by Nikki Grimes
But I’m fifteen,
not brainless. Besides,
I knew the truth at ten.
“He’ll never do it again,”
she swears.
But he will, because
she’ll let him.
Now, me?
I’ve got no use
for lame excuses
or imitation love
that packs
a punch.
Tyrone
My pops used to hit my moms like that.
When I was little, I used to hide under my bed and cry, scared he was coming for me next. Damn, I ain’t thought about that in years. How could you do that, Pops? I don’t get it. Is that why he hung around? So he’d have somebody smaller than him to beat up on? I don’t even want to go there. I’m just glad he finally stopped drinking and cleaned up his act before he checked out. It gave us a chance to have some good times together.
Chankara was the third one up today. Her stuff was so deep, nobody wanted to follow her. There weren’t but two more people planning to read anyway, including me. We both decided to bag it ’til the next Open Mike.
Meanwhile, I’m going to be busy writing me a rap about dudes beatin’ on women. I’ll call it “Little Men,” ’cause that’s what they are.
Raud Ramirez
Lunch is a memory of indigestion. Chankara sat across from me in the cafeteria and I couldn’t help staring at her. Her bruises are almost gone, but I can still see the shadows they left behind. If she was my hermanita, I’d squash the cockroach who messed her up like that. That’s what I was thinking when I remembered it ain’t nice to stare. So I ate too fast and got out of there before she could catch me.
Only twenty minutes’til class starts, and Mr. Ward don’t like it if I leave a mess on his desk, so that’s eighteen minutes to paint, plus two more for cleaning up and washing the paintbrushes. If Raynard gets here early, he’ll help. He always does, I don’t know why. Tyrone’s another story. He checks in early lots of times when I’m here, but he keeps his distance, usually. Once he came up behind me and watched over my shoulder while I worked. Made me kinda nervous, if you must know. The Ricans and the brothers don’t always hit it off. Anyway, he stood there for the longest. Then he grunted and said, “You good, man, I’ll give you that.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“You wasting your time, though. You know you ain’t gonna make no money doing this.”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” I said. “But some things ain’t about money.”
“You tripping, man,” said Tyrone. “Money is the alpha and omega. Ask anybody.”
I just shrugged and gave him my “No hablo ingles” look, like I didn’t get what he was talking about. It was the quickest way to end the conversation.
People just don’t get it. Even if I never make a dime—which, by the way, ain’t gonna happen—I’d still have to paint.
Don’t get me wrong. Money is useful. I’m lucky Mr. Ward leaves brushes and watercolor paper for me to use, though I ain’t gonna tell him that. It’s none of his business I can’t afford fancy brushes and watercolor paper at home. Anyway, it’s good for him to help out the future Diego Rivera. He knows I’m the real deal. Didn’t he come to me for advice on how to decorate the classroom? The paper frames were my idea. Good work belongs in a gallery, I told him. Especially if it’s mine.
I never thought about writing poetry before, but Mr. Ward said he’s going to start videotaping our Friday sessions. Guess who’s going to be the first one in front of the camera. Of course, that means I have to write a poem, so I better get busy. Even if it’s hard, I’ll do it. I don’t mind working hard. Whatever it takes, ιentiendes? Raul Ramirez, painter-poet. Yeah. I like the sound of that.
Someday I’ll have a poetry reading and a one-man show at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe on the Lower East Side. I’ll hand out tokens to all my friends so they got no excuse not to take the ride downtown, okay?
My brothers laugh at me just ’cause they’ve been in the world a little longer. They say I’m loco en la cabeza, that ain’t no spic gonna be no big-time artist in America. “First off,” I tell them, “I ain’t no spic. And second, watch me.”
Abuelita says my talent is as old as her bones. She says I got it, and my stubbornness, from her father. He never did nothing with his talent, though. I asked her why not. “Porque la familia could not eat paint,” she said. So I will be the first painter in the family. That’s fine with me.
I’ve been drawing pictures all my life. I used to make my sister model for me. I’d bribe her with whatever I could scrounge up from returning soda bottles to the grocery. Eventually, I got tired of digging through trash for bottles, and she got bored modeling. Now it’s easier. My girlfriend sits for me. Every painter needs a model, right? Anyway, she knows if she’s nice to me, one day I’ll make her famous. Even if she’s not nice, I’ll probably paint her because she’s beautiful.
I want to show the beauty of our people, that we are not all banditos like they show on TV, munching cuchfritos and sipping beer through chipped teeth. I will paint los niños scooping up laughter in the sunshine and splashing in the temporary pool of a fire hydrant. I will paint my cousins, turning the sidewalk into a dance floor when salsa or la bamba spills from the third-floor window. I will paint Mami, standing at the ironing board late in the evening, after a day of piecework in the factory, sweat pouring off her, steam rising from a pot in the background, me tugging at her skirt while she irons. I will paint the way she used to smile down at me, the love in her eyes saying “I only do this for you.” Mami’s beauty is better than a movie star’s. It survives a kind of life where pamper is a noun, not a verb. I will capture that beauty on canvas, someday, when I am good enough.
For now, I draw in my sketchbook and paint portraits of myself for practice. But it’s not so bad. I’m handsome, after all.
OPEN MIKE
Zorro
BY RAUL RAMIREZ
Call me Zorro, all swash and buckle while the
cameras roll, cape swinging in the breeze, teeth showing
as expected. I lunge on cue, save the damsel in
distress. I understand my role. I’ve studied all
those scripts and comic books. I used to pose for
close-ups, knew how to dutifully disappear
when the script said:
“Fade to black.” Then
I’d wait uncomfortably
between the lines
of my own story ’til
someone with skin like
milk yelled “Action!”
But I’m done. I’m too
old for comic heros. It’s
time to lose the cape,
step off the page, except I think I’ll keep the mask.
Why make it easy for you to choose whether I am
Zorro or el bandito when I am neither? Your
categories are too confining. The fact is, you’re more
comfortable with myth than man. But I am here to help. First
off, put down your camera. Second, give me your hand.
Tyrone
Raul is on the money. You gotta make your own rules, Jack. That’s the real 411. Forget who white folks think you are, ’cause they ain’t got a clue.
That’s some strong stuff Raul be writin’. That “Z” thing was cool too. He was working it.
Frankly, I didn’t know Raul had it in him. Matter of fact, I didn’t know he knew that much English!
Diondra Jordan
If only I was as bold as Raul. The other day, he left one of his paintings out on Mr. Ward’s desk where anybody could see it. Which was the point. He sometimes works at Mr. Ward’s desk during lunch. The wet paintbrushes sticking up out of the jar are always a sign that he’s been at it again. So of course, anybody who glances over in that direction will be tempted to stop by and look.
This particular painting was rough, but anyone could tell it was Raul. A self-portrait. He’ll probably hang it in class. Back in Se
ptember, Mr. Ward covered two of the classroom walls with black construction paper and then scattered paper frames up and down the walls, each one a different size and color. Now half the room looks sort of like an art gallery, which was the idea. We’re supposed to use the paper frames for our work. Whether we put up poems or photographs or even paintings is up to us, so long as the work is ours and we can tie it in with our study of the Harlem Renaissance. I guess Raul’s self-portrait fits, since we’ve been talking a lot about identity. He’ll probably put it up next to his poem. You should have seen him hang that thing. You’d think he was handling a million-dollar masterpiece the way he took his time placing it just so. If you look close, you can see the smudges where he erased a word or two and rewrote it. Mr. Ward must be in shock. He can never get Raul to rewrite a lick of homework or anything else. And don’t even talk to him about checking his spelling! He’ll launch into a tirade on you in a minute. “What?” he’ll snap. “You think Puerto Ricans can’t spell?” Forget it. Anyway, I dare you to find one misspelled word in that poem of his! Maybe it’s a visual thing. Maybe he wants his poem to look as good as his self-portrait. And it is good.
I’ve never tried doing a self-portrait, but why not? I could maybe do one in charcoal. I like drawing faces in charcoal. I’ve been drawing since I can’t remember when. Not that anyone here knows that, except Tanisha, and she found out by accident when she came to my house to study once and saw a couple of drawings hanging in my room. Mom loves my watercolors and she hung one in the living room, but it isn’t signed. Nobody ever mentions it, especially not my father. He’s not too wild about my art. Mostly, he’s disappointed, first off that I wasn’t born a boy, and second that I won’t play ball like one. I’m six feet tall, almost as tall as he, and he figures the height is wasted on me since I don’t share his dreams of me going to the WNBA. I keep telling him not to hold his breath.
I hate always being the tallest girl in school. Everybody expects me to play basketball, so they pick me for their team, throw me the ball, and wait for me to shoot. Big mistake. I fumble it every time. Then they have the nerve to get mad at me, like I did it on purpose! But basketball is not my game. I have no game. I’m an artist, like Raul. The difference is, I don’t tell anybody. I refuse to give them new reasons to laugh at me. The Jolly Green Giant jokes are bad enough.
Yeah, it’s definitely time to try a self-portrait. I think I’ll paint myself in front of an easel. With a basketball jersey sticking up out of the trash. Then I could hang it in Mr. Ward’s class. See if anybody notices.
OPEN MIKE
If
BY DIONDRA JORDAN
If I stood on tiptoe
reached up and sculpted
mountains from clouds
would you laugh out loud?
If I dipped my brush in starlight
painted a ribbon of night
on your windowsill
would you still laugh?
If I drew you adrift
in a pen and ink sea
in a raging storm
would you laugh at me?
If I planted watercolor roses
in your garden
would you laugh then?
Or would you breathe deep
to sample their scent?
I wonder.
Tyrone
If the sista read any faster, I’d be looking for her Supergirl cape. Talk about nervous! Diondra’s hands were shaking the whole time she was holding that poem. She sure spooks easy for somebody so tall.
“Yo!” I said. “Take a deep breath. Ain’t nobody going to hurt you here.” She smiled a little and tried to slow down. But I swear that girl burned rubber getting back to her seat when she was through. I guess she’s not exactly used to the limelight.
She’s got plenty of company. Four more kids read their poetry for the first time today. They were shaking in their boots, but it was all good. I only had to tell one of them to loosen up. Guess you could call that progress!
Devon Hope
Jump Shot. What kind of name is that? Not mine, but try telling that to the brothers at school. That’s all they ever call me.
You’d think it was written somewhere. Tall guys must be jocks. No. Make that tall people, ’cause Diondra’s got the same problem. Everybody expects her to shoot hoops. The difference is, she’s got no talent in that direction. Ask me, she’s got no business playing b-ball. That’s my game.
I’ve got good height and good hands, and that’s a fact. But what about the rest of me? Forget who I really am, who I really want to be. The law is be cool, be tough, play ball, and use books for weight training—not reading. Otherwise, everybody gives you grief. Don’t ask me why I care, especially when the grief is coming from a punk like Wesley. Judging from the company he keeps, he’s a gangsta in sheep’s clothing. I don’t even know why he and Tyrone bother coming to school. It’s clear they don’t take it seriously, although maybe they’re starting to. That’s according to Sterling, who believes in praying for everybody and giving them the benefit of the doubt. I love the preacher-man, but I think he may be giving these brothers too much credit. Anyway, when I hang around after school and any of the guys ask me: “Yo, Devon, where you going?” I tell them I’m heading for the gym to meet Coach and work on my layup. Then once they’re out the door, I cut upstairs to the library to sneak a read.
It’s not much better at home. My older brother’s always after me to hit the streets with him, calls me a girly man for loving books and jazz.
Don’t get me wrong. B-ball is all right. Girls like you, for one thing. But it’s not you they like. It’s Mr. Basketball. And if that’s not who you are inside, then it’s not you they’re liking. So what’s the point? Still, I don’t mind playing, just not all the time.
This year is looking better. My English teacher has got us studying the Harlem Renaissance, which means we have to read a lot of poetry. That suits me just fine, gives me a reason to drag around my beat-up volumes of Langston Hughes and Claude McKay. Whenever anybody bugs me about it, all I have to say is “Homework.” Even so, I’d rather the brothers not catch me with my head in a book.
The other day, I duck into the library, snare a corner table, and hunker down with 3000 Years of Black Poetry. Raynard sees me, but it’s not like he’s going to tell anybody. He hardly speaks, and he never hangs with any of the brothers I know. So I breathe easy. I’m sure no one else has spotted me until a head pops up from behind the stacks. It’s Janelle Battle from my English class. I freeze and wait for the snickers I’m used to. Wait for her to say something like: “What? Coach got you reading now? Afraid you’re gonna flunk out and drop off the team?” But all she does is smile and wave. Like it’s no big deal for me to be in a library reading. Like I have a right to be there if I want. Then she pads over, slips a copy of The Panther & the Lash on my table, and walks away without saying a word. It’s one of my favorite books by Langston Hughes. How could she know? Seems like she’s noticed me in the library more often than I thought.
Janelle is all right. So what if she’s a little plump? At least when you turn the light on upstairs, somebody’s at home. She’s smart, and she doesn’t try hiding it. Which gets me thinking. Maybe it’s time I quit sneaking in and out of the library like some thief. Maybe it’s time I just started being who I am.
OPEN MIKE
Bronx Masquerade
BY DEVON HOPE
I woke up this morning
exhausted from hiding
the me of me
so I stand here confiding
there’s more to Devon
than jump shot and rim.
I’m more than tall
and lengthy of limb.
I dare you to peep
behind these eyes,
discover the poet
in tough-guy disguise.
Don’t call me Jump Shot.
My name is Surprise.
Tyrone
Shoot. If I had moves like Devon, I’d be cruising cros
scourt with Scotty Pippin! That’s probably what the brotha’s gonna end up doing, anyway, ‘cause he ain’t half the word-man I am. ’Course, I probably been at it longer.
He might get better. I said might. And who knows? Muhammad Ali was a boxer and a poet. Maybe it’s time for another hoop-man to rise to the occasion and show Shaquille he ain’t the only word-man on the court.
Lupe Algarin
Janelle’s got a thing for Devon, but she ain’t the only one. Last week I seen some girl named Beth in here staring at him like he was chocolate ice cream she couldn’t wait to spoon up. She don’t even belong in this class. Come to think of it, a lot of extra kids been showing up in our class on Open Mike Fridays. They heard about the poetry and they been coming to check it out. A bunch of teachers are getting mad at Mr. Ward with all these kids skipping their classes. Everybody’s talking about it.
Poor Mr. Ward. He sends students back where they belong—when he catches them. Our class is big, though, and it’s easy to duck down behind someone in the back of the room and hide. Sometimes we’re halfway through the period before he notices someone who doesn’t belong. But he caught Beth last week, and I saw Janelle grinning. She don’t have Devon yet, but still she wants him all to herself. I know that feeling, when you love somebody like that. And not just a guy.
I love my Rosa.
Rosa is so beautiful. I wish I could bring her to school. Mr. Ward would love her. Her toes are like tiny churros you want to nibble all the time. And I do, whenever my big sister, Christina, has me over to baby-sit. She smiles more than she did before she had Rosa. Or maybe she’s just happy to be out of the house. I would be. There’s nothing for me there, that’s for sure.
My brother, Tito, left long ago, and then Christina. So it’s just me now, with Mami and her husband, Berto. Besides her factory job, all she cares about is him. As for Berto, he’s got no use for nobody’s kids, even Mami’s.