Once breakfast was over, most of the kids left, except for a dozen who stayed behind, including us. I told my sisters we might as well stick around for the summer camp program. Cecile had made it clear she didn’t want to see us anytime soon, so we told Sister Mukumbu our names and followed her and Sister Pat, the young woman in the Cal State T-shirt, into a classroom.
I felt silly and wrong calling a grown person Brother So-and-So or Sister Such-and-Such, but thanks to Cecile, we now had brothers and sisters we had never before laid eyes on. Sure, they said “brutha” and “sistah” in Brooklyn, but here it was more of a title and not like you were saying “him” or “her.” As far as I could tell, none of the grown people at the Center went by Mr., Mrs., or Miss. If Big Ma could see how quickly our home training had flown out the window, she would have had us on the next Boeing 727 back to New York.
There was something welcoming about Sister Mukumbu, whom I liked right away. If Sister Mukumbu had met us at the airport, we would have felt welcomed as she stepped forward to claim us. She would have wrapped us up in her green, purple, and orange African print dress and begged our forgiveness for having left us.
We sat at one of the two long tables. The classroom was unlike any I had ever been in. Instead of pictures of George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and President Johnson, there was a picture of Huey Newton sitting in a big wicker chair with a rifle at his side. There were other pictures of mostly black men and a few women hung up around the room. I expected to find Dr. Martin Luther King’s photograph hanging on the wall, but I was disappointed. Malcolm X and Muhammad Ali were the only faces I could name. I didn’t know any of the women, although one woman looked just like Big Ma. Next to her picture were the words “I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.”
On the walls were big sheets of lined-ruled paper written in teacher’s neat handwriting. The first one said “What We Want” in green letters. On the other side of the wall, another said “What We Believe.”
Vonetta didn’t seem to care that we were in some sort of Black Panther summer camp, learning to become Black Panthers. Her attention was fixed on the three sisters with the flared-sleeve dresses and their round, curly Afros. I knew I would hear all about it later. How it was time for her to have a new hairstyle and that our clothes were baby clothes.
Sister Mukumbu said, “Hirohito Woods.”
A boy from the other table with dark spiky hair, brown coppery skin, and slanted eyes groaned. He was probably my age.
Sister Mukumbu smiled in spite of his groaning. She beckoned him to her side, her many bracelets jangling as she waved him forward. “Hirohito will help with my demonstration.”
I didn’t have to turn to see Vonetta’s mile-long pout. It was just like Vonetta to be envious of someone else being in the spotlight. Hirohito didn’t seem thrilled. He pushed his chair backward, scraping the floor, and went sullenly up to the front. It was only from the back of his spiky head that I recognized him as the flying T board rider who’d nearly mowed us down yesterday. I had half a mind to sock him good.
Sister Mukumbu said, “I’m going to be the sun, and Hirohito will be the earth.” She leaned and whispered something in his ear. He heaved a big sigh, like he didn’t want to do whatever it was she told him but would do it anyway. The sighing was for us kids so he didn’t come off as some kind of teacher’s pet.
Sister Mukumbu nodded and said firmly, “Now, Hirohito.”
He heaved another sigh and began to turn around slowly, each time taking a step to travel around Sister Mukumbu, who stood still and smiled. This was better than socking him in the arm. Watching him turn around and around in his black and silver Raiders jersey. He looked down and probably felt silly. All the kids in the program, including my sisters and me, giggled. Sister Mukumbu wasn’t bothered by our giggling or by Hirohito’s sighing. She said, “The earth turns slowly on its axis, while also spinning around the sun. Day wouldn’t change to night if the earth didn’t spin on its axis. The seasons wouldn’t change if the earth didn’t travel around the sun. This means vegetation wouldn’t grow, which means poor farmers couldn’t harvest, and poor people couldn’t eat if the earth didn’t spin on its axis and travel around the sun. That one body spinning in motion affects everyone’s lives. Does anyone know another word for the earth’s constant spinning?”
That was how I knew Sister Mukumbu was a real teacher, aside from her welcoming smile and her blackboard penmanship. She asked a teacher’s type of question. The kind that says: Join in.
Thanks to my time spent with Merriam Webster, I had a few words in mind. Rotating. Orbiting. Turning. Circling. I wanted to join in, but I felt silly, being one of the older kids. Not as silly as Hirohito spinning around but too old to wave my hand frantically as all the younger kids around me were doing. The older sister of the three girls also sat on her answer. She probably knew too but left it up to her sisters, who wanted to be called on.
When one of the kids called out “Revolving,” Sister Mukumbu clapped her hands. Her bangles jangled. “Yes! All of your words are right, but ‘revolving’ is right on!” Sister Pat then gave the boy a cookie.
Sister Mukumbu said, “Revolving. Revolution. Revolutionary. Constant turning. Making things change.”
Sister Pat said, “Huey Newton is a revolutionary. Huey makes change.”
And Sister Mukumbu continued, saying, “Che Guevara was a revolutionary. Che made change.”
As they named all of the revolutionaries who made change, Hirohito came to a complete stop. He held out his hands, a dizzy Frankenstein, and staggered to his chair. The boy who won the cookie said, “Nice spinning, Twinkle Toes.” Hirohito rested his head on the table and closed his eyes.
I just thought, Serves you right.
Sister Mukumbu announced, “Today we’re going to be like the earth, spinning around and affecting many. Today we’re going to think about our part in the revolution.”
Vonetta’s hand shot up. I kicked her under the table, but she was determined to have everyone look at her, which meant have everyone look at us. I forgot all about Hirohito and was now afraid of what Vonetta would say next; and sure enough, Vonetta said, “We didn’t come for the revolution. We came for breakfast.” Then Fern added, “And to meet our mother in Oakland.”
If Hirohito’s spinning made us giggle, Vonetta’s declaration made everyone—except my sisters and me, and the still-dizzy Hirohito—full-out laugh. The group of girls whom Vonetta had been winking at were the main cacklers. Even Sister Mukumbu, caught off guard by Vonetta’s and Fern’s outbursts, allowed herself a chuckle.
I blamed Vonetta and not Fern, since I didn’t want the world to learn we didn’t rightfully know our mother. Fern wouldn’t have uttered a word if Vonetta hadn’t raised her hand to speak. Even worse, Vonetta had thrown a king-sized monkey wrench into my plans. I had hoped to ask Sister Mukumbu about the name the Black Panthers called Cecile and why they called her that. I didn’t know exactly how I would have asked her, but something made me believe she would know and that she wouldn’t make me feel bad for asking. She certainly wouldn’t have given me that “Oh, you poor motherless girl” pity look. Or the snooty “Don’t you even know your own mother’s name?” Sister Mukumbu would have given me the plain, pure, teacherly truth.
Then Vonetta raised her hand and opened her mouth and had the world looking and laughing at us. Except for the boy who was too dizzy to laugh. I wasn’t about to add fuel to the fire by asking questions about things that I should know, like my mother’s name.