by Nikki Grimes
I wonder if the sista’s into African music. I gotta ask her about that sometime. Maybe I could hook up some African drum music to go with her poetry for the assembly Teach told us about. She could read her stuff, and I could play DJ. Yeah! I could get into that.
Devon
I look up from my lunch tray and catch Tanisha’s eye while she stands in the cafeteria line. We nod.
“Yo, brotha,” says Tyrone, thinking I’m nodding to him. I wave and turn away.
Tanisha is one fine sister, but I never say that to her face. She gets tired of hearing it from all the other guys. They look at her and that’s all they see, what’s on the surface. That’s what she told me when we talked once after Open Mike Friday. We talked about superficial judgments, how people look at you and think they know who you are, what you are, how they put you in a box: jock, china doll, whatever. That’s one thing me and Tanisha got in common. We know all about being put in a box. I feel like I’m gonna be climbing out of the one marked “dumb jock” all my life.
“Hey, Jump Shot,” I hear somebody call me from behind. It’s Mike from the basketball team. I nod, then go back to reading Imamu Amiri Baraka’s Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note. Mike slams his tray down beside me and sits.
“What’s that you reading?”
“Baraka,” I tell him. “Poetry.”
“Oh. Right. You got that class.”
At first I don’t say anything. Then I decide. “No, man. It’s not for class. I’m reading it for me, actually.”
“You gots to be kiddin’”
“No.”
“That’s so lame, man.”
I keep my finger in the book and turn to face him.
“You ever read Baraka?” No answer. “You should check him out.”
“Hey, do what you want, man. I ain’t interested.” Mike picks up his tray and moves to another table, shaking his head. I go back to my reading, seeing as how he’d given me permission and all.
Forget this. Tonight our team plays Bronx Science. When I get on the bus with the rest of the guys, I’m taking a copy of Baraka’s book with me to read, and I’m gonna make sure everybody sees it. Especially Mike.
OPEN MIKE
BlacK Box
BY DEVON HOPE
In case I forgot to tell you,
I’m allergic to boxes:
Black boxes, shoe boxes
New boxes, You boxes—
Even cereal boxes
Boasting champions.
(It’s all a lie.
I’ve peeked inside
And what I found
Were flakes.)
Make no mistake,
I make no exceptions
For Cracker Jack
Or Christmas glitter.
Haven’t you noticed?
I’m made of skeleton,
Muscle and skin.
My body is the only box
I belong in.
But you like your boxes
So keep them.
Mark them geek, wimp, bully.
Mark them china doll, brainiac,
Or plain dumb jock.
Choose whatever
Box you like, Mike.
Just don’t put me
In one, son.
Believe me,
I won’t fit.
Tyrone
The brotha’s right. I look around this class and nobody I see fits into the box I used to put them in. Startin’ with Mr. Ward. I figured him for a lightweight do-gooder who would last about five minutes in this neighborhood. But he stuck, and he got this poetry thing going. He even reads his own stuff sometimes. He’s okay.
Devon’s okay too. I don’t know how bright the other jocks are, but there’s nothing dumb about this brotha. Mr. Ward says you have to take people one at a time, check out what’s in their head and heart before you judge.
Word.
Sterling S. Hughes
Devon shook his head when he saw me standing in the lunch line yesterday, fingering an imaginary fret, making the appropriate sound effects. Friend or not, he thinks I’m crazy, but the brother behind me got into it, snapping his fingers to the rhythm I set. “Yeah!” he said. “Preacher got it goin’ on.”
My name is Sterling Samson, but everyone calls me Preacher. I intend to become a science teacher, not a preacher, but I don’t mind being called one. Just so long as you don’t call me Samson. I’m hoping to end up in a little better shape than he did.
I turned to the brother behind me and eased into a smile. “I play a real guitar at church every Sunday. You ought to come by and check me out sometime.” Judging by the way the brother cut his eyes at me, his appearance on the steps of First Baptist Church seemed highly unlikely. Still, you never know.
I went back to my invisible string playing to keep my fingers limber for later. I had promised to hold the bass line for some of the brothers reading at this week’s Open Mike. Mr. Ward was kind enough to lock my guitar up in his office in the morning so I wouldn’t have to worry about it walking away before then.
Assuming I made it to his class without any trouble.
A brother named Leon “accidentally” bumped into me as I approached the cashier. He spilled, or should I say poured, a cupful of honey on my shoes. My new shoes.
“Oops! Looks like Mr. Goody Two-shoes got a mess to clean up,” he said, laughing. His buddies joined in.
I stared down at my shoes, counting. One. Two. Three. Four. By the time I reached ten, I realized counting was not going to suffice.
I need you, Lord. Hold back the Samson in me. I may not have his strength, but you know I have his temper.
I counted backward from ten, felt my breath slowly evening out. A still, small voice reminded me to return good for evil, reminded me that my plans for the future do not include fisticuffs or expulsion. I am college-bound and nothing is going to keep me from it. Besides, these poor fools are only trying to get a rise out of me. They’re only trying to prove that the peace of God is nonexistent. But how can they?
I looked up at Leon and shook my head. Then I grabbed him by the shoulders, kissed him loudly on both cheeks, and gave him a bear hug.
“Get off me, man!” he said, trying to pull away.
When I finally let him go, I whispered, “Leon, I forgive you.” Fear blotted out the pupils in his eyes.
“Man,” he yelled, “you some kind of freak!”
I smiled, strummed my imaginary guitar, and sang, “I’ll be a fool for Christ, not just once, but twice.” Leon and his friends backed away as if I’d set a match to them. They put as much distance between us as possible.
“You sick, man,” Leon called over his shoulder. “Stay away from me!”
It’s always something with these guys. Either they’re trying to draw me into an infantile game of The Dozens so we can trade insults left and right, or they’re slapping porno pictures inside my locker hoping to set me off. If they had some direction in their lives like Raul, Devon, or Raynard, they wouldn’t have time to worry about me one way or the other. Which is precisely why I want to teach, to give young brothers like Leon some direction. Even Wesley has direction, although the brother could clean up his language. Sometimes he sounds like a thug in training. Leon’s not much better.
If only Leon and his friends knew how lame their antics are. As if any of that could stop me from believing in God.
All my life, I’ve seen my mother pray, and all my life, I’ve seen her prayers answered. There was the time my baby brother was dying of pneumonia and the doctors had given up, but she prayed until the fever broke. There was the time she was laid off from her job, and the refrigerator was empty, and she bowed her head over an empty pot and prayed for God to fill it. That night, a woman upstairs begged her to accept a bag of frozen meats and vegetables, because she was moving the next day, and she hated to see good food go to waste. We had steaks that night, and we never have steaks. There were lots of times like that. “See there,” Mom would say. “That’s God’s han
d. If you have God’s hand on your life, everything will be all right.” So of course I believe. And I believe big. I’m believing God’s going to get me and my three brothers into manhood, into college, and off of these streets—with no more than maybe a couple of black eyes between us. How’s that for believing?
The change bell rang and I was still cleaning off my shoes. I could’ve used a few extra minutes to work on my own poem. It took me a while to get into this whole poetry thing, not that I don’t like it. I read God’s Trombones by James Weldon Johnson, and some of the work by Countee Cullen, like “Simon the Cyrenian Speaks,” and I liked what the brothers had to say, but their styles don’t suit me. Then Mr. Ward turned me onto Rev. Pedro Pietri, who is more my speed, even if he is kind of old. He knows how to put God and the street in the same sentence, and I figured if I’m going to write poetry at all, that’s what I want to do. So I put together a few. I couldn’t tell if they were any good, but I decided to read one anyway. If I get a laugh, it won’t be the first time.
The bell rang one last time. I took a few bites of my sandwich, wrapped up the rest, and tossed it in my book case for later. I told my growling stomach to be quiet and headed to Mr. Ward’s office for my guitar.
OPEN MIKE
D-Train
BY STERLING S. HUGHES
He squeezed through the subway doors
a young gun, thirsty for the kind of coke
you can’t sip through a straw.
He sized up the passengers,
chose his prey:
a wrinkled woman at the tail end
of her Geritol years
who fears her own shadow
with good reason.
He lunged at her,
demanded her cash
to replenish his stash
of powdered death.
No one blinked or came
to her aid, at first.
Then, in He beamed.
Light streamed from His fingers,
singed anyone caught without
a robe of righteousness
across his back.
The lack of goodness
in the young gun’s heart
was oxygen to the fire, and so
he burned a good long while
before I woke.
The dream stoked my faith
in the judgment and justice
that will come someday
or this afternoon.
Soon. I turn up the collar
of my white robe,
relieved to know
God’s got me covered
’cause I’m good,
but not that good.
Tyrone
The brotha took me to a whole other place. I’m not sure I got all of it, but I got that he don’t call himself no angel. ’Course, if Mr. Goody Two-shoes ain’t no angel, what does that make me? Never mind.
He sure worked that rhythm. I know that much. He snuck a little rhyme in there too. I like that. Go on, Preacher! Look like God got hisself a poet!
Diondra
I spent way too long yakking with Tanisha over lunch. She couldn’t stop talking about Pedro Pietri, the poet Mr. Ward had invited to visit our class. He was coming in a couple of weeks and Tanisha said he was gonna rock the house. He was the only poet Mr. Ward had us read who we were actually going to meet, which was pretty cool. Tanisha could hardly wait to check him out. I had other things on my mind, though, so I was glad Tyrone came over and broke up the conversation. He started hitting on Tanisha, as usual. I whispered, “Sorry,” and took off.
Ten more minutes and Mr. Ward will be in here. I flip my sketchbook open to a fresh page, clip my father’s photo to the corner, and get busy. A few strokes of my pencil and the oval of his face is done. Then I start with his chin, I don’t know why. Maybe because the hardness is there and I want to get it out of the way, hurry on to the softer parts of his face. The parts that show love. I’ve never done a portrait from the bottom to the top before, but why not? As long as it looks like my father when I’m done.
The first bell rings. I lift my head and there’s Sterling, staring over my shoulder.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” I lean back so he can get a better look. “I just started this one,” I tell him. Other kids file in, so I gather up my charcoal pencils.
Raul swirls his brushes in a jar of water and finishes straightening up Mr. Ward’s desk. I catch his eye and we smile at each other. He’s part of the reason I don’t mind people looking at my drawings anymore. I guess I should give Tanisha some credit too. It was her bright idea to have me do those book report covers.
The day we got our reports back, Mr. Ward held mine up so everyone could see the cover. I tried evaporating on the spot, I swear. The last thing I wanted was extra attention. Too late! When class was over, I ran out of the room before anyone had a chance to laugh in my face, but Raul caught me in the hall and snatched the report from me quicker than a subway door slamming shut. He said he wanted to get a better look at it. I bit my tongue and stared at the floor.
“This is good!” he said. “Especially the eyes. They look right through you. You gotta show me how you do the eyes.”
My jaw dropped. “You think they’re that good?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Raul didn’t wait for an answer. He handed me back the report, shaking his head. “Wish I could do eyes like that. Anyway, see you later.”
I looked down at my book cover as if I was seeing it for the first time. Raul was right. The drawing was good. The eyes did look right through you. Maybe I should try working on the rest of the face, I thought. I could do studies of mouths and noses and chins. I could try different kinds of faces, different shapes. I could get Mom to model for me. Or Tanisha. Or I could use pictures. We only have a bazillion photo albums around my house. Maybe I could bring one of them to school with me. Or I could just borrow a few of the pictures and then put them back later. Maybe ...
I had a hard time concentrating on my classes that afternoon.
The next day, I wolfed down my lunch and half ran to Mr. Ward’s room with a sketch pad and charcoal pencils. By the time Raul arrived, I was already at work. Nowadays I’m in here two, three times a week. I’d come more often, but I gotta make time for my friends.
I shade in my father’s jawline just as Mr. Ward enters the room, then put my pencil down and look up in case he tries to catch my eye.
“Mr. Ramirez,” says Mr. Ward, “may I have my desk, please?” Raul bows deep, like some actor in an old-time movie, then struts to his seat. He passes me on the way, leans down, eyes my rough sketch, and whispers, “Let me know when you get to the eyes.”
My smile is so wide, my cheeks hurt.
OPEN MIKE
High Dive
BY DIONDRA JORDAN
A trip to the city pool
ain’t what it used to be.
I left the kiddy pool behind
many moons ago.
I know how to float
how to dog paddle
how to hold my breath
between breaststrokes.
I know the stench and sting
of chlorine.
It’s no big thing.
But this,
scaling the ladder
for the high dive
drives me to distraction.
What if
I forget to swim?
What if
there’s no water in the pool?
But wait.
Is it really water
I’m after?
I reach the top,
pad to the edge of the board,
and peek.
There it is,
swirls of blue, purple,
and periwinkle watercolor.
The perfect palette.
I take a deep breath,
dip the tip of my brush
into sky,
take one long leap
and...
To be continued.
Tyro
ne
I’ve been thinking we should plan on having a poetry slam next year. I ran the idea past Diondra. She’s one of the shyest sistas in our class. At least, she was when school got started. Anyway, I figure if she’s into the idea, everybody else should be down with it.
Next thing I need to do is pitch it to Mr. Ward, see if he can get the principal to go for it. Man, I would love to get in some guys from Bronx Science, or one of them other special schools, and turn them into toast at a poetry slam. There’s no way they’d beat us. They wouldn’t even know what hit ’em!
Amy Moscowitz
Amy. The name is petite, like me. It’s also soft. I’m not. Just ask Tyrone. Or Diondra. Or Sterling. Better yet, ask my father. He thinks I’m so tough, I don’t need anybody. Not even him. He didn’t always treat me that way. He used to handle me more like china. But then Mom left to start another family—without us. After the divorce, Dad decided we both needed to toughen up, that we needed to learn to stand on our own. I thought he meant together.
Two years ago I got sick at school and he was called in to take me to the hospital. Apparently I had appendicitis. I was doubled over with pain, tears streaming down my face, and he wouldn’t even put his arm around me. He just walked beside me, stiff as a two-by-four, asking “Are you okay?” every couple of minutes. Jerk.
Would it have killed him to touch me? To help me up the hospital stairs? Never mind. I won’t bother needing anyone like that again.
Too bad my father’s not more like Mr. Ward. His daughter goes to this school, and I saw the two of them in the cafeteria the other day. I hear they have lunch together three times a week. Anyhow, there they were in the lunch line, him with his arm draped over her shoulder, the two of them blabbing away like old buddies. She was bent over a little, from the weight of her backpack I guess, and when he noticed, he slipped it off and carried it for her. She smiled up at him and gave his waist a squeeze, and I felt my stomach turn.
For about a minute, I hated that girl.
Sterling says jealousy is a waste of energy, that I should focus on what I have, not what I don’t. That’s what I get for opening my big mouth and telling him how I feel. But he’s so easy to talk to, sometimes I let things slip before I even realize my mouth is open. Anyway, he’s too busy trying to save my Jewish soul to think about betraying my secrets. He knows I’d never forgive him, and then where would he be? He could pretty much forget about preaching love and forgiveness around me after that. Not that all his preaching will get him anywhere, seeing as I’m an atheist. Still, his trying doesn’t bother me, he’s so up front about it.