by Nikki Grimes
Why does she put up with him? All he does is belch beer and scream at her to bring him and his buddies more while they sit around playing dominos or watching fights on TV.
“I bet Papi doesn’t guzzle beer all the time,” I often say to Mami.
“You don’t know what he does, Lupe,” she always says. “How could you? You were only five when he left. And he left on his own, Lupe. Pero, what did I expect? He was a jíbaro through and through. He couldn’t wait to get back to his precious mountains ! And this is the man you love? But Berto, who puts food in your mouth, him you despise. ¡Dios mio!”
I hate it when she calls Papi a hick, the way she spits the word out.
I used to write him. So many letters. But he never wrote back. Why, Papi? There’s nobody here to love me now. Mami has Berto, Tito has his carnales on the streets, Christina has Chooch and Rosa. And me? Raul’s been giving me the eye lately, but he can forget it. He’s too much in love with himself, always drawing pictures of his own face. What’s that about? Besides, I already got a man. My Marco. Except, Marco hardly has time for me, even though he claims I’m his woman, his one and only.
Sometimes I say my rosaries and beg for someone to love. I lay in bed under the crucifix and pray ’til my fingers go numb on the beads.
Lately when I look at Rosa, I think I should do like my friend Gloria Martinez. I should make a baby of my own. Maybe that’s the answer.
I like Marco good enough. I don’t want to marry him, but he’s cute. We’d make pretty babies together, I think.
I’ve always loved babies. When I was younger, I would wrap my doll in the lace from my first Communion and I’d show her off to all my neighbors. “Mira, mira,” I’d say. “See my baby. Isn’t she perfect?” And she loved me better than anybody, because I was her mother. It was only pretend, of course. But if I had a real baby, she would love me like that. The way Gloria’s baby loves her. The way Rosa loves Christina.
I saw Gloria and her baby in the grocery last night. I waved to them and all the time, I’m thinking, Gloria, you have no idea how lucky you are.
OPEN MIKE
Brown Hands
BY LUPE ALGARIN
You, macho soledad,
the secret I whisper in the night,
you fill your eyes with me
like a mirror
I see myself in.
Our twin hearts beat
like congas, the rhythm
churning our blood
to salsa.
Our brown hands entwine
beneath moonshine,
clasping all the love
we’ll ever need—
Tyrone
So, the daydreamer speaks.
Every time I look at Lupe, she seems like she’s somewhere else. Or maybe she just wants to be. Maybe she’s thinkin’ about the guy in that poem. But if she is, how come she never smiles?
Gloria Martinez
Pampers. Apple sauce. Strained peas. I look up for a minute, see Lupe smiling at me. I nod, then go back to making my list. Orange juice. Baby powder. Soy milk. I didn’t even know what soy milk was a year ago.
“Gloria.” Raynard pokes me in the arm, gestures toward the front of the room. Mr. Ward is heading in my direction. I put my shopping list away before he can ask me what soy milk has to do with Zora Neale Hurston and the book he’s been reading to us, Their Eyes Were Watching God. I turn to Raynard and nod thanks. He doesn’t say much, but he always looks out for me.
I shoulda made a shopping list before I left the house this morning, but I barely got out as it is. Angel spit up on my shirt right when I was headed out the door. It’s like he picks the time to do it. Like he doesn’t want me to leave. It took me ten minutes to clean him up and find myself another shirt. If Mami hadn’t done the laundry for me yesterday, I wouldn’t even have a clean one to wear.
I was stupid to think I could do this on my own. Even with Mami’s help, I hardly have time to study or do my homework. Last week, Lupe asked if I could hang out with her after school and I just about laughed in her face. “Chica,” I wanted to say, “them days are over for me.” I go straight home now, except for maybe stopping at the grocery. It’s no more Gloria Loca, party girl. Fun ain’t even in my vocabulary anymore.
Once you have a kid, everything changes.
If I could go back, do things over ... but I can’t. No sense dreaming about it.
I love my Angel, and that’s no lie. But I wish he didn’t cry so much. He always wants something—his bottle, a new diaper, the teddy he dropped on the floor for the sixteenth time in a row. Or else he wants me to hold him, like I can rock a baby and write a paper at the same time! And forget about sleep. He wakes me up in the middle of the night so much, I practically wake up on my own now.
Two weeks ago, he wakes up crying with a fever. I don’t know what to do. I rub him with cold wash-cloths, and then I take his temperature. I give him baby Tylenol, walk him up and down, and I take his temperature. I sing to him, I rock him, I give him a bottle of water, and take his temperature. I must’ve taken his temperature ten times before his fever finally broke. Then I put him in bed with me so I can watch him. By the time I close my eyes, the clock radio says 3:16 A.M. The next day, I have a math test. Which I flunk, of course. I keep nodding off between reading the problems and working out the solutions. I was a mess. Lucky for me, when I explained what happened, the teacher let me take the test over.
I still got two years to go before I graduate. But I’ve got to make it, and I’ve got to go to college. Period. Angel’s father already told me straight-up he ain’t having nothing to do with this baby, so it’s on me. Mami says she’ll help, but it’s me who has to make a good life for Angel. It’s like she says, my life ain’t about just me anymore. It’s about my son.
Lupe has no idea how lucky she is.
How can I get through to her?
OPEN MIKE
Message to a Friend
BY GLORIA MARTINEZ
That girl in the mirror,
daughter of San Juan
made of sunshine and sugarcane,
looks like me.
She used to run, weightless,
Time a perfumed bottle
hanging from her neck,
mañana a song
she made up the words to
while she skipped—
until the day she stopped,
caught the toothless, squirming bundle
heaven dropped into her arms
and gravity kicked in.
Her life took a new spin.
This screaming gift did not
lead her to dream places
or fill all her empty spaces
like she thought.
Silly chica. She bought into
Hollywood’s lie,
that love is mostly what you get
instead of what you give,
and what it costs,
like the perfumed bottle
ripped from her neck
and sent flying to the ground.
The crashing sound
of years lost
shattered in her ears,
and new fears emerged
from the looking glass.
Sometimes I wonder
if she’ll ever sing again.
Tyrone
Girl’s got a lot of heart, coming back to school after havin’ a baby. I saw her around here last year. Man, did she get big! She shrunk right back down, though. She’s fine, so I can see why a guy would want to give her a child. Not like any other guy will get the chance, the way she steers clear and keeps to herself.
Fine as she is, the girl ain’t no dummy. Not writing poetry like that.
She should put it up on the wall. If you ask me, it belongs there.
Janelle Battle
“Janelle Hope. Mrs. Janelle Hope. Mrs. Devon Hope.” Dream on, fool. You can stand here in the girls’ room and practice saying that name ’til your tongue falls out, or the change bell rings, whichever
comes first, and it still won’t ever be true. Face it. Devon is Denzel Washington, and you are Thighs “R” Us.
I can hear Lupe now. “Stop putting yourself down. You have a very pretty face. Besides, you have a lot more going for you.” Yeah, well, I guess that’s true. I mean, I am smart and funny, and I know I’m a good person. But this is high school, and nobody seems to care about that. Why couldn’t I be tall and elegant like Diondra, or have Judianne’s perfect complexion, all smooth, super-rich fudge? Better yet, why couldn’t I look like Tanisha, or Gloria? Then I might have a chance with somebody like Devon. But I don’t, so forget it.
Devon is different from the other jocks, though. How many guys you know read Claude McKay for fun? Seems like every time I go to the library, I catch him squeezed into a corner like he’s got something to hide. He smiled at me last time I saw him there. That’s something, isn’t it? He didn’t have to smile, even if I did smile and wave first. And he seemed to like the poem I read at the last Open Mike Friday.
I can’t believe I’m getting up in front of people and talking about personal stuff, and liking it. I’m saying things that I would never tell anybody, usually. But, I don’t know. There’s something about reading poetry. It’s almost like acting. The room is kind of set up like a stage, anyway. Mr. Ward turns most of the lights out, and we stand in a spot in front of the video camera. Once he switches it on, it’s like you become somebody else, and you can say anything, as long as it’s in a poem. Then, when you’re finished, you just disappear into the dark and sit down, and you’re back to being your own self. Gloria says it’s the same for her.
“Hey, Janelle.”
Oh, no. It’s Miss Big Mouth Fifth Avenue in another one of her original getups. Where’d she come from?
“Hey, Judianne.” I thought the bathroom was empty. How long was she there? I hope she didn’t hear me talking to the mirror. That’s all I need, to have the whole school laughing about me having a crush on Devon. Lord, please don’t let that happen. It’s bad enough they call me Battle of the Bulge behind my back.
I wish, I wish, I wish. God, I wish people could see me on the inside. I know I’m beautiful there.
OPEN MIKE
inside
BY JANELLE BATTLE
Daily
I notice you frown
at my thick casing,
feel you poke me
with the sharp tip
of your booted words.
You laugh,
rap my woody shell
with wicked whispers shaped
like knuckles,
then toss me aside.
Lucky for me,
I don’t bruise easily.
Besides,
your loss
is someone else’s gain
for I am coconut,
and the heart of me
is sweeter
than you know.
Tyrone
You never think other folks got feelings. Like Janelle. I must’ve cracked wise a hundred times about her weight. Never even thought about it. It was just something I did for a laugh. Listening to her now, it don’t seem all that funny.
Leslie Lucas
I’m starting to feel like I know Janelle, at least a little. And Lupe. And Gloria. And Raynard. Before Open Mike Fridays, I hardly knew anybody in this school at all. Big surprise.
What could I possibly have in common with these kids? I must’ve asked myself that question a million times a day when I moved here. I’m white, they’re Black and Hispanic. I grew up in Westchester County. They grew up in New York City. I like Sheryl Crow, they like Lauryn Hill. Except for Raynard and Devon, who are into jazz. It’s like we come from two different planets. But hey, it’s not my fault. I didn’t choose to be here. If it weren’t for Mom up and dying on me, I’d still be back in Ossining with my friends.
I miss my friends. That’s mostly why I hated moving here. I knew I wouldn’t have anybody to talk to when it hurts, and it hurts all the time. Missing Mom, I mean. I was full up with loneliness for her a few weeks ago. It was one of those moments that come from outta nowhere, when you all of a sudden feel something reach inside your chest, grab your heart, and squeeze ’til you can hardly breathe. I was in the girls’ locker room at the time, and for a minute, I wheeled around like Uncle Donny does when he’s drunk. That’s when I bumped into Parscha Johnsan.
Porscha Johnson has the reputation for being a little touched in the head. In freshman year, she’d beaten the snot out of a girl who’d pushed her too far. They say it took four people to pull her off of the other girl. Everybody had pretty much steered clear of her since then. This is who I bump into.
“Hey! Watch it,” she said.
“Sorry,” I told her.
“You got that right. Why don’t you sorry yourself on outta here?” Usually, this would be the cue for me to make myself invisible, but I was hurting too bad, and I was not in the mood. I flung my locker door open and spoke between my teeth.
“I said I was sorry. Now why don’t you just leave me alone?”
“Leave you alone? Look, if you wanted to be left alone, why the hell did you invade my space?”
By space, I thought she meant neighborhood. That’s when I felt my head spin off. “My mom died, all right? And I was sent to live with my grandmother, who lives in this neighborhood, and I had no choice. Not that it’s any of your business.”
The split second those last words flew out, I wanted to take them back, but I couldn’t. I swallowed hard and waited for Porscha to shove me against the lockers, or to punch me in the stomach, or to whip out a knife like I’d seen kids do on TV. Instead, she stepped back, lowered herself to the bench, and said, “Sorry about your mom. My mom died too.”
Turns out we both live with our grandmothers. For a long time, she put off telling me what her mom died from. My mom died of cancer, which was no big secret, but hers died from a drug overdose. Porscha thought that would make a difference, but when I found out, I told her it made no difference at all. Dead is dead, and lonely is lonely, and they both stink. All that matters, I told her, is that we’re friends. And we are.
I’m lucky. I was on my way to being like Amy Moscowitz, the one girl in class almost nobody knows anything about. She cuts herself off, hardly ever speaks, or lets anyone in. She seems to be happy by herself, but I need to hear somebody’s voice besides my own. I’m not as strong as she is, and now I don’t have to pretend that I am.
Open Mike Fridays help. We kind of have our own little clique now. The whole school knows who we are, that we’re “the poets.” It’s weird. For the first time in my life, I’m part of a group that’s cool. Who would believe it?
Last month, Mr. Ward gave our class an assignment to write a poem about what frightens us most, in honor of Halloween. A year ago, I might have written about something silly, like ghosts, which I don’t even believe in, and even if I did, ghosts would not be at the top of my list. The scariest thing I can think of now is being all alone in the world.
OPEN MIKE
Common Ground
BY LESLIE LUCAS
On the dark side of the moon
where death comes sooner
than expected;
at the edge of heartbreak
we both take
a leap
into the unknown;
at the center of loneliness
we dip into a pool
of tears
and thrash around
desperate not to drown;
we both reach out
for a life preserver,
something to hold on to
something sturdy
something new.
That’s when we see it,
a buoy called friendship
bobbing up between us
and we swim toward it
for all we are worth
and we meet there,
somewhere
in the middle.
Tyrone
Man, that l
ittle white girl be getting pretty deep. I figured her for something lame like “Roses are red, violets are blue.” Glad I didn’t have a bet on that action.
More than half the class wanted to read today, but most of them were girls. I wish a few more of the brothas would step up to the mike, even this thing out a little. Know what I’m saying?
Judianne Alexander
Good thing Leslie’s cough woke me in class this morning. I nodded off three times. Once more and Mr. Ward said he’d be bringing me a pillow. That’s what I get for staying up late. Again.
What choice did I have? Open Mike Friday is today and I am not about to stand in front of the class in some funky old outfit. I didn’t realize it would take me half the night to finish something new. I hope I can stay awake long enough to read my poem when my turn comes.
Me, writing poetry! What a scream. I’m not smart enough to be writing poetry in the first place, though Mr. Ward says I’m smarter than I know. Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have bothered trying to write anything except that Open Mike Friday is one time I know I can get Tyrone Bitting’s attention, and I’ve got a thing for Tyrone. Of course, he’s got a thing for Tanisha Scott—like every other boy in school.
Too bad we can’t all have good hair and light skin.
Who am I kidding? She’s more than that. She’s pretty. Which I’m not, as my stepfather reminds me ten times a day. Like I don’t know that from looking in the mirror, or from having kids tease me about my blue-black skin all the way through school. But my body’s good. Nothing wrong with me in that department. That’s why I got to show it off, wear clothes that accentuate the positive. The shorter, the better. And I don’t even have to buy them. I can make them myself. It ain’t much, but that’s one thing I learned from my mother. How to sew.