strong in a way that is less about her struggle but more about her standing up for others and telling their stories. I want to write some pieces that just celebrate and—”

Meg sighs loudly and says, “Oh my goodness, can we just move on? This is not a big deal.”

Another student says, “She makes everything about race.”

“This is the August Wilson Acting Ensemble,” I say. “Everything we do is about race. And it’s not just about race for me—I am not going to be the fat black girl playing the angry, sassy woman—”

“Well, lose some weight then,” Meg says.

The class erupts, some laughing, most sighing in disbelief that this is actually happening. Mr. Morrison stands. “Okay, all right. Listen, we are not going to be disrespectful here.” He walks over to Meg and says, “I think you need to apologize.”

I don’t know if she does or doesn’t. Before she opens her mouth, I’m out the door.

I am halfway to my locker when I hear Isaac calling after me. “Jasmine, wait up. Hold on.” He is running down the hall. When he catches up to me, his chest is rising up and down, up and down. He doesn’t say anything or ask any questions. He just walks with me to my locker. I open it, get my coat, close it. We walk, and I follow his lead to his locker. He gets his coat, puts his sketchbook in his backpack. We walk to the common area, where there are benches and murals and water fountains big enough for you to put your water bottle under the nozzle without bending it at all. We sit together, me swallowing tears I refuse to let fall. Isaac says, real low, almost a whisper, “I’m sorry that happened.”

My phone buzzes. It’s probably Chelsea. Clubs will be out soon, and she’s most likely wandering the halls waiting for us to get out so we can hang out a bit before going home. I take my phone out.

It’s Mom.