by Amir Abrams
He’s a little under six foot, the color of fudge chocolate with a rich, deep voice.
And from Brooklyn, New York.
I love when he steps up to the mic.
He always delivers his pieces with so much intensity.
A staccato filled with passion and vulnerability.
And sometimes anger.
I watch as he moves through the crowd toward the stage.
Crystal leans in and says, “He is sooo cute. I mean really cuuuuute.”
That he is. “And he’s too old.”
She sucks her teeth. “Dang. I can still look.”
“Uh-huh. And lust,” I tease.
She feigns insult. “Who, moi?”
“Yes. You.”
“I beg your pardon.” She laughs. “I don’t lust. I admire.”
“Oh, that’s what you call drooling at the mouth? Admiration? Oh, okay. I’ll keep that in mind the next time I have to hand you a napkin.”
She gives me a dismissive wave. “What. Ever.”
I smile, shaking my head.
Every other week Crystal has a new crush on a poet. She isn’t a poet; however, she enjoys the art. But I think she enjoys coming just so she can look at the male poets who grace the stage—the cute ones, that is—more than anything else.
Legacy takes the stage.
The room falls silent before he opens his mouth.
He stands there, looking out into the crowd at no one in particular, I don’t think, since it’s his MO just before he gives the mic his signature one-hand caress.
His jeans hang low on his waist, the waistband of his American Eagles showing.
He motions with his hand for the DJ.
And then...
The lights dim, the spotlight going from a bright white light to a reddish glow.
“Peace and blessings,” he says, coolly, into the mic.
“Blessings and peace,” the crowd says in unison.
“I’ma just get right into it. I was called the N-word the other night . . .”
The room grumbles in disgust.
A few grunt their dismay.
Others want to know what he did.
I shift in my seat.
Lean forward.
Wanting to know, too.
“I’m not gonna lie. It had me tight. I wanted to crack his jaw . . .”
“I know that’s right,” someone says.
“But instead of using my fists, I chose to put it on paper. Chose to filter my erupting anger into something much greater, much more meaningful than his ignorance.
“This piece tonight, ‘The Black Man I Am,’ is my response to being called the N-word.” He clears his voice, then begins, allowing words to flow from his lips like molten lava as he bares his soul.
When he finishes, he says, “May we have a moment of silence for all those before us who have shed tears and spilled blood and died so that we may see a better day.” He bows his head.
A hushed silence sweeps over the room.
Everyone bows his or her head, including me. But I do not close my eyes. I keep them on him. Legacy.
The prince of poetry.
After several moments, his voice slices into the quiet. “Thank you.”
And then comes the clicking of tongues, and the snapping of fingers, and a thunderous roar of applause. People stand and clap and shout.
I smile, swept up in the energy.
And then it’s my turn.
The emcee calls out for me, and I get up from my seat, making my way up to the stage.
“Yeah, Nia,” I hear Crystal call out.
Someone else whistles.
I grab for the microphone. Then I say, “Hello. This piece is inspired by Legacy. And to all the forefathers and foremothers.” I close my eyes. And begin...
Stolen from the Motherland
Dragged on slave ships
Deafened by the sounds
Of the Kings and Queens
Who cried
And died
At the bottom of the sea
Shackled
Whipped
Across the back
Dragged by the feet
Hung from a tree
Robbed of a native tongue
That belonged to me
Bought and sold
Like property
Became enslaved
Families torn apart
Women raped
Men burned
And beaten
Babies snatched
From the arms
Of wailing mothers
Whose milk still drips
And wombs still ache
And bleed
From your misdeeds
Forbidden to speak
So I spoke in codes
To the beat of drums
And looked toward the sun
And the moon
And the stars
To guide me
Toward a freedom
You tried to keep from me
Spit on
Stepped on
Hosed down
Bit by dogs
Jim Crow laws
Burning crosses
Segregation
Degradation
Plagued by the horrors
Of a past
Fueled by hate
And bitterness
Because of the color of my skin
Still I rise
Despite your sins
From
Imhotep
Hatshepsut
Nerfertiti
Akhenaton
Makeda
And
Cleopatra
To
Aesop
Cetewayo
Bambata
Menelik
Chaka
And now Obama
We have been mighty warriors
Since the beginning of time
Fighting for a cause
Behind the cold glances
I know you want to be like me
But will never be me
Imitate my swagger
Bite off my dances
Profit from my lyrics
Yet
You fear me
That’s why...
Despite my emancipation
You still try
To keep me on a plantation
Chained
To discrimination
Humiliation
Substandard education
And
Incarceration
You think labeling me
Hostile
Dangerous
Endangered
Keeping me behind
Concrete walls
And
Razor wire
Will prevent me
From becoming who I’m destined to be
You try to inject me
And infect me
With your drugs
And diseases
And pour guns into my community
In order to commit
Homicide
Suicide
Another form of genocide
Behind the smiling
You disguise your contempt
Through racial profiling
And media lying
But your sick
Twisted ploy
Will never get the best of me
There’s nothing you can do to me
That hasn’t already been done to me
You can’t hurt me
Can’t break me
Will never destroy me
I’m a survivor
I rise
I rise
“You better talk about it,” someone shouts out.
“Go ’head, li’l sister. You spitting nothing but the truth!”
I continue . . .
And despite your lies
And distortions
Of who I am
I rejoice
In celebration
Of a rich history
; You’ve tried to hide from me
For I am the descendant
Of great achievers
And believers
Founders of civilization
Who have paved the way
Great men
And women
Who have shed tears
And sweat
And blood
To build this nation
And give birth
To a new generation
Of
Leaders who rest
On a solid foundation
So in spite of
Everything you’ve done to me
I will continue to stand
With my head held high
And rise
And rise
And rise . . .
13
A few days later, Daddy is steering his Mercedes truck into the drop-off zone, dropping Crystal and me off for school. “All right,” he says, shifting the gear into neutral. “You girls enjoy your day.”
“Thanks, Mr. Daniels,” Crystal says, opening the rear passenger door. She climbs out and shuts the door behind her.
I lean in and give Daddy a kiss on the cheek. He smells of cologne and Dial soap. I breathe him in. He always smells so nice. “Thanks, Daddy. Love you.”
He smiles. “Love you, too, Butterfly. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Wait. What time will you be home?” I ask, opening the SUV’s door.
“Hopefully before seven thirty,” he says. “Do you want me to pick up dinner?”
“No. That’s okay. I’m going to go over to Crystal’s after school, then maybe grab something to eat down at the Poetry Café. Is that okay?”
“That’s fine. Do you need me to pick you up?”
I shake my head. “No. Crystal’s mom will pick us up, then drop me off later.” He wants to know what time I’ll be home. I tell him before curfew. By ten.
“Okay then.” He smiles at me. “Call me when you get out of school.”
“I will.” I shut the door, then wave good-bye as he pulls off.
Crystal loops her arm through mine. “How much you want to bet Cameron’s somewhere lurking by the lockers waiting for us?” She sucks her teeth. “Ugh. He’s so annoying.”
Uh-huh. More like annoyingly cute.
But okay. If she says so.
“Um, no,” I say, shaking my head. “He’s waiting for you.” I know, I know. He swore up and down he doesn’t like her like that. But I don’t believe him.
Not really.
She stops and gives me a look. “Me? Oh, no. That boy had better go kick rocks. He is so not my type.”
I shake my head. “You are such a liar.”
She guffaws, swats me with a hand. “I am not. I’m serious. Have you seen him? That boy’s goofy.”
And cute.
“He’s like one of my annoying brothers,” she adds, half-convincingly. “That would be incestuous.”
Now I’m giving her a sidelong glance, confusion painted on my face. But I don’t say anything. When we finally arrive at her lockers, guess who’s already here, waiting?
You guessed it!
Cameron.
Crystal raises a brow, and gives me a look. “See. What I tell you? Stalker.”
“Hey, Cam,” I say, dismissing her comment.
“Hey,” he says back to me. Then to Crystal he says, “Good morning, Madame Ugly. Who’s stalking you? The ASPCA?”
She rolls her eyes, then punches him. “You make me sick, boy!”
“Ow!” he yelps, rubbing his arm. “I see someone ate their Wheaties this morning.”
Crystal sucks her teeth. “Whatever, boy.”
He grabs her, then kisses her face.
“Ew!” she cries, shoving him away. “You’re such a loser.”
She wipes her face with her hand.
“Hey, but you love it.” He grabs her by the waist, picks her up, and twirls her around. She yells for him to stop, but is laughing at the same time.
I roll my eyes. “Ugh. Get a room, already. Geesh.”
He puts her down. And she pretends to be annoyed that he’s messed up her hair as he always does. But she’s still grinning. “I so hate you right now. I’ve been contaminated by this boy’s lips.” She wipes the side of her face again. “I wonder if I can press charges.”
“Hey. You better frame that kiss,” he says, laughing. “It’s probably the only one you’ll ever get.”
“Yeah, don’t you wish,” she says back.
And then Cameron’s on to the next thing, glancing at his watch. “What took y’all so long, anyway? The bell’s about to ring in less than ten minutes.”
“Well—”
“Hey, Cameron,” Shelly Locksmith says, cutting me off and waving at him. She’s a senior.
And campus flirt, I might add.
“Hey, Shelly,” he says back. That only encourages her to stop in front of us, arching her back just so to make her boobs pop out of her low-cut blouse even more.
I eye Crystal eyeing Shelly as she sidles over to Cameron, putting a hand on his arm.
Crystal clears her throat. “Oh, how rude. So you don’t see anyone else besides Cameron over here?”
She flashes a fake smile. Then she flips her lusciously long, sleek, hair over her shoulder as someone doing a shampoo commercial would. “Oh, hey, Crystal. Hey, Nia. Apologies. I get so overwhelmed every time I see this hard-bodied hunk that I forget my manners.”
She giggles.
Crystal frowns.
And I have nothing but a blank stare on my face.
Cameron doesn’t seem to know what to say to that. “Umm . . .” He shoots a look over at me, then Crystal. “Thanks.”
This is like the only time I’ve known Cameron to be totally caught off guard.
Shelly rubs Cameron’s muscled arm again. “Do you mind walking me to my locker, then to homeroom?” she asks, pulling him by the arm before he has a chance to respond. “I need to tell you something . . . in private.”
She shoots a nasty look over at Crystal.
Cameron has a confused look on his face, as I do. He shrugs. “Umm. Sure, I guess.”
Crystal and I stare as she drags Cameron by the arm through the sea of students, disappearing into the crowd.
“Ohmygod. She’s such a snot ball,” Crystal says, rolling her eyes.
I can’t say I disagree. “What the heck was that all about?” I ask, opening my locker.
Crystal shakes her head. “Your guess is as good as mine. She gave me a look of death like I’d seriously done something to her. I think I’ve officially become mortal enemy number one.”
I wave a dismissive hand. “I wouldn’t pay her any mind.” I grab my books for the first three periods, then slam my locker shut. I lower my voice to barely a whisper. “They say paranoia runs in her family.”
Crystal snorts. “Oh, so she’s genetically crazy. Ha! That’s good to know. That says it all.”
14
Later in the evening, Crystal and I are hanging out at the Poetry Café. Her mom dropped us off about an hour ago—she’ll pick us up around nine she said—and now we’re sitting here finishing up an order of honey-glazed wings and cheese fries that we’ve shared.
Crystal licks her fingers. “Mmm. I love the wings here.” She plucks a cheese fry from the plate and holds her head back, dropping it into her mouth.
I grimace. “Ugh. That’s so not ladylike.”
She rolls her eyes, chewing. She swallows, then says, “Who has time trying to be ladylike eating cheese fries and honey wings? Not me.” She licks her fingers again, then smacks her lips. “They’re so heavenly.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Well at least try to be—”
I’m not given a chance to finish my sentence. One of the Café’s regular poets walks over to our table, smiling. “What’s going on, Nia?”
“Hi,” I say coolly.
Oh Lordy!
What’s his name?
I don’t want to sound l
ame and ask him, since he’s always able to remember mine. But for the life of me, I can’t recall his name. I just know he’s really, really tall—like extra tall—and has lots of tattoos, and an eyebrow piercing.
This is so embarrassing.
Crystal elbows me, extending her hand out. “Hi. I’m Crystal. Dang, you’re tall. And cute. Don’t mind the sticky hands, though. Want a honey wing?”
He eyes her, amused. “Nah. Thanks. Nice meeting you, though.”
“Nice meeting you, too. Are you married? Single? Any babies?”
“Ohmygod,” I say, utterly embarrassed at the drool gathering in the corner of her mouth. “Don’t mind my nutty friend,” I say. “She’s off her meds.”
He chuckles. “It’s all love. I haven’t seen you around in a minute, Nia. Things good?”
“Yes. They’re great. I’ve been around. Just haven’t been here in a while, though.”
He grins, revealing a row of straight white teeth. “Yeah. I see. You’ve been missed, though.”
Aww, dang. Now I really feel bad for not remembering his name.
I smile back at him. “Thanks. Are you performing tonight?”
“True indeed,” he says, nodding his head. “You?”
I shake my head. “No. Not tonight.”
He eyes me thoughtfully. “You should. I dig how you move on the stage. I enjoy watching you.”
I shift in my seat, feeling myself blush. “Thanks,” I say sheepishly. “I might, if they still have room.”
“They always have room for you,” he says. “And if not, they’ll make room. You know that.”
Crystal clears her throat. “Umm, hello? Why am I being excluded from this conversation? Is this about to turn into some poets’ meeting I’m not privy to?”
I roll my eyes and shake my head.
Crystal is a mess.
Mr. Extra Tall grins. “My bad. What would you like to talk about? Um . . .” He snaps his finger. “Crystal, right?”
She tosses a look my way. “See. He remembers my name.”
I roll my eyes up in my head as she stands in front of his six-foot-something frame, hand on her hip, flirting with him. “Let’s talk about you.”
“What would you like to know?”
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Are you dating anyone?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Are you looking for a date? Because if you are, I’m free every day except for Tuesdays and Sundays, and so you should know I never, ever, kiss with an open mouth. I’m borderline germaphobe.”