Chapter Thirteen: Families Together
That Saturday, Mamma and I go to Families Together for the first time. From the outside, the building looks just like any other office building, but when we walk inside, I can see the difference. First, the office is very bright. The walls are painted the brightest yellow I have ever seen, and on one wall, there is a beautiful mural. Another wall is covered with a bulletin board jammed with pictures of all different people. Mostly the people are laughing, and some are hugging. I notice that there is a whole series of pictures of people in funny costumes, and I recognize the yellow walls in the photographs. It must have been a costume party at the Families Together office, I think. I am staring at the pictures when a tall woman walks up to Mamma and me.
“Welcome. I’m June Jones, the director of Families Together,” the woman says.
“Hello, I think we spoke earlier today,” Mamma says, “I’m Anita Pettaway, and this is my daughter…”
“Your daughter Clarissa. Yes, I remember our conversation,” June Jones says, and then she looks directly at me and smiles again.
“I remember your name, because I’ve always loved it. I have often thought that I should have named one of my girls Clarissa and called her Clara,” June Jordan says.
“Or Sassy or Sassafras,” I say without thinking. I am a little nervous.
Mamma laughs, “Those are the names Clarissa’s father calls her: Clara, Sassy, Sassafras.”
“Well, I like them all! Now, let me introduce you around. We have two groups starting in just a few minutes: the parent group and the children twelve-and-under group. That would be just about right for you, Clarissa, wouldn’t it?” June Jones asks.
“Yes, I’m nine, Miss Jones,” I reply.
“June, please; everybody calls me by my first name. We also have people here who you can help with other things if you wish: healthcare, housing, job counseling, things like that,” she says to Mamma.
Mamma nods, but doesn’t say anything.
Just then I hear music, and people begin to put away their soda and fruit juice and to bunch into separate rooms.
“That’s our cue,” June says, “The music sounds when the groups are about to begin. Mrs. Pettaway, you can go right into the room on the left, and Clarissa, I’ll take you into the room on the right.”
When June and I walk into the next room, there is a circle of children forming. Some kids are already seated, and others are grabbing pillows for the floor. There are two adults in the front of the circle, and June takes me to them.
“Tayesha, Soo-Yoon, this is Clarissa. She’ll be joining the group,” June says to the adults.
“Well, hello, Clarissa,” Soo-Yoon says. “Grab yourself a pillow and take a seat wherever you’d like.”
“Welcome, Clarissa,” Tayesha says. “We have a special guest today. She’s a poet, and she’s going to talk to us about writing. Do you like to write, by any chance?”
“I write in my diary every night. Does that count?” I reply.
“That definitely counts,” Tayesha smiles.
“I have to get to the parent group, so I’ll leave you here,” June says before she turns toward the door, and then she stops and turns toward me again, “It’s good to have you, Clarissa,” she says.
I take a purple pillow and sit not far from Tayesha and Soo-Yoon and in between a girl who is holding a notebook and a boy who is playing a computer game.
“O.K. Settle down everybody. We have to get started because we have two special guests today. One of them you know about, the other you don’t,” Soo-Yoon says and smiles over at me.
“Last month we told you that a poet was going to visit us, and she’ll be here in just a minute, but before we start, we want to introduce you to another guest,” Tayesha says and points to me. “This is Clarissa. I’m going to ask her to say a word or two about herself. Clarissa, can you tell us a little about yourself?”
I look around the room, and everybody is quiet now and looking at me. I don’t know exactly what to say, so I just take a deep breath and begin to talk.
“My name is Clarissa Pettaway, and I’m nine years old. I go to Henry Wadsworth School, and I write in a diary, and I mostly like school. I don’t have any brothers and sisters, and last year I won the Henry Wadsworth Double Dutch championship.”
The girl next to me nods like she is impressed by the last part, and then everybody yells out, “Welcome, Clarissa.” This makes me feel good, and I smile.
Tayesha and Soo-Yoon start to hand out paper and pencils, and before they finish, the poet arrives. She reads some of her poems, a funny one about a girl who tries to capture an elephant, and then a sad one about a boy who gets hurt outside the poet’s house. She plays music to show us how she gets inspired, and when someone asks her what exactly a poet is she says that a poet is a writer who is not afraid to speak the truth as she sees it. Finally, the poet tells us to take our pillows and paper and pencils to different corners of the room. We have to sit and make up our own poems. After a while, she walks around and looks at what we’ve written, and suggests little changes. When we are done, the poet asks for volunteers, and I read my poem aloud:
Maybe it’s not my fault.
Maybe I didn’t jinx it when I said I liked it at home with Mamma.
Maybe Dad will come home someday, and it will be better.
Not like when he was in prison.
And not like when he was at home.
Different but better.
Maybe.
“Nice job,” the poet says when I finish reading. “I like the repetition of the word maybe. Can anyone else tell us what they like about Clarissa’s poem?” she asks the boys and girls sitting around the circle.
The girl with the notebook raises her hand, “I like that she says she didn’t jinx it.”
“I like that too,” the poet nods and then asks, “Anyone else?”
A boy on the other side of the circle speaks up, “I like that she says she liked it at home with Mamma, because I know what she means. Sometimes it’s just easier that way, even though you miss your Dad.”
The poet nods and Tayesha speaks.
“Well, I like that she’s not sure how it’s going to end up. That’s how I felt when my mother was released from prison. I didn’t know what would happen, but I knew that whatever happened, it wasn’t my fault.”
“Your mother was in prison?” I ask Tayesha, surprised.
“Yes, and Soo-Yoon’s father is still in prison,” she says gesturing toward him, “So we all know how you feel, Clarissa.”
The room is quiet for a minute, and then a girl in the back says, “I think Clarissa should title the poem Maybe.”
“Maybe I will,” I say, and everybody laughs.
