Brown Girl Dreaming

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Brown Girl Dreaming Page 7

by Jacqueline Woodson


  We did not stay because the building was big and old

  and when the bathroom ceiling fell

  into the bathtub, my mother said,

  I am not Henny Penny and that is not the sky!

  So she called Aunt Kay and her boyfriend, Bernie,

  they borrowed a truck and helped us pack,

  bundled us up in winter coats

  turned off that swinging light

  and got us out of there!

  herzl street

  So we moved to Herzl Street

  where Aunt Kay and Bernie lived upstairs.

  And Peaches from Greenville lived below us.

  And on Saturday nights more people

  from Greenville came by

  sitting and running their mouths

  while the pots on the stove bubbled

  with collards and sizzled with chicken

  and corn bread baked up brown

  inside Kay’s big black oven.

  And the people from Greenville

  brought people from Spartanburg

  and Charleston

  and all of them talked

  like our grandparents talked

  and ate what we ate

  so they were red dirt and pine trees

  they were fireflies in jelly jars

  and lemon-chiffon ice cream cones.

  They were laughter on hot city nights

  hot milk on cold city mornings,

  good food and good times

  fancy dancing and soul music.

  They were family.

  the johnny pump

  Some days we miss

  the way the red dirt lifted up and landed

  against our bare feet. Here

  the sidewalks burn hot all summer long.

  Here we wear shoes. Broken bottles

  don’t always get swept up right away.

  But our block has three johnny pumps

  and a guy with a wrench

  to turn them on. On the days when the heat

  stops your breath, he comes up the block

  pulling it out of his pocket. Then the johnny pump

  is blasting cool water everywhere

  and us and other kids running through it,

  refreshed and laughing.

  Even the grown-ups come out sometimes.

  Once, I saw my

  never-ever-barefoot-outside-in-the-city mother

  take off her sandals,

  stand at the curb

  and let the cool water run over her feet.

  She was looking up at the tiny piece of sky.

  And she was smiling.

  genetics

  My mother has a gap between

  her two front teeth. So does Daddy Gunnar.

  Each child in this family has the same space

  connecting us.

  Our baby brother, Roman, was born pale as dust.

  His soft brown curls and eyelashes stop

  people on the street.

  Whose angel child is this? they want to know.

  When I say, My brother, the people

  wear doubt

  thick as a cape

  until we smile

  and the cape falls.

  caroline but

  we called her aunt kay,

  some memories

  Aunt Kay at the top of the stairs, her arms open,

  her smile wide

  and us running to her.

  Aunt Kay dressed up on a Friday night

  smelling of perfume,

  her boyfriend, Bernie, her friend Peaches.

  Aunt Kay in the kitchen with Peaches and Bernie

  passing a blue-and-white box of Argo starch

  back and forth, the hard white chunks of it,

  disappearing into their mouths like candy,

  the slow chew and swallow.

  Aunt Kay and Mama and Peaches, in tight skirts

  singing in a band.

  Aunt Kay braiding my hair.

  Aunt Kay running up the stairs to her own apartment

  and me running behind her.

  Aunt Kay laughing.

  Aunt Kay hugging me.

  Then a fall.

  A crowd.

  An ambulance.

  My mother’s tears.

  A funeral.

  And here, my Aunt Kay memories end.

  moving again

  After the falling

  the stairs were all wrong to us.

  Some days I head up there, my mother said,

  forgetting that Kay is gone.

  After the falling

  Bernie and Peaches

  packed their bags, moved out

  to Far Rockaway, telling my mother

  how much Kay loved the ocean.

  After the falling

  we took the A train

  to their new apartment, played on the beach

  till the sun went down, Mama quiet on a blanket

  looking out at the water.

  Kay was her big sister, only ten months older.

  Everyone always thought they were twins

  so that’s what they said they were.

  Couldn’t look at one of us, my mother said,

  without seeing the other.

  After the falling

  the hallway smelled

  like Kay’s perfume

  whenever it rained

  so we moved again

  to the second floor of a pink house

  on Madison Street.

  Out front there was a five-foot sculpture

  made from gray rock,

  ivory and sand. A small fountain sent water

  cascading over statues

  of Mary, Joseph and Jesus.

  People stopped in front of the house,

  crossed themselves, mouthed a silent prayer

  then moved on.

  This house is protected, the landlord told my mother.

  The saints keep us safe.

  This house is protected, my mother whispered to us.

  By the Saint of Ugly Sculpture.

  After the falling

  sometimes I would see my mother

  smiling at that sculpture. And in her smile,

  there was Aunt Kay’s smile, the two of them

  having a secret sister laugh, the two of them

  together again.

  composition notebook

  And somehow, one day, it’s just there

  speckled black-and-white, the paper

  inside smelling like something I could fall right into,

  live there—inside those clean white pages.

  I don’t know how my first composition notebook

  ended up in my hands, long before I could really write

  someone must have known that this

  was all I needed.

  Hard not to smile as I held it, felt the breeze

  as I fanned the pages.

  My sister thought my standing there

  smiling was crazy

  didn’t understand how the smell and feel and sight

  of bright white paper

  could bring me so much joy.

  And why does she need a notebook? She can’t even write!

  For days and days, I could only sniff the pages,

  hold the notebook close

  listen to the sound the papers made.

  Nothing in the world is like this—

  a bright white page with

  pale blue lines. The smell of a newly sharpened pencil

  the soft hush of it

  moving finally

  one day

  into letters.

  And even though she’s sma
rter than anything,

  this is something

  my sister can’t even begin

  to understand.

  on paper

  The first time I write my full name

  Jacqueline Amanda Woodson

  without anybody’s help

  on a clean white page in my composition notebook,

  I know

  if I wanted to

  I could write anything.

  Letters becoming words, words gathering meaning, becoming

  thoughts outside my head

  becoming sentences

  written by

  Jacqueline Amanda Woodson

  saturday morning

  Some days in this new place

  there is only a box of pancake mix

  an egg, and faucet water, the hiss

  of those together

  against a black cast-iron pan,

  the pancakes sticking to it

  syrupless but edible and us

  complaining about it wishing like anything

  we were back in Greenville,

  where there was always something good

  to eat. We remember

  the collards growing

  down south, the melons, fresh picked

  and dripping with a sweetness New York

  can never know.

  We eat without complaining

  or whining or asking our mother when there will be

  syrup, butter, milk . . .

  We remember Greenville

  without her, count our blessings in silence

  and chew.

  first grade

  My hand inside my sister’s hand,

  we walk the two blocks to P.S. 106—

  I am six years old and

  my sister tells me our school was once a castle.

  I believe her. The school stretches for a full city block.

  Inside

  marble stairs wind their way to classrooms filled

  with dark wood desks

  nailed down to dark wood floors polished to a high

  and beautiful shine.

  I am in love with everything around me,

  the dotted white lines moving

  across my teacher’s blackboard, the smell of chalk,

  the flag jutting out from the wall and slowly swaying

  above me.

  There is nothing more beautiful than P.S. 106.

  Nothing more perfect than my first-grade classroom.

  No one more kind than Ms. Feidler, who meets me

  at the door each morning,

  takes my hand from my sister’s, smiles down and says,

  Now that Jacqueline is here, the day can finally begin.

  And I believe her.

  Yes, I truly believe her.

  another kingdom hall

  Because my grandmother calls and asks

  if we’re spreading Jehovah’s word,

  because my mother promises my grandmother

  she’ll raise us right in the eyes of God,

  she finds a Kingdom Hall on Bushwick Avenue

  so we can keep our Jehovah’s Witness ways.

  Every Sunday, we put on our Kingdom Hall clothes

  pull out our Kingdom Hall satchels,

  filled with our Kingdom Hall books

  and walk the seven blocks

  to the Kingdom Hall.

  This is what reminds us of Greenville,

  the Saturday-night pressing of satin ribbons,

  Hope struggling with the knot in his tie,

  our hair oiled and pulled back into braids,

  our mother’s hands less sure

  than our grandmother’s, the parts crooked, the braids

  coming undone. And now, Dell and I

  are left to iron our own dresses.

  My hands,

  my mother says,

  as she stands at the sink, holding a crying Roman

  with one hand,

  her other holding a bottle of milk

  under hot running water,

  are full.

  My mother drops us off at the Kingdom Hall door,

  watches us walk

  down the aisle to where Brothers and Sisters

  are waiting

  to help us turn the pages of our Bibles,

  lean over to share their songbooks with us,

  press Life Savers into our waiting hands . . .

  Then our mother is gone, back home

  or to a park bench,

  where she’ll sit and read until the meeting is over.

  She has a full-time job now. Sunday, she says,

  is her day of rest.

  flag

  When the kids in my class ask why

  I am not allowed to pledge to the flag

  I tell them It’s against my religion but don’t say,

  I am in the world but not of the world. This,

  they would not understand.

  Even though my mother’s not a Jehovah’s Witness,

  she makes us follow their rules and

  leave the classroom when the pledge is being said.

  Every morning, I walk out with Gina and Alina

  the two other Witnesses in my class.

  Sometimes, Gina says,

  Maybe we should pray for the kids inside

  who don’t know that God said

  “No other idols before me.” That our God

  is a jealous God.

  Gina is the true believer. Her Bible open

  during reading time. But Alina and I walk through

  our roles as Witnesses as though this is the part

  we’ve been given in a play

  and once offstage, we run free, sing

  “America the Beautiful” and “The Star-Spangled Banner”

  far away from our families—knowing every word.

  Alina and I want

  more than anything to walk back into our classroom

  press our hands against our hearts. Say,

  “I pledge allegiance . . .” loud

  without our jealous God looking down on us.

  Without our parents finding out.

  Without our mothers’ voices

  in our heads saying, You are different.

  Chosen.

  Good.

  When the pledge is over, we walk single file

  back into the classroom, take our separate seats

  Alina and I far away from Gina. But Gina

  always looks back at us—as if to say,

  I’m watching you. As if to say,

  I know.

  because we’re witnesses

  No Halloween.

  No Christmas.

  No birthdays.

  Even when

  other kids laugh as we leave the classroom

  just as the birthday cupcakes arrive

  we pretend we do not see the chocolate frosting,

  pretend we do not want

  to press our fingertips against

  each colorful sprinkle and lift them,

  one by sweet one

  to our mouths.

  No voting.

  No fighting.

  No cursing.

  No wars.

  We will never go to war.

  We will never taste the sweetness of a classroom

  birthday cupcake

  We will never taste the bitterness of a battle.

  brooklyn rain

  The rain here is different than the way

  it rains in Greenville. No sweet smell of honeysuckle.

  No soft squish of pine. No slip and slide through grass.

  Just Mama saying, St
ay inside today. It’s raining,

  and me at the window. Nothing to do but

  watch

  the gray sidewalk grow darker,

  watch

  the drops slide down the glass pane,

  watch

  people below me move fast, heads bent.

  Already there are stories

  in my head. Already color and sound and words.

  Already I’m

  drawing circles on the glass, humming

  myself someplace far away from here.

  Down south, there was always someplace else to go

  you could step out into the rain and

  Grandma would let you

  lift your head and stick out your tongue

  be happy.

  Down south already feels like a long time ago

  but the stories in my head

  take me back there, set me down in Daddy’s garden

  where the sun is always shining.

  another way

  While our friends are watching TV or playing outside,

  we are in our house, knowing that begging our mother

  to turn the television on is useless, begging her for

  ten minutes outside will only mean her saying,

  No. Saying,

  You can run wild with your friends anytime. Today

  I want you to find another way to play.

  And then one day my mother

  comes home with two shopping bags

  filled with board games—Monopoly, checkers, chess,

  Ants in the Pants, Sorry, Trouble,

  just about every game we’ve ever seen

  in the commercials between

  our Saturday morning cartoons.

  So many games, we don’t know

  where to begin playing, so we let Roman choose.

  And he chooses Trouble

  because he likes the sound the die makes

  when it pops inside

  its plastic bubble. And for days and days,

  it is Christmas in November,

  games to play when our homework is done,

 

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