by Nikki Grimes
My social worker says I was just two years old when my mom brought me to the hospital with a fever. She turned me over to the doctor, and said she was just going to fill out the papers at the nurses’ station. Only she never made it there. She’d told the doctor her name was Wilhelmina Whyte, and after she disappeared, the police tried to find anybody with that name. But maybe she just made it up. Whatever her name was, she was gone.
They say she was pretty young, probably a teen mom with no clue how to raise a baby. That’s what I’m thinking. That’s what I want to think, ’cause I could maybe forgive her for that. Anyway, apparently she never mentioned my father, so there was no chance he was going to show up at the hospital to claim me.
My social worker said after a few days, the hospital turned me over to social services. That’s when I began to experience the joys of foster care. Yeah.
The first homes were fine, as far as I remember. I had my own bed, regular meals, and a few toys of my own. In one home, there was a dog who felt like my own because he always liked to sleep at the foot of my bed. He was a German shepherd puppy named Lucky. Maybe I liked him because he was small, like me.
Yeah. There were a few nice homes, but I never got to stay in them for more than a year or two. Sometimes it was because the family was moving out of the county. Sometimes they started having children of their own and couldn’t handle any extras. Sometimes I didn’t get along with their children—whatever. There’s always a reason. All I know is that a phone call will come one day, and the next I’ll be packing my plastic bag for the move to the next house of strangers.
In the beginning, my social worker thought I’d be one of the lucky children who get adopted. Hah! White families weren’t in the market for a kid with brown skin, and Black families weren’t too crazy about having a brown baby with blond hair and blue eyes. Both said I’d never fit in with the rest of their family. Not much I could do about that, now, was there? I swear, if I couldn’t disappear inside of books, I’d have lost my mind by now. Narnia was enough to do it, back when I was a kid. I’d climb inside that wardrobe every night, and I’d take off running. Later, I just wanted books about girls, the stronger the better. Their stories reminded me that I was one of them, that I’d make it in whatever foster home I was sent to.
As I grew older, it was harder to find homes at all. People didn’t want a kid who was old enough to talk back, never mind one who’d be quick to report them if they decided to smack her around. And nobody seemed to want a kid who was—what was the word they used? Sullen! Yeah. That was it. Tell me, what kid wouldn’t be sullen after years of being dragged from one foster home to another?
Anyway, I survived. That’s something, right? Now here I am in home Lucky Number Thirteen, wondering how long this one will last. I hope I can make this work for four more semesters. Eleventh grade, twelfth grade, and then I graduate. A month later, I’ll turn eighteen, and I’m out after that, anyway.
The hardest thing about my life? Knowing almost nothing about the people I come from. Not knowing if I ever will.
I walk down the street or wander the aisles of the supermarket sometimes, staring at strangers, hoping to catch a glimpse of somebody with my eyes, my nose, the shape of my mouth, even. There’s got to be someone in the world I look like, right? Someone I take after.
Or maybe that kid Tyrone was right when he tried to hit on me, saying I was the first of my kind, like Eve back in the Garden. Yeah. Right!
Quit it, Jenesis! This thinking gets you nowhere fast. Homework. What did I do with my homework assignment? Oh, here it is.
Mr. Ward says we should try to write a poem, see where it takes us. Says we should look inside, find what is true, and tell it in a poem, maybe read it for Open Mike. Is he crazy? I’ll write something to read for class, but he can forget all about that “truth” stuff. For now, I’ll give them a made-up story so maybe they’ll leave me alone and go study somebody else who doesn’t fit their mold.
Blue Eyes Squared
by Jenesis Whyte
I see you staring at me.
You be boring a hole in my soul
as if the alchemy
of your curiosity
could somehow turn
these blue eyes brown,
but you might as well forget it.
You frown at my blond curls,
even though girls with hair
the color of sun
the color of spun gold
are supposed to have more fun.
At least, that’s the story
they try to sell me on TV.
Yeah, I’m different, but
don’t call me freak
or assume I’m the only one.
There are bound to be
other brown beauties
with pale blue eyes
eerily like mine,
wearing smiles crooked
in exactly the same way,
noses that scream
matched set.
Are there more like me?
Yeah, you bet.
When I find them,
I’ll fit in without question,
never mind that
the world thinks
I’m odd as H-E—
well, you get it.
DARRIAN
I’m not buying that there are people wandering around who look just like Jenesis.
Big as this city is, I’ve never even seen one other Black person with blue eyes, let alone natural blond hair.
BLACK GIRL TELLS TALL TALE
Seriously! I’m not going to be the one to call her on it. But once I get to know Jenesis, I’ll definitely be asking her what that’s all about, and why she’s not happy being special.
MARCEL DIXON
My middle name is Dunbar. Marcel Dunbar Dixon. I know. It’s a lot of name to walk around with. I work out every day just to stay strong enough to carry the weight.
Marcel was my grandma’s idea. She got it from some old French guy named Marcel Marceau. You could probably look him up online, since he used to be famous. He did this thing called “mime.” He could, like, use his body to create the illusion of something that wasn’t even there. I’m telling you, he could pretend he was in a box and then fight his way to get out, and you’d totally believe it. Or he’d act like he was in a tug-of-war with somebody, and you’d see him pull an imaginary rope. And his face would be all scrunched up like he was straining hard, tugging on that rope, hand over hand. Then, the invisible person on the other end would jerk the line, and Marcel would get dragged a few feet in that direction, and you could see the strain in his muscles and everything. It was wild. And it would go on like that, back and forth, back and forth, until Marcel finally let the rope go. It was imaginary and it was real all at the same time.
Grandma said Marcel had some kind of magic in him, ’cause he could make you see things that weren’t even there. She figured I could use a little magic. Turns out I wasn’t the one who needed it. She should’ve given that name to my dad. Maybe if he’d had a little magic, he could’ve skipped being dragged off to prison.
My middle name, Dunbar, was strictly from my mom. She used to be a big reader—at least that’s what she tells me. I don’t see her reading much these days. Not like she’s got time between her two jobs. But she used to have time. Before. And she read a lot of stuff, novels mostly, but poetry, too, especially from the Harlem Renaissance. Now, most people pick Langston Hughes as their favorite poet from back then, or maybe Countee Cullen. Not Moms. Her favorite was Paul Laurence Dunbar.
Moms won’t admit it, but I’m pretty sure she was banking on me being a writer when she picked Dunbar for my middle name. She keeps saying she wants me to be whatever I want to in life, but I saw her face the first time I gave her a poem for her birthday. She read the poem out loud, just before she cut her birthday cake, and I sw
ear her eyes burned brighter than all those lit candles combined.
I keep Dunbar to myself, like most folks do with their middle names. He’s the poet in me, the man with the rhymes. And rhyme is my sanity, my secret weapon. Or it was, until Moms ratted me out to the principal.
I got in a fight last week. No big deal, but I wouldn’t talk about it. The principal asked me what happened and I wouldn’t say. Meanwhile, the butt-head I laid into said I started it. Which wasn’t true, but why should I say anything? What was the point? It was gonna be my fault no matter what, right? ’Cause I was the “troubled kid.” Yeah. Folks love their labels. So I just sat there in her office all afternoon, saying a whole lot of nothing. At the end of the day, she just shook her head and sent me home.
That night, she called the house, and I heard her and Moms jabberin’ about second chances, and how important it is for me to learn to express myself, to channel my anger, blah, blah, blah. And next thing I knew, Moms was telling her, “Well, I know he writes poetry sometimes.”
That was last week.
Now I’m in Mr. Ward’s class. The principal hopes it’ll do me some good, keep me from slipping through the cracks. Whatever.
I’ll sit here, but I’m still not talkin’, not till I’m good and ready.
For now, any poetry I write is strictly for me.
Troubled
by Marcel Dixon
What is it
with people and their labels,
as if the way they mark me
makes them able
to understand who I am
or why?
“Troubled kid”
tells you exactly nothing
about the trouble
my pops has seen
or Moms
or me.
We stare from windows
caged in iron,
in state prisons
or rented rooms,
which are only better
by degree.
We are forced
to survive outside
the neatly mowed landscapes
of your imagination.
Our stop on the train station
is worlds away
from your manicured lawns
and lives
and the lies you tell
about the days
of racial discrimination
being in the past.
Quit asking
why I’m angry
or I’ll tell you.
Then, you’ll have to
change your ways,
only you don’t want to
’cause this system
works for you just fine
the way it is.
But since you asked,
here’s one thing
that makes me mad:
Poverty,
and a mother too busy
to keep an eye on her kids
’cause she’s working
two jobs
to keep us fed.
That’s reason enough,
ain’t it?
There are more, of course,
but don’t force me
to spell it out now,
’cause I’m a troubled kid
and I am not
in the mood.
DARRIAN
This brother is nobody to mess with. I saw him light into a kid last week, and I wouldn’t want six feet of muscle coming down on top of me like that. Good thing the principal was able to break it up.
Marcel may not be fighting now, but I don’t think it would take much. He’s hanging off his seat like he’s about to take off any minute, or wants to. Every now and then, he balls his fist like he’s practicing for a dustup. Like he’s ready to jump in the ring and take his bad day out on anyone stupid enough to get in there with him.
RAGE ON PARADE
Seriously. Mr. Ward is the coolest teacher I know, but Marcel is staring him down so hard, flashing him so much anger, I’m surprised Mr. Ward hasn’t gone up in flames.
What is his story?
They say his dad was in prison. Is he thinking about heading in the same direction or what? Do I even want to know?
LI
Darrian. I like the name because it’s different. It’s a mystery. It doesn’t tell you what he is, or who. I’ve heard him speak Spanish, but there’s nothing Spanish about his first name.
Darrian and Li. I write the names together in my mind, but not on paper. The thought of anyone seeing it makes my cheeks burn.
“Li! Did you hear me?” My friend Jingyi snaps me back to attention. Her name might mean “quiet,” but she is actually quite loud!
I look around the lunch table and find three pairs of eyes staring back at me. Maylin, Hanna, and Jingyi, whom we all call Jing. We’ve known each other since first grade.
I pick up my chopsticks, bend over my lunch, and pick up a sticky rice roll. I chew slowly while the girls talk about boys and college. Boys mostly.
Suddenly, a silence falls over the table and I look up to find out why. Darrian slips into the empty seat next to me, and I almost choke.
“Hello!” says Darrian.
I fight to keep my chopsticks from shaking.
“Hello.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” he says to everyone, then turns to me. “I just wanted to tell you how much I liked your poem the other day.”
“Oh.” He’s probably just saying that to be kind.
“‘China whispers through their blood,’” he quotes. “I love that line.”
So, he did pay attention!
“Thank you!” I say, my cheeks starting to get warm.
“There was one thing I didn’t understand, though. I was born here, but both my parents speak to me in Spanish, and they expect me to speak Spanish, too. So why didn’t you learn Chinese?”
He really did pay attention to my poem! “Mandarin,” I say, correcting him. “My parents did not encourage it. They wanted my brother and me to be American in every way, and to them, that meant speaking only English.”
It feels funny talking to a stranger about all of this. Why did he come over here, anyway?
“Oh. That makes sense,” says Darrian. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you how much I liked your poem, and I’m looking forward to the next time you share on Open Mike Friday. See you in class,” he says, then slips away as quietly as he arrived.
I suddenly realize that the whole table has been silent all this time.
“Who was that?”
“He’s kind of cute!”
“And new! Where did your new boyfriend come from?”
“Would your parents mind that you’re dating a boy who’s not Chinese?”
“You guys! One question at a time!” I say. “First, I’m not seeing him.”
“Uh-huh,” says Hanna.
“Second, he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Sure,” says Maylin.
“Third, if he was, my parents wouldn’t mind. My brother has already brought home girls who weren’t Chinese, so it’s no big deal.”
“If you say so,” adds Jing.
I don’t need a mirror to know that my cheeks are red as pomegranates.
I bend over what’s left of my meal to hide my face. I’m a little embarrassed, but mostly excited because the impossible happened: Darrian noticed my poem. Maybe, just maybe, next time he’ll notice me.
Journey
by Li Cheng
We throw words on the wind—
poems, stories.
We hope they rise
like bubbles,
then hitch a ride
on a cool cloud
or cold current
and return to earth as
&nb
sp; nourishing raindrops
or fragile snowflakes.
But where will they fall?
Atop Mount Fuji?
Over the Brooklyn Bridge?
And who, if anyone,
will catch them?
It’s a kind of miracle
when they land
on the palm of someone
familiar.
DARRIAN
Li closes her eyes when she performs her poems. I like that. It makes me want to crawl into her poems, see what she sees behind her eyes. I get what she’s talking about here. Connection. It’s what we all want, right? No matter what language we speak.
Entiendo, Li, I whisper.
I hear you.
VALENTINA ALVAREZ
“‘Val.’ What is that?” my father asks me for the hundredth time. “I named you Valentina. It’s a good, strong name, mija. Why won’t you use it?”
My father doesn’t understand. Val is more American. That’s what we are, and I want to fit in like someone named Valentina never would. Like my father never will. He still calls himself Ignacio. Does that sound American to you? It’s an old argument, only I don’t argue anymore. I just tell my friends to call me Val. That’s it.
Don’t get me wrong. My father is as proud to be an American as I am. Sometimes I wonder how he can be, though, the way so many people put down immigrants. I hate the way a lot of them look down on him sometimes, talking to him in slow, clipped sentences as if he’s stupid just because his English is a little rough. They can only speak one language, while my father speaks two, so who’s the one that’s lacking? Dad forbids me to call such people stupid, but if the shoe fits . . .
When you’re an immigrant, you work at whatever job you can get. Dad mops floors and cleans toilets at Stitt Junior High School. But back home, he was un profesor. So was my mother. Some of their friends who emigrated at the same time were doctors, psychologists, librarians, interior decorators, business owners. Now, like my dad, most of them are custodians, street sweepers, or, if they’re lucky, driving gypsy cabs in neighborhoods where everybody speaks Spanish.
