No Laughter Here (10 page)

I was playing Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves
with Jerilyn, Janetta, Ida, Nahda, and Sadia. Jerilyn was my partner. She kept messing up, clapping on three-four and flip-flapping on five and six, instead of stomping. Meanwhile I managed to keep up, even with my mind elsewhere. It's amazing how sometimes when you concentrate so hard you mess up, but when you free your mind you're clapping, stomping, and flip-flapping without missing a beat.

Jerilyn messed up again. She was in the middle of one of those “sorries” when I looked up and saw Mrs. Ojike at the gate with Victoria. My heart leaped. I was so glad to see Victoria, I left the rest of the hand-clappers hanging in the middle of Ali Baba and went running to the gate. I wondered if she had logged on and read my e-mail. We had lots to talk about.

Mrs. Ojike called out, “Victoria!”

Victoria said, “I cannot associate with you,” and turned her back to me.

I didn't want to get Victoria into any more trouble, so
I ran back to the hand-clappers.

Mrs. Ojike didn't move. Even when it was time to line up, Mrs. Ojike stood at the gate and watched us, to make sure Victoria and I didn't line up together.

I marched at the end of the girls' line and thought, Mrs. Ojike couldn't watch us in class, but I was wrong. I entered our classroom only to discover Ida had been moved to Victoria's desk, and Victoria was up front near Ms. Saunders. Mrs. Ojike had thought of everything.

Cafeteria seats weren't assigned, I thought. At lunchtime I grabbed my tray and sat next to Victoria.

“You cannot talk to me,” Victoria said.

“I'm not talking,” I said. “I'm eating.”

We ate our lunches without speaking to each other. I wanted to prove to her that I would not get her into trouble. I was still her friend.

While I was controlling the urge to talk to Victoria, something hit me in the back. A Milk Dud flew over my shoulder and into my string beans. I turned around and found a skee-ball-faced Juwan grinning at me. He was sitting between Richie and Darryl, who tried to look like they didn't know anything about flying Milk Duds.

I knew what Juwan was after. He was trying to make me lose my mind, but I wouldn't fall for it. I turned around and kept eating.

“Akilah,” Janetta urged. “You gonna take that?”

He threw another Milk Dud. This time he aimed at Victoria. She kept eating her ravioli, but I stood up. I could see myself giving a war cry and leaping over the
lunch table like a ninja. Instead I went over to the lunchroom aide and said, “Mrs. Hall, those boys are throwing Milk Duds at Victoria and me.”

Mrs. Hall was only too happy to come over and straighten this out. Adults love to remind you that kids are starving all around the world while you are playing with food. It didn't matter that the “food” was Milk Duds.

Seeing how mad Mrs. Hall was, both Richie and Darryl ratted Juwan out. “He did it,” they both said, pointing at Juwan.

“Not me,” Juwan said in his most wrongly accused voice. “I wasn't doing nothing.” He was even more convincing than when he made his speech in the vice principal's office.

“Did so,” Richie said.

“I told you, man,” Darryl said. “Just step to Akilah and say, ‘Akilah, I like the way you raise your hand in class.'”

“I do not like her!” Juwan protested.

Darryl said to Mrs. Hall, “Juwan said, ‘Watch this. I'm gonna make Akilah turn around.' Then he started throwing those Milk Duds at her.”

The whole lunchroom went crazy laughing. They were laughing more at Darryl's imitation than at Juwan. Darryl could be a real clown. Mrs. Hall wasn't laughing. She was marching Juwan to the vice principal's office.

All the girls at my table, especially Janetta, thought it was funny. She wouldn't let me finish my string beans in
peace. When lunch was over, we lined up and followed Ms. Saunders back to our classroom. Before we entered and took our seats, Victoria tapped me and said, “Juwan Spenser. You must be proud.”

I expected Victoria to be long gone by now, but
there she was, sitting at our spot near the hopscotches. The last of the school buses was pulling off.

I was so excited to see her and wanted to know if she got my e-mail. Before I sat down, I asked, “Can I sit here?”

She looked at me and said, “Can you?”

I wanted to be sure it was safe. That I wouldn't get her into trouble. “Where is your mother?”

“She couldn't come. She told Nelson to walk me, but he does not want to be bothered. Mum will be cross to know that he has left me alone with the American Troublemaker's Daughter.”

Those were our new names to the Ojikes. My mother was American Troublemaker and I was American Troublemaker's Daughter.

“Your mother knows many people,” Victoria said. “And they know people at the consulate where my father works.”

I knew it. Mom went to Mr. Ojike's job with an army of Child Welfare workers.

“Is that why you speak to a shrink?”

“I do not speak. The shrink does all of the speaking. But no writing. She uses a tape recorder.”

I wanted to laugh. Victoria's voice was so funny, like an English African robot's. The real Victoria's voice.

“Why don't you talk to her?”

Victoria said, “I am helping her to become a better shrink. At night she can play her tape and hear her voice assuring me it is okay to speak. That is what she wants me to do. Speak.”

“But she will help you,” I told her.

“She will shrink me.”

I hit her on the arm. Not a hard hit. A play hit. I hadn't done that since we were fourth graders. “They could put you in a psychiatric bin.”

“It is either the loony bin or psychiatric ward,” she corrected. “Do not mix them up.”

She sounded like herself. All she needed was her Halloween scepter.

I remembered when we first met at the monkey bars. I felt like she was calling me an intelligent hyena.

“You should talk to the shrink,” I told her.

“I should not.”

“They'll split us up next year. They'll put you in the special class for kids with problems.”

“If I'm still here,” she said. “My mother put me on the waiting list for the International School. She keeps trying
to transfer me, but there is no space and the waiting list is long.”

Her eyes twinkled, like ha-ha.

“Well, you should at least speak to the shrink.”

“I will speak to the shrink and to others when it doesn't hurt.”

“Girl, are you crazy? That may be never.”

She lifted her head, and said, “Do you know who I was named for? I was named for Queen Victoria. She, who ruled nearly half of the world. She, who commanded the largest fleets in all the seas. If the queen wishes not to speak, the queen will not be made to speak.”

You know how you start out serious and then it falls apart, and the only thing you are is ridiculous? Well, that was how Queen Victoria looked at that moment. Bulldog proud and ridiculous. I knew it and she knew it. She giggled. And I giggled. We giggled a lot. It felt good.

“So why are you sitting here?” I asked.

“I am waiting.”

“Waiting?”

“To hear your plan. What will we write?”

I was excited. Ecstatic. I said, “We can write a letter. Like the girl on the Internet—Ayodele.”

“
Ayodele
means ‘joy,'” she reminded me. “Sometimes you are renamed. I am sure Ayodele has a new name by now.”

I had a naming ceremony when I was born. My parents videotaped it. My dad lifted me up in the air and they named me Akilah, while my aunties, uncles, and cousins
looked on. Auntie Cass whispered something to Auntie Jackie about “mumbo-jumbo nonsense.” It is all on the videotape.

I understood why Ayodele might want to change her name, but me change my name from Akilah? “Intelligence”? Nah.

“What will we do with this letter?” Victoria asked.

“We will put it on the web, for the world. We can warn girls everywhere.”

“Girls everywhere with computers,” Victoria said.

Hmm. I hadn't thought of that.

“Well, we have to start somewhere,” I said. “Everyone gets to say why they're right. You should tell them why they're wrong.”

Victoria thought about it for a while. She said, “We must use good words in the letter. Like
atrocity
.”

“
Monstrous
,” I chimed in.

“
Criminal
.”

“
Extreme cruelty
.”

“
Inhumane. Barbaric. Savage ritual
,” she said.

“Those are my mom's words.”

“Your mother uses good words.”

We shared a long silence. Just us. Victoria and Akilah. Then it was time to go. If we didn't leave now, her mother or brother would come looking for her. I didn't want to live up to my new name. American Troublemaker's Daughter. Not when we had a new secret to protect.

We walked and plotted best ways to part before we neared her block. She would go first, then I would let two
minutes pass. As soon as she was inside her house, I'd walk down, on Miss Lady's side of the street.

Before we split up, Victoria said, “Do not tell the others that I can laugh. I do not want them to think that it is okay.”

I said, “Okay,” and let her walk ahead.

Years ago I dragged my daughters, Michelle and Stephanie, to a friend's baby shower. I was amazed by how quickly Stephanie, who was eight, bonded with my friend's daughter, Asha, also eight. They giggled as if they'd known each other for years. I thought, We should all be eight-year-olds, laughing as freely as we pleased. No sooner had I said this to myself than my mind jumped to eight-year-old girls who didn't laugh so freely. It occurred to me that eight is the age at which many girls in some African countries undergo the brutal ritual of female genital mutilation (FGM). Within moments, as I watched the two girls sharing whispers, giggles, and then laughter, I knew I would write this story.

Every year approximately two million girls undergo FGM. In spite of laws to ban this custom, FGM is still practiced in at least twenty-three African countries. Immigrants have brought this custom to the United States, Canada, and Europe. (During the nineteenth century, FGM was also performed by European doctors to cure what they believed was female hysteria, but this practice was later abandoned.)

FGM is typically performed under nonsterile conditions by persons without medical training. The dangers faced by girls and young women who undergo FGM include permanent damage to sexual and reproductive organs, psychological trauma, infection, hemorrhaging, and death.

Because the tradition of female genital mutilation has been embedded into these cultures for hundreds of years, it remains a struggle to end its practice. In spite of the struggle, human rights activists continue to educate the world at large about the plight of girls and young women in countries where FGM is practiced, as well as provide support for those who have undergone the ritual. In addition to fighting for more laws to enforce a ban on FGM, human rights activists also encourage practicing cultures to adopt gender identification and rite of passage alternatives. In fact, in a ceremony in Koroso Village in Guinea, a small country in West Africa, more than one hundred women surrendered their knives used to perform FGM on girls.
*

Although FGM is performed on young girls, materials written for young readers about this topic are scarce. Readers seeking information about children around the world and their coming-of-age customs should visit their community libraries and bookstores. You may also write to me about
No Laughter Here
at [email protected].

Cover art © 2004 by HarperCollins Publishers