Ordinary Hazards

by Nikki Grimmes

  Notebook

  I woke screaming again last night. I wish it was because of some stupid nightmare. It’s worse. The possibility of ending up like Mom, of having that sickness in me—it’s too much.

  God, please don’t let insanity be

  my inheritance.

  SOLVED

  No one at junior high

  ever bothered me again.

  I was safe, but terrified

  of my own power.

  Sometimes I’d look at my hands

  like they were the craggy claws

  of some monster

  terrorizing a small town

  in a horror movie,

  and I’d shiver.

  Pent-up anger

  proved a dangerous thing,

  and I could no longer allow it.

  From that day forward,

  if someone or something bothered me,

  I voiced it on the spot.

  No more messing around

  with emotional dynamite.

  Not for me.

  JUNE 1964

  Joy is in short supply.

  God, don’t you see?

  Past, present,

  darkness everywhere,

  sinking its gnarled roots

  deeper into the world:

  Mom’s mind,

  Clark’s heart,

  the white-hooded devils

  setting the South on fire,

  turning black men

  into torches.

  Freedom Summer exposes

  this twisted sister

  called America.

  I press down my own pain,

  cry instead for Chaney,

  Goodman, Schwerner,

  only they can’t hear me

  or anyone

  anymore.

  COUNTEE CULLEN

  Everyone has a nexus,

  that place on the map

  of your life where

  who you were born to be

  is clearly marked.

  For me, that was

  104 W. 136th Street—

  the Countee Cullen Library

  in Harlem.

  I was thirteen

  the year my father

  signed me up

  for my first reading,

  a gathering of young poets,

  though, as it turned out,

  none was as young as me.

  I was excited,

  leading up to the day.

  That all went away,

  however,

  the moment

  my name was called.

  I’m still not sure

  how I stood.

  My ashy legs,

  thin as toothpicks,

  were an earthquake

  of movement,

  and the fingers

  that held my notebook

  trembled like

  an aftershock.

  I stared at my hand

  as if it didn’t

  belong to me,

  then looked to my father

  for deliverance,

  this being

  his bright idea.

  “I can’t do this,”

  I whispered.

  But my father

  spoke away my fear

  with a powerful incantation:

  “You’ll do marvelously.

  Just keep your eyes on me.”

  And, like magic,

  my breathing slowed,

  and I rose

  to the occasion,

  reading my poem

  in a clear voice,

  my father’s faith

  and loving gaze

  holding me steady

  as promised.

  GRADUATION

  Daddy’s uniform of choice

  was black beret, sports coat,

  white shirt, dark slacks

  and baby-soft leather loafers.

  By my count,

  only one other time

  had I seen my father

  in suit and tie,

  and that was in

  his wedding photo.

  This let me know

  my graduation

  from Stitt Junior High

  was important.

  When my name was called

  for special recognition

  I looked toward my teacher

  for explanation.

  “Go on,” she whispered.

  I inched my way to the stage,

  swallowing hard with every step.

  The principal handed me

  a copper medal

  engraved with

  an old-fashioned feather pen

  sticking out of an inkwell,

  her way of telling me

  to keep on writing.

  It was the first time

  I truly believed

  it was possible to burst

  from happiness.

  Notebook

  At the library on a Saturday, which is fine, but I’m supposed to be on my way to the planetarium with Daddy. Another no-show. Some excuse about a rehearsal that slipped his mind. He’s probably somewhere gambling. Whatever.

  Last weekend, I got to see Carol. We were both visiting Daddy at the same time. She seems to be doing okay. She just moved into a bigger apartment. Now that she’s eighteen and officially a grown-up, she finally gets paid out in the open, and got the raise she asked for.

  I told Sis about Convent, this church I’ve started going to. I met a girl there named Debra. She’s a junior usher and I’m in the junior choir. Something tells me we’re going to be good friends.

  CONVENT AVENUE BAPTIST CHURCH

  Black churches

  always have names

  wide as broad-brimmed hats,

  I don’t know why.

  I liked that Convent

  was relatively short.

  My mother rarely attended.

  Back then she was busy

  studying the Torah

  with her friends Scott and Ruby,

  the only black Jews I knew.

  I went to bar mitzvahs and bat mitzvahs,

  and knew “Hava Nagila” by heart.

  And don’t get me started on

  the wonders of potato latkes, lox,

  and pickled herring!

  I didn’t pick up any Hebrew

  or understand much

  about being Jewish,

  but frankly, any religion

  that kept my mother

  on the straight and narrow

  was fine by me.

  Convent reminded me warmly

  of the Buchanans

  and the church in Ossining

  they took me to.

  Once again, I found my place

  in the choir.

  Singing hymns brought me

  close to God when he

  seemed absent from

  my everyday.

  And through

  my new friend Debra,

  church brought me the family

  I was missing.

  For that alone,

  it became easy for me to say,

  “Hallelujah!”

  A BREEZE

  1.

  Except for math,

  high school started out a breeze.

  In ninth grade, I came home excited,

  though as a teenager, it was necessary

  to feign nonchalance.

  My English teacher, Mrs. Volcheck,

  had marked my latest story A+

  calling it “the best
thing she’d read

  in a long time.”

  As soon as Mom got in from work,

  I planned to share the news,

  forgetting for a moment

  who my mother was.

  The A+ barely garnered a grunt.

  As for any interest in reading my story…

  “You know,” she said, eyes firmly fixed

  on the six o’clock news,

  “Writers are a dime a dozen.”

  And just like that—bam!—

  she slammed my heart

  in the door of her words.

  When will I ever learn?

  2.

  I refused to let my mother

  see me fight back tears.

  She didn’t deserve to hurt me

  and know it.

  “I’m going to Deb’s,” I said,

  and slipped out the door

  before she could object.

  I half-ran the few streets

  between my building and hers,

  then climbed the three flights

  to Deb’s apartment,

  cursing with every step.

  It was Debra’s mother, Willie Mae,

  who answered my knock at the door,

  Bop, Debra’s tailless Manx cat

  not far behind.

  “Hi, honey,” said Debra’s mom.

  “Hello, Mrs. Jackson.

  Is Debra here?”

  She cocked her head,

  listened to more than my words.

  “No, sweetie, but you come on in.”

  When I hesitated, she grabbed my hand.

  “What’s the matter, sugar?

  Come sit down and tell me.” So I did.

  To her credit, she never once

  bad-mouthed my mother.

  “Well,” she said,

  “not all moms are the same.”

  Bop meowed in agreement,

  and rubbed up against my leg, purring

  before padding from the room.

  Willie Mae fell silent for a moment,

  then looked deep into my eyes.

  “You are a very talented young lady.

  Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

  Which, of course, was what I needed—

  that and the blanket of love

  Willie Mae wrapped around me

  with her hugs.

  REDIRECTED

  There was always a two-ness

  about my mother,

  some shadow of a twin,

  an alternate persona,

  one forever at arm’s length,

  the other not.

  At times,

  there was a flicker

  of light in her,

  a flame burning

  bright enough

  for me to feel the heat.

  The flame would rise when

  neighbors or co-workers

  were in need.

  She’d prepare

  a hearty soup for them

  from scratch

  or bake a batch of cookies

  to lift their spirits.

  For such kindnesses,

  that mother was beloved

  by untold unfamiliar people

  beyond our door.

  On them, she lavished

  the attention

  I had once

  been hungry for.

  Oddly,

  her redirected affections

  made a certain kind of

  sense to me.

  Apparently,

  my sister and I had made

  the colossal mistake

  of not being

  strangers.

  Notebook

  Not much laughter these days.

  I’m home alone; Mom’s back in Bellevue.

  Damn it to hell! Sorry, Lord, but

  it’s ridiculous! She’d be fine—

  if she just kept taking her pills,

  if she just stopped DRINKING.

  Two things! That’s all she has to remember.

  Why can’t she do that?

  Why?

  And once the doctors let her go,

  she’ll want to start over again, you know,

  move to some new where—

  I’m not sure when.

  Give me a hint, Lord.

  IS THERE GOING TO BE AN END?

  THE SOLID ROCK

  Desperation drove me from bed some Sundays,

  Through this world of toil and snares

  hungry for the hymns that rocked me like a baby.

  If I falter, Lord, who cares?

  Off to Convent I went on a scavenger hunt for hope,

  Who with me my burden shares?

  and each week, I left with a sliver of it in my pocket,

  None but thee, dear Lord, none but thee.

  enough to brave the darkness at home, once again.

  LET AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT?

  The holidays barely over,

  February was bloody

  with bombings in Vietnam,

  which should have provided

  more than enough hemoglobin

  for anyone keeping record.

  Yet, just yesterday,

  El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz

  slammed into eternity

  when shots rang out

  in the Audubon Ballroom,

  a whistle away from

  my sister’s apartment.

  Winter weather

  isn’t the only thing

  keeping me

  numb with cold.

  I keep waiting for the world

  to wake up wiser,

  to choose life

  over the grave.

  MATH MADNESS

  Algebra should be

  ranked under

  fatal diseases.

  One more equation,

  and I’ll die.

  TERRA FIRMA

  The poem I wrote

  for earth science

  was a good idea, I thought:

  Silently,

  in the hush of morning,

  in the busy hum of day,

  in the belly of night,

  rocks, greedy for touch,

  rub together beneath the soil,

  shifting side to side,

  waking the ground above.

  Backyards ripple,

  hills rumba and roll,

  trees bend, break,

  skyscrapers shimmy, shake,

  riverbeds sway,

  spilling waters every which way,

  and roads split as if

  pinking shears had snipped

  the fabric of the earth

  and ripped the rocks

  that started it all.

  After the shudder, a sigh,

  and the ground grows still again,

  pretending to be terra firma.

  Until the next time.

  Now who wouldn’t want

  a poem like that?

  My science teacher, apparently.

  “I’ll need a proper report

  on seismic activity tomorrow,

  Miss Grimes,” he told me.

  I didn’t say what I was thinking.

  Profanity is frowned upon

  in school.

  Notebook

  Last night, Daddy’s chamber group performed at Carnegie Hall, in a small room they rented. Carol was there too, right next to me.

  We’d never seen Daddy dressed up in a tux, or seen him half as nervous. When he crossed the stage, clutching his violin, I could practical
ly feel him shaking. It made me think of that time at Countee Cullen Library, when I was the one doing the trembling. Now, it was my turn to give him courage, to hold him steady with a look of love.

  SMALLS PARADISE

  Summer brought a little piece

  of nightclub heaven,

  fine dining in a space

  once sharing the same

  rarefied air as the Cotton Club:

  Smalls Paradise, the first hot spot

  owned and operated by a black man—

  a flashy footnote in the annals of jazz

  I knew nothing of on the day when

  my father and I crossed its threshold.

  For me, it was the dimly lit musical shrine

  I had begged Daddy to take me to so I could

  sit at a dinner table that nearly kissed

  the stage, and witness my sister shine

  in her silk-gowned glory, singing

  “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen,”

  and bringing down the house.

  Notebook

  I went to my first art exhibit! It was by black painters my dad knew from reading The Liberator, like Tom Feelings and Leo Carty.

  I’ve never seen anything like it, all those drawings and paintings of people tan and yellow and black as me, and every one of them, some kind of beautiful. I just kept staring and feeling—good, I guess. Daddy told me who each painting was by, but he mostly just watched me and smiled.

  I think Tom Feelings was my favorite.

  Black so beautiful,

  beaming from

  white paper,

  white canvas,

  paint gone wild

  with color.

  Who knew

  we could glow

  even

  in the dark?

  THE COPA

  Going to the Copacabana

  was never on my list of things to do.

  I was too young

  to understand the appeal.

  But my father, sporting shirt and tie

  for the occasion,

  escorted me there

  for a celebration

  of the one and only

  Lorraine Hansberry.

  I’d never seen A Raisin in the Sun,

  and couldn’t tell you

  if the cast was present,

  but I clearly recall hearing

  the voice of Paul Robeson,

  an actor and singer

  I’d seen on TV and read about

  in Ebony.

  Riding up the elevator

  on the way to the festivities,