by Nikki Grimes
It’s this shivering person within
who feels too thin,
too tall,
too plain-Jane,
too not-at-all what’s popular,
acceptable, respectable,
stylish enough,
smart enough,
brave enough,
lovable enough—
Enough!
It’s time for me
to tell that mixed-up girl
in the mirror that,
as a matter of fact,
she’s more than enough.
She’s plenty.
DARRIAN
GOOD AND PLENTY—NOT JUST CANDY ANYMORE
Never heard anybody call herself plenty before. I like it. I may just have to borrow the word, myself.
It’s crazy watching Angela grow, watching everybody in class move up to the next level.
Am I growing, too? Who gets to measure?
Maybe I’ll ask Li what she thinks.
JENESIS
“What’s it like, going to a foster home?”
That’s what Angela asks me after our last slam rehearsal. Now that we’re becoming a team, she figures it’s safe to ask, and I don’t mind. I shrug, then say, “The hard part is waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
She cocks her head, confused, of course.
“What I mean is, from the minute you set foot in a new home, you’re waiting for the social worker to tell you it’s time to leave,” I tell her. “You’re always moving, moving, moving, going from one home to the next. And nobody ever tells you why. Maybe the people don’t like you. Maybe the foster parents decide it’s hard enough to look after their own kids. Maybe they treat you like a slave, and you let it slip when the social worker calls to ask you how it’s going. Whatever. One day, it’s time to move on. And even though you think you’re ready for it, you never really are.”
There’s more to it, of course. The wishing you had a family of your own; the dying to belong somewhere, to someone who looks like you; the constant feeling of being all alone in the universe.
And then there’s something worse: the fear that soon, you’ll have no foster home to go to at all. What then?
But I’m not spilling my guts, not to Angela. Not yet. So I stick with the whole business of goodbye, knowing I’ll have to say it sooner or later, but never knowing when. That’s enough revelation for one afternoon.
Time to Go
by Jenesis Whyte
It always feels like an ordinary day
whenever the time comes
for me to shuffle from
one home to the next.
Some people say
home is where the heart is,
but they’ve never needed
a map to locate
the city or state
or the building
their belongings
should be shipped to,
not that I have that many.
Don’t feel sorry for me, though.
I’m an expert at
the hasty retreat.
My feet are veterans
of the quick goodbye.
(Thirteen foster homes and counting.)
The social worker
gives me my marching orders
on the telephone.
Hey, I don’t even groan.
Swapping out one
half-remembered address
for another is simply
part of my routine.
I say goodbye to the strangers
who never learned what memories
cut me in the night,
causing my tears
to run like blood.
I say goodbye to the floors
that failed to memorize
my footsteps;
I say goodbye
to the creaky old cot
no one even bothered
to tuck me into.
I say goodbye to the closet,
as hollow as I found it,
never having more than
one secondhand jean jacket
and one dingy white shirt
swinging from half-bent
wire hangers.
I clear the shelf
of clothes and books,
and bam! All done.
It only takes me a minute
to make all my
worldly goods disappear
inside the garbage bag
I brought here.
I say goodbye to the walls
I didn’t have time enough
to tell my secrets to.
If these walls could talk,
it wouldn’t matter.
They’ve got none of my stories
to give away.
So, hey! Why should I care
if it’s time to say goodbye?
Is it difficult? Does it bite?
The answer to that
question is:
Yes. And no.
Why? Because
I hardly had a chance
to say hello.
DARRIAN
Wow. Jenesis is finally cutting loose. No more sweet little stories. No more code. I guess it’s truth time.
I bet that’s what Li was thinking when she looked over at me at the end of the poem and smiled.
The closer we come to the poetry slam at the end of the semester, the deeper everyone’s poems get. All you have to do is check out Jenesis to know that’s true.
GIRL LACES HER BOOTS FOR BATTLE
It’s on.
MARCEL
I stand near the door of Mr. Ward’s room, waiting for Freddie. As soon as I see her, I pounce.
“Hi!”
“Hi, yourself.”
“So, I’ve been thinking,” I say. “When are we going to go out?”
“Excuse me?” From the tone of her voice, I know I just came at her wrong.
“I mean, can we go out sometime?” I ask. Much better.
“Go out,” says Freddie.
“Yeah.”
“Go out,” she repeats.
“Uh, yeah.”
“You remember my niece?”
“Yeah. Carrie.”
“Well, taking care of her doesn’t leave a lot of time for going out.”
“Oh. Right.” So now I feel like an idiot. Then I get an idea.
“Then how about I come visit you.”
“I’m not sure you’ll want to do that,” says Freddie. “My home ain’t no picnic these days.”
I shrug. “Mine neither.”
Freddie bites her bottom lip and thinks for a minute.
“What if our visit gets interrupted? What if my mom comes home drunk and I have to help put her to bed?”
I shrug. “I’ll help.”
Freddie studies my face to see if I’m serious.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah. Come over after school.”
“Cool.”
“Cool,” says Mr. Ward, “is what’s going on inside the classroom.”
I jump back a little. I didn’t even see him roll up.
“Good one, Mr. Ward.” I wave my hand toward the door. “After you.”
Out the corner of my eye, I catch Freddie grinning.
• • •
I go home in a decent mood, call Mom at her first job to let her know I’ll be out for a while. I’m hunting for a soda in the fridge, so I’ve got her on speaker.
“Don’t come home too late,” she tells me. “And watch yourself out there, Marcel.”
Pops chimes in. “Yeah, and if you see a cop, you run!”
Business is slow at the restaurant, so Pops is home early
.
“Don’t tell that boy to run!” Mom yells through the phone. “You want to get him killed?”
“It’s that or go to prison,” he says. “What’s the difference? Either way, his life is over.”
There’s no arguing with Pops when he’s on a rant. I take Mom off speaker. “I’ll be fine, Mom,” I tell her. I can tell she’s tired. Her voice is practically scraping the floor. Last thing she needs is to worry about me. “I won’t be out that late. I got school tomorrow, remember.”
“So long as you remember,” Mom says, and she hangs up.
I forget about the soda and gather up my stuff to head on over to Freddie’s.
• • •
An hour later, I get to see Freddie in action. One minute, she’s playing with her niece, the next she’s helping her with homework, the next she’s doing dishes and setting the table for dinner. Meanwhile, I try working on my own homework to keep out of her way, but I can’t concentrate. All I want to do is watch Freddie do her thing. I don’t know how she does it all.
Oh, and her mom does come home drunk. I jump up to help, but Freddie asks me to stay with Carrie instead. Keep the little squirt company. Keep her distracted is more like it.
Once her mom’s in bed, Freddie finishes cooking up some sloppy joes. Nothing special, but it was good. I do the dishes while she tucks the squirt in for the night.
She walks back into the living room and I ask, “When do you do your homework?”
“Now,” says Freddie, yawning.
I shake my head. “How do you do it?”
Freddie takes her time answering. “I think about tomorrow, the life I want to build—a good life. College. Good job. Nice home for me and the squirt. Only way I can get there is to work hard, study hard. Keep looking forward.”
“Don’t you ever get pissed off? ’Cause this here is not fair—you taking care of a kid that’s not even yours, and taking care of your mother on top of it. That’s plenty without school. If I was you, I’d be mad all the time.”
“You are mad all the time,” says Freddie. “At least, you used to be. Seems like you’re a little better lately.”
“I guess. But you still didn’t answer the question.”
“I am mad, sometimes,” says Freddie. “I just don’t hold on to it like you do. There’s no percentage in that, now, is there? Better to use my energy to hang on to hope and fight for something better.”
I nod. Freddie’s right. I guess I should try that.
Hope, huh? Okay. I’ll give that a shot.
Freddie and I sit quietly, finish our homework together.
JENESIS
Yesterday, for some reason, Li asked if I’d taken the SATs early, or if I’m planning on taking them later. What’s the point? Sure, I wish I could go to college, but wishes are like fairy dust, and there ain’t no fairies in my neighborhood. Right now, college is a dream, and I’m too wide awake to have one.
Taking the SAT won’t help me find a place to live once I turn eighteen. That’s when the government checks stop. That’s when I get kicked out on my butt. No more foster care. No more roof over my head. And guess what? No choice in the matter.
Shit. I turn seventeen this year, eighteen next year. I wouldn’t mind staying seventeen for a while. In fact, forever sounds good. Yeah. I could make that work. All I need to do is find me a vampire.
Studying for the SATs? Riiiight. I need to be studying how not to look scared for when I end up living on the street. I can’t tell Li that, though. She wouldn’t get it. How could she? She’s never had to think about how to make it on her own. She’s lucky. Lots of these kids are. They gots no idea.
Tick Tock
by Jenesis Whyte
Tick tock. Tick tock.
Eighteen is the clock
my life is set to.
Tick tock. Tick tock.
On that day,
my social worker will say,
“Jenesis, it’s time.
No more foster home
for you.
Get your books stacked,
get your clothes packed.
Don’t dawdle. Don’t stop.”
So what if I’ve got
nowhere else to go?
The Sword of Damocles
I once read about
is scheduled to drop,
primed to chop the head
off of my tomorrow.
I refuse to entertain sorrow,
but I know enough to
forget cable-sweater dreams
of Ivy League campuses
and wild celebrations
of so-called “independence”
fueled by booze or beer at
adolescent all-nighters,
passively permitted by
proud parents because
their kiddos’ next four years
will be marked by
endless hours of serious
higher educational pursuit.
But that’s their story.
Tick tock. Tick tock.
On my eighteenth birthday
the clock stops,
and I’m out on my
beautiful Black butt.
But that can’t be it.
I’ve come too far,
have hung on too long
for my whole future to fit
inside a garbage bag
labeled Your Luck
Has Run Out.
Please!
Don’t tell me
my beautiful Black mind
is a terrible thing to waste
if you’re gonna let the world
toss it aside.
Please!
Say there’s a way out,
a way up.
Please!
Fill my cup
with enough kindness
to carry me
at least until
tomorrow.
DARRIAN
Wow. I don’t think anyone in the room was breathing through that whole thing.
“Thank you, Jenesis,” says Mr. Ward in a soft voice. “I hope you were all paying attention, because that, ladies and gentlemen, is what slam poetry is about.”
Mr. Ward’s right. She taught us all something. I know she taught me.
I figured being in foster care was tough, but I didn’t know it ends when you turn eighteen.
FOSTER SYSTEM SHORT-CIRCUITS
I’m glad I got Papi. He would never kick me to the curb.
There isn’t time for anyone else to read after Jenesis. When the bell rings, Mr. Ward asks her to stay.
Wonder what that’s all about? I ask myself. So, being a nosy newsman, I listen.
Mr. Ward says he wants to sit down with Jenesis and have a talk. He asks if she has a few minutes to meet with him after school over the next couple of days. She shrugs, which, in Jenesis-speak, means “okay.”
Maybe Mr. Ward can help her. I hope so.
I never did get around to asking her why she’s not happy looking so different, so special. But she’s got so much going on in her life, that hardly seems important now.
TEAM GIRLZ: VALENTINA
“Ladies,” says Mr. Ward at the beginning of rehearsal, “I could use a little help. We need to put together a flyer to advertise the poetry slam, and we need somebody to design it. Any takers?”
Mr. Ward may be out of luck. No one is raising her hand.
“I’ll help,” says Li.
Guess I was wrong.
“I can do a little calligraphy,” she mentions.
“Thanks, Li. Let me show you what I have in mind. Meanwhile, ladies, talk amongst yourselves,” says Mr. Ward.
“No problem,” says Freddie. “We need to start thinking about a group poem, anyway
.”
“Yeah. And choreography,” says Jenesis. “We gots to have cool moves!”
“Seriously. What’s our group poem going to be about?”
Angela surprises us by piping up first. “We’re girls. So let’s write about that. You know: how other people see us—”
“Yeah,” says Freddie. “Like boys.”
“Yes,” says Angela. “So, how do most boys see us?” We throw the idea around.
“Like babies.”
“Like weaklings.”
“Right!”
“Not in my family,” says Li, rejoining the group. “It’s not allowed!”
“Well,” says Freddie, “you’re probably the exception.”
“Most of them treat us like Barbies,” says Angela.
“Not in my culture,” I say. “Boys learn pretty quick that we are strong. But, like my papa taught me, most boys think we’re only good for one thing, and we know better.”
“Preach!” says Jenesis.
“We are badass women,” says Freddie.
“Woman warriors,” adds Li.
“You got that right! Let’s do this,” says Jenesis.
“But how? Mr. Ward, do you have any ideas?” asks Angela.
“Why don’t each of you do a free write on the subject, then pull out some of the best lines from each, and shape your group poem from there.”
“Sounds good to me,” says Freddie. “What do y’all think?”
Everyone agrees, so we get busy.
Ten minutes later, we’ve got a place to start and Jenesis is back to talking about choreography.
“We could stand in a line, with our backs to the audience,” she says, “then turn around one by one to perform our section of the poem, and flip back around and pose while the next girl goes.”
“Or,” says Li, “we could be in chairs, like, um—what is that game called, where you walk around a group of chairs while music plays, and then, when the music stops, you sit in the nearest chair, and there’s always one person left standing?”
“Musical chairs!” says Angela.
“Right!” says Li. “Only, in our version of the game, the last person standing steps forward to perform her poem. Then, when she’s done, the music starts up again.”
“Or, what about, instead of music,” I say, getting into the spirit, “we all hum or chant something like, ‘Tell it! Tell it! Tell it!’ And we stop and take our seats just in time for the next girl to perform her poem.”