In writing workshop, we take a closer look at that “Purple” poem in our groups. We realize that it’s not just a list, although it does sound like one. Instead, it’s more like a group of sentences telling us what purple is, what it means to the writer.
Mrs. Parkman asks us to get out our color poems. I panic, but only a little. My “Smoldering Red” poem is nowhere near done. It’s just a sloppy list of random words. To my surprise though, Marisa admits almost that exact thing about her yellow poem.
“Not to worry!” Mrs. Parkman says. “In fact, it’s better if you just have a list. We are going to do something extra fun with them!”
I roll my eyes, but not too hard. Mrs. Parkman’s idea of “fun” is usually nowhere near mine.
She sends us to grab our writing journals and my breath catches when the red paint chip falls out. It’s like the memory of That Night comes back in full color, so vividly. I have to force myself to pick it up and walk back to my desk like nothing’s wrong.
Denzel passes everyone a single sheet of notebook paper. Before, a blank piece of paper made my stomach hurt, because I was expected to fill it up and I usually had nothing at all to say. But today, the blank paper doesn’t make me feel that way. Maybe it’s because I already have an idea. Maybe it’s because I know some of my classmates struggle just like I do. Or maybe it’s because it’s poetry. There aren’t definite rules in poetry, you know. Which means I can’t do it wrong.
Whatever the reason, I don’t hate looking at this particular piece of paper.
“What we’re going to do with your lists is turn each thing or two into a sentence starting with ‘it is’ or ‘the color is’. So, you might write ‘green is a fresh-cut lawn and a tall glass of kale juice.’”
We all make an “ick” face and Mrs. Parkman chuckles, but then everyone gets right to work, one sentence per line. I look over at Duke. His hand is moving at a speed I wouldn’t have believed possible if my own eyes didn’t see it. I turn back to my paper to get started. The minutes fly by and, all of a sudden, I have filled the page. So have Marisa and Caden, which is impressive. I don’t know how much you know about dyslexic kids, but some of us hate writing even more than we hate reading. It’s just too hard sometimes.
Mrs. Parkman is staring at me with her mouth open like she’s just witnessed a holy miracle. I can’t blame her; she pretty much has. I haven’t written this much in class in my whole life.
When everyone’s pencils have slowed, Mrs. Parkman asks, “Okay, who would like to share one of your sentences?”
Marisa offers and says brightly, “Rubber ducky yellow is the dandelion that my dad says is really a weed.”
“Excellent!”
Caden reads one aloud. “Deep blue is the crashing waves on the beach during a rainstorm.”
“Lovely!”
Duke raises his hand and reads, “Black is the ink of a moonless night sky.”
Erin says, “Purple is the fresh violets on our kitchen table.”
Denzel says, “Brown is the color of chocolate and cinnamon in pancakes and my dad’s strong hands.”
Most everyone reads one, until they’re all looking at me, probably because they think I won’t share. I surprise them, though, and pick one of the first sentences I wrote, “Red is a so-sweet apple and the sun going down.”
“Wonderful!” Mrs. Parkman exclaims. “Now, everyone, go get your scissors!”
Wait. What? I just slaved over this paper and we’re going to cut it up?
Mrs. Parkman must be able to read minds because she touches my shoulder gently and says, “Trust me,” with a smile.
I consider this. She hasn’t yet given me a reason not to trust her, so I go get my scissors.
She shows us how to cut very carefully on the lines, one slice for each sentence we’ve written.
“But why are we doing this?” Marisa asks, half-curious but half-complaining.
“Well,” Mrs. Parkman starts, “sometimes when we write a draft, we don’t know the order we want things to go in. When we tell a story, it’s usually from beginning to end, right?”
We all nod.
“But in poetry…”
“There are no rules!” I blurt out.
“Pretty much!” she says. “So this is a great way to practice rearranging your words until they work for you. You may need to add words or punctuation here or there to make it flow.”
I lay out all the sentence strips in the order I wrote them and stare at them. They don’t quite make sense that way. Like Mrs. Parkman said, it’s just a random list. So I put my ideas into groups, by senses, what I see, hear, taste, touch. I don’t have a group for smell, because I don’t know how you’d smell a color, but maybe that’s just me. Then I choose one from each group at a time, starting from the beginning of That Night, until it’s all laid out perfectly.
Mrs. Parkman hands me a sheet of red construction paper and a glue stick, and I glue down my poem and the paint chip across the top to act as the title. When I read it back to myself, I realize I’ve told a story.
The story.
My story.
Sure, there are gaps. And sure, if you weren’t there with me, this poem probably won’t make any sense. It makes me wonder if that’s why a lot of poetry doesn’t make any sense—maybe the meaning is all in the poet’s head. In my case, there’s so much more to tell.
Just not yet.
Mrs. Parkman calls everyone down to the Sharing Circle, and I’m not going to lie, it’s kind of cool to see everyone with their piece of colored paper held out in front of them. We don’t have much time, but Mrs. Parkman wants a few people to share their poems.
Nobody says a word. Maybe it’s because this is something totally new; the cutting up, the rearranging, the gluing down of sentences created from a list. Maybe it’s because no one is sure if their poem is any good.
I think it’s probably because it’s poetry and nobody knows what they’re doing.
Finally, Kyla holds up her hand. Of course, our resident chit-chat. Even so, we all breathe a sigh of relief. We’ve been spared.
Kyla’s paper is gray, not a color I would’ve chosen for her, but then she reads the title, “Metallic Silver.” Yep. Sounds about right.
Metallic Silver is a unicorn’s horn and a star in the sky.
* * *
It is the mist in the morning and the very end of a rainbow.
* * *
It is a shiny new coin that jingles in my pocket.
* * *
It is the moonlight and glitter and all my joy.
Everyone claps, and not politely like we have to, but because it was a pretty good poem.
“That was beautiful, Kyla,” Mrs. Parkman says. “I loved the last line, especially. Thanks so much for sharing. It takes a lot of courage to share something you’ve written with all of us. Okay, who else?”
Like it’s not even a part of my own body, my arm holds itself up high in the air. Everyone stares at me, and I have to swallow down a nasty taste in my mouth.
Mrs. Parkman smiles and says, “Great! Dragon, the floor is yours.”
Everyone’s looking at me like I could explode any minute, but I take a deep breath and then read aloud.
* * *
Smoldering Red
Red is the so-sweet apple and the sun going down.
* * *
It is the yelling and the mad words and the little girl’s tongue when she screams.
* * *
It is the anger and his red red eyes.
* * *
It is the lights and the siren and the blood.
* * *
It is the stain on the carpet.
* * *
It is embarrassed and scared.
* * *
It is the nightmares that come later.
Jason says, “Woah, dude. Did that happen? That was…”
Erin finishes for him, “… intense. But like really, really good.”
Kyla smiles at me. “Yeah, really goo
d, Dragon.”
I’m sure my cheeks match the color of my paper. No kid has ever told me anything I wrote was good.
Mrs. Parkman puts her hand over her mouth, and I’m honestly not sure if she is going to barf or cry. But she recovers and does neither.
“Anyone else?” she asks.
It’s quiet for a whole minute. I can hear the obnoxiously loud second hand ticking its way toward lunch.
“Okay,” someone says in a low, dark voice. I look up. It’s Duke.
“The floor is yours,” Mrs. Parkman says, her grin reaching her eyes. This is holy miracle number two of her day.
Duke clears his throat, bringing his tone down one octave.
Onyx Black
It is ebony like my mother’s hair, shiny and smooth
* * *
It is charcoal like the pencil she uses to color her eyes
before she leaves us
* * *
It is obsidian like the darkest cave, a hole of silence in
an otherwise joyful heart
* * *
It is jet like the ink of a moonless night sky,
spent waiting and waiting
* * *
It is raven like a soul unloved.
Everyone is silent. I mean, I don’t even understand his poem. But I can tell it came from a place inside him that no one really ever sees. It occurs to me that we might have more in common than I thought.
“Whoa,” Kyla breathes out. Even she has nothing else to say.
“That was beautiful, Duke. Thank you so much for sharing. I wish we could hear more, but we are late for lunch!” Mrs. Parkman jumps up and waves us toward the door.
Duke and I line up in the back, and he punches my arm lightly, in a friendly way. “Dude. I didn’t know you could write poetry.”
I shrug. “It wasn’t that good.”
He says, “Yeah, man, it totally was.”
“Uh… thanks. Your poem was good, too.”
“Hearing yours made me think it was okay to read mine,” he says, then looks away, maybe because he doesn’t want to have to elaborate.
Denzel throws me an elbow and says, “That was really good, Dragon. Like I was there with you again.” I nod but look away, because I don’t want to remember.
Not really.
Mrs. Parkman slips a piece of paper into my hand on the way out the door, but I shove it in my pocket, embarrassed. It isn’t until free time, when I can walk to the very corner of the field and be completely alone, that I open it.
Dragon, thank you so much for sharing your poem with us. It was incredible. ~Mrs. P
A big, dirty hand reaches over my shoulder and grabs at the paper.
“Ooooh what is this? A love note?” Travis Beaker says, spinning around to face me, a dumb grin on his face.
“Give it back,” I growl.
“Or what?”
“Or,” Kyla’s voice comes from behind me, “you’ll have to deal with me.”
“Oh, I’m so scared,” Travis says, snarling his lip into a fake quiver.
“And me.” Even though I can’t see him, that’s Denzel.
“And me.” Duke.
I don’t look at my classmates because my eyes are glued to the paper in Travis’ hand. A flash of orange runs past Travis, knocking him off balance, and the next thing I know, Maya is handing me the note from Mrs. Parkman. Travis never even got to read it. I open my mouth to say thank you, but Maya’s gone. Man, she is such a little weirdo. Sometimes it works in my favor, though.
Travis shrugs, mutters, “Losers,” and walks back to his football game. Before he turns around, I see a yellowing under his eye, a bruise that’s almost healed.
I turn to my friends and mumble, “Thanks guys.” I can’t find the words to describe this feeling right now. No one’s ever gotten between Travis Beaker and anyone. He’s the only kid in the seventh grade that’s bigger than me, but I guess even he is smart enough to know when he’s outnumbered.
To my surprise, no one asks to read the note. Kyla and Duke say at the same time, “He’s a jerk.”
Denzel nods and says, “Yeah Dragon, forget about it. Let’s go play soccer.”
“Okay.” I fold the note back up and make a silent plan to hang it up next to the stickies at home.
The next morning during morning meeting, Kyla pays me a compliment. And it’s not even a fake one. “It was brave of you to read your poem, Dragon.”
I look down at the carpet, but smile to myself and say, “Thank you.” I pretend to be embarrassed, but it feels good to get a compliment. Maybe Ms. Luna’s on to something there.
Holidays suck.
Mom just isn’t the same.
* * *
She used to love the
decorating
& the music
& the picture books
& the presents
& the baking
& the Harry Potter movie marathons.
* * *
But then she got sick
& Maya’s dad left
& Uncle Carlos came
& her cheeks pinked up a little.
* * *
But she was still sad.
And the sadder she got,
the sicker she got.
* * *
Now Uncle Carlos is gone, too
so she’s even sadder
& even sicker
& I can’t even guess what’ll happen next.
15
My (Sort Of) Christmas Party
The last day of school before Christmas break is not a good one. There’s a loud party all day in homeroom, and the only okay part is the piles of cookies and bowls of chips and plates full of cupcakes and marshmallow Santas.
Before we dig in to the food and watch some lame Christmas movie, Ms. Luna wants us to write about a nice holiday memory. She must have been talking to Mrs. Parkman. Ms. Luna asked us weeks ago to bring a picture of our family to glue on to our memory stories. She said it might make a fun gift for our parents, but I bet you could guess that I don’t have a family picture. I mean, who would be in it, anyway? Mom and Maya, sure, but Mom’s barely all there and Maya’s barely a real sister. Would De-vine be in it? Uncle Carlos? The dad who left us? What does family even mean? Who counts?
A familiar knot gathers in the pit of my stomach as everyone takes out their family photos. Most of them are perfect and smiling, a mom and dad—well besides Becca, who’s got two moms. Some have a happy little family dog in there, tongue hanging out, dressed in a stupid Christmas sweater. Jolie’s picture looks like it was taken inside of someone’s dream, no joke. There are twinkles of light and no one has even one strand of hair out of place.
I shove a cupcake in my mouth so I have an excuse to go back to the food table instead of not pulling out the family photo I did not bring.
My hand shakes as I pour a cup of punch, but I take a deep breath and say to myself, Calm down, man. It’s just a picture.
I fill up my plate and sigh, heading back to my seat. Maybe it’s a good time for a bathroom break.
But Denzel touches my shoulder, so gently I don’t feel it at first. He hands me a photo. It must have been taken on our school spirit day at the beginning of the year. Denzel, Maya, and I are standing together, Denzel in the middle, his arms draped around our shoulders. Denzel’s dark skin gives the only hint that we three are not actual siblings. We are hot and sweaty, and Maya’s got either dirt or Oreo crumbs all over her cheeks. But we are smiling. The memory makes me smile, too. I remember being happy that day.
I can’t look at Denzel, let alone give him the thanks he deserves. He knew ahead of time that I wouldn’t have a photo, so he made sure I did. An invisible hand squeezes my heart as I picture him going through the photos on his mom’s phone, selecting just the right one, and going somewhere to print it on actual photo paper.
As I paste the photo onto the piece of thick paper Ms. Luna gave everyone, I realize that the year is half over and all the sadness and anger creep ba
ck in. I’m just now feeling like I belong here, in this class and in Mrs. Parkman’s, with these kids. I’m just now feeling like my classmates are overlooking my smell and sloppy clothes, and for the first time I have grown-ups who actually care about me, not just about “dealing” with me because they have to.
I sigh. And begin to think of recent Christmas memories, any, that could pass for even kind-of-okay. There’s one back when Maya’s dad was still around. Jack was his name. He drove a UPS truck and wore the tightest brown shorts I’d ever seen. The nice thing about Jack was that before he left and said those awful things, he treated me like his own kid, too. The last Christmas with him, the one before he left and Mom started staying in bed all day, was a good one. We had a delicious Christmas dinner: tamales and rice and beans and the sweetest flan I’d ever tasted. But the presents were the best. He bought a new TV for everyone, the one that’s still in the living room. And he gave Mom a pretty diamond necklace. And for Maya and me, new bikes. I still use mine to ride to Denzel’s or around the trailer park, but Maya’s is too small for her now, so it’s rusting in the front yard. No one even wants to steal it.
My Storied Year Page 8