I Rise – A Journey of Courage, Activism, and Personal Growth

 

I Rise – Marie Arnold

Part 1: Introduction, Theme, Philosophy 

I Rise – Book Talk 

We all hear about racism. We read the headlines, we see the news, we talk about injustice. But how often do we stop and ask: what does it actually feel like to live inside that experience, every single day? What does it mean to grow up as a Black teenager in Harlem, carrying not only your own struggles but also the weight of a family legacy of activism?

That’s exactly what I Rise by Marie Arnold gives us. It takes us into the life of fourteen-year-old Ayo, the daughter of a well-known civil rights activist. From the very beginning, we realize that Ayo’s life has never been—and will never be—that of a regular teenager. While other kids worry about fitting in at school or planning for dances, Ayo is growing up in the shadow of her mother, a woman who leads a movement, who is out on the front lines fighting against racism and injustice.

When her mother is suddenly injured in a protest, everything changes. Ayo is left not only with grief and fear, but also with the unspoken expectation that she will continue her mother’s work. Imagine being that young and carrying that kind of responsibility—having to decide how to honor her sacrifice while still finding your own voice.

The novel makes us feel the tension of that life. It isn’t just about politics or protests—it’s about the quiet, personal moments: the pressure Ayo feels in her neighborhood, the questions of identity, the daily reality of living in a world where the color of your skin shapes how others see you. Through Ayo’s eyes, racism isn’t an abstract issue—it’s a lived reality, something that touches every corner of her existence.

And that’s where the themes of I Rise become so powerful. This is a story about activism and resilience, yes, but also about legacy and personal growth. It’s about what it means to come of age when you don’t have the luxury of being “ordinary.” Ayo is forced to navigate a path between her mother’s example and her own emerging sense of self.

At its heart, the philosophy of the novel is clear: standing up for truth and justice requires courage, reflection, and integrity. And here’s the thing—activism isn’t only about Harlem or America. In any language, in any culture, activism is the fight for truth. And every act of truth-telling carries high stakes. There’s always the risk of backlash, of misunderstanding, of loss. The question is: when that moment comes, when the decision is yours—what does it look like? Will you stay silent, or will you rise, knowing the fire it might bring?

So—why should you read I Rise? Because it takes us beyond the headlines. It doesn’t just tell us about racism and activism—it lets us feel it through the eyes of a young Black girl trying to make sense of her world. For young readers, it offers a voice they can relate to, someone facing real challenges with honesty and resilience. For adults, it’s a window into experiences that we might hear about but never fully understand. And for all of us, it’s a reminder that the fight for justice is not abstract—it’s lived, it’s personal, and it begins in the choices we make every day.

In the end, I Rise is not only the story of Ayo—it’s the story of what it means for any of us to rise, to take a stand for truth, even when the cost is high. Because we all hear about racism. The real question is: are we willing to feel it—and to act on it?

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Part 2: Reading Segment 1 

Excerpt I drained all the color out of Harlem. I made the wind so angry it’s

pounding on the window like po-po at the front door. I even made the tree

branches mad—so mad, they bend away from me. Everyone who looks out

the window thinks it’s just a cold, gray day in September, but I know the

truth: Harlem is giving me the side-eye.

But despite my neighborhood’s tantrum, I will follow through with my

plans. I can’t keep putting it off. I had all summer to break the news to my

mother and I didn’t. I stayed silent. Well, no more.

Do you hear me, Harlem? You can howl and roar all you want; today is

the day I claim my freedom.

I nod pointedly at the window and turn my attention back to homeroom.

We’re only a week into the new school year and most of the students have

already broken up into groups.

There’s a bunch of guys in the back of the room gathered in a circle.

They bounce in rhythm to the music coming from their mini speaker. I call

them the Knights, short for “Knights of the Hip-Hop Round Table.” They

love hip-hop and live to argue about every aspect of it. Their discussions are

generally peaceful—except for the time they were arguing about who the

greatest rapper was and someone said “Drake.”

Drake?

Seriously?

Sitting across from the Knights are a group of girls with long nails and

even longer weaves. They’re perfectly put together, from their sculpted

eyebrows to their designer boots. For them, mirrors are a religion and

Rihanna is their high priestess. I call them the Narcs after Narcissus, the

hunter in Greek mythology who was so vain, he fell in love with his own

reflection.

But don’t get it twisted—vain doesn’t always mean stupid. Last year

they held a workshop during lunch called Lace Front for Beginners. They

charged twenty bucks a head and cleaned up. And now they have their own

YouTube channel, with over three hundred thousand followers.

A few feet away from the Narcs is a small tribe of kids with their heads

buried in their textbooks. In addition to their love of all things academic,

they have an affinity for old-school stuff—like Richard Pryor T-shirts and

Nintendo games. I don’t know why, but something about the past seems to

make them really happy. So, I call them Vintage.

Standing in the opposite corner are the basketball players and

cheerleaders. They don’t get a nickname. God already gave them enough.

I look up at the clock on the wall; class will start soon. I go to unzip my

backpack, but I feel a sharp pain just below my shoulder.

“Ow!” I shout as I turn to the desk behind me.

“Hello? I asked you a question,” my best friend, Naija, says. “What are

you doing later?”

“Looking for new friends, ones who don’t resort to violence to get my

attention,” I grumble as I try to inspect the mark she left on me.

“Girl, I called your name three hundred times. And as usual, you were

dumbing out.” I’m sure she only called my name once or twice; Naija’s

being extra. It’s her way.

I turn toward her and playfully announce, “Queen Naija, oh great one,

I’m sorry I wasn’t listening. Please honor me with your sacred thoughts.”

She rolls her eyes. “Do you wanna come to my house later?”

“I can’t. I’m having dinner with my mom. Tonight’s the night.”

Her eyes nearly pop out of her head. “You’re gonna tell your mom

today? For real this time?”

“Yeah. I have a plan. I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Well, knowing your mama, it better be good,” she warns me.

One of the girls from Narc—Joy Mitchell—looks up from her pink

compact and calls out to me, “Ayo, I saw the words ‘How Much?’ spray￾painted on the back wall of the precinct on One Thirty-Fifth and at the nail

shop by my house.”

One of the Knights shouts, “My girl Toni said she saw it on a sticker in

front of the post office and the supermarket. And yesterday, I saw it on a

banner outside the laundromat.”

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Part 3: Reading Segment 2 (3 mins

Excerpt 

“Hell no, I don’t smoke. Cigarette companies disproportionately target

Black communities. They spend a lot more money to market to us than they

do in white neighborhoods. They also ensure the prices of cigarettes are

lower in our neighborhoods so that we keep coming back for more . . .”

Okay, stop right there, Ayo. You don’t need to—

“They use Black magazines, hip-hop events, and even civil rights

organizations to target us. They try to get to us any way they can because

it’s an investment. If they can get a Black kid hooked now, by the time that

kid is an adult, they become loyal customers. It’s so nuts, because when we

get sick—which is guaranteed when it comes to smoking—we don’t get the

same care as our white counterparts. We’re basically paying for our own

demise.”

Damn.

Everyone is staring at me like an alien sprouted from my Afro and is

now peeing on my head. I desperately try to save it. “But it’s cool if you

want to smoke—who am I to judge you . . . Yay, cancer!” I add awkwardly.

I’m relieved when the basement door opens and we’re interrupted; two

more kids join us. The guy’s name is Franklyn. He’s in my math class and

wears a low fade. The white girl whose hand he’s holding has light eyes,

blond hair, and a warm smile.

“Y’all, this is Chloe,” Franklyn says. Everyone nods politely.

We talk, laugh, and act stupid for nearly an hour. I wish Nai was here;

she’d like this vibe. Things are going pretty well, apart from my tobacco

company tirade earlier. I’m actually enjoying myself. And even though I

haven’t had any alcohol or drugs, I feel high. It’s a natural high, the kind

you get when you feel like you’re where you belong.

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Part 4: Reading Segment 3 

And now, I think it’s pretty clear that I must be suffering from some

kind of head injury, because I have no idea what she just said.

She reads my confused expression and says, “It’s Klingon. It means, ‘If

you cannot control yourself, you cannot command others.’ ”

“Oh. Okay . . .”

I get a text from Nai and reply, letting her know what happened. She

asks if I’m okay. I have no idea if I am or not. But I let her know I will be

there as soon as I can.

“Come on into this kitchen and get something hot inside you. It’ll be

good for the shock.”

I follow Mrs. Wright into the kitchen because her tone doesn’t really

allow room for arguing. She asks how my mom is, and I don’t reply. I guess

that tells her everything she needs to know.

She puts a pot on the stove and lights the burner. She has me sit at the

table, where Captain Kirk is looking up at me from a coaster.

“Now look, that white woman had it coming. She’s been doing that for a

while now. But she’s not the one in the wrong—you are.”

I hang my head. “Yeah, I know. I can’t believe I launched at her like

that.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

I look up at her with a blank stare.

“Look, when white folks leave the house, they make sure that things are

the way they should be. They check to see if they got their house keys, if

they turned off all the lights, and once outside, they check the gauge on the

gas tank. Do they have enough to take them to work and get them back

home, or do they need to stop at the gas station?

“We do the same things, except we have an extra step. We gotta stand in

front of the mirror and ask ourselves one very important question: What is

my white-people tolerance level today?”

“I guess I didn’t today. If I had, I’d have stayed home,” I admit.

She goes over to the stove and pours a white powder into the boiling

water. It soon makes a sticky white paste. Mrs. Wright fixes me a plate of

fufu and fish sauce. I wasn’t going to eat, but she insists, and the smell of

all the spices makes my mouth water.

“You think I’ll get in trouble?” I ask before taking my first bite.

“With everything going on, no one can blame you for going crazy. But

it’s not a place we can afford to live in. You hear me? Get your mind right.”

“Can I ask you about . . . this whole Star Trek thing? How long have

you been into it?”

She puts her spoon down and surveys her collection on the display wall.

“I wasn’t, before. But my niece, Melody, was really into it. I raised her

when my sister got sick. She loved everything to do with Star Trek. When

she got pregnant, she actually had me make onesies with Spock’s face on

them. I used to tease her about it.”

“Did you find out what she liked about it?”

“No, I only know why I like Star Trek—because in all seventy-nine

original episodes, never once did a life-form refer to us as sassy.”

“Where’s your niece, at work?”

Mrs. Wright’s face falls and she looks away. “Mel is gone. She died in

childbirth. She was always saying that no one listened to her at her property

management job, and she fought like hell to be heard. Turns out, they don’t

hear Black women in the medical profession either. She tried to tell them

that something was wrong. She was in pain and they didn’t believe her. By

the time I raised enough hell . . .”

“I’m so sorry.”