by Nikki Grimes
Immigrants don’t have a lot of choices. You don’t know the language, and all your credentials come from somewhere else. None of this makes you stupid, though, unless you want to say that a person was stupid for coming to America to begin with. But try telling that to folks who look down their noses at every immigrant they see, or think they see. Most of them can’t tell the difference between an immigrant and a native Latino anyway. Your skin is olive and your hair is black? You’re an immigrant, as far as they’re concerned. Now, that’s stupid!
Sometimes I wish our family was as fair as most people from Argentina. It would have been easier to fit in if we were fair. But it’s not as if you get to pick the color of your skin. Besides, being fair doesn’t help you much if your English isn’t good.
Last night, I told Papa for at least the millionth time he should take some courses, work on his English so he can get a better job, but he said he’s too old.
“But, Papa,” I said, “when people see you cleaning floors, they think you’re not smart, and you’re the smartest man I know!”
“Don’t bother about what people say, mija,” he told me. “Let them talk. They only prove their ignorance.”
I know my father’s right. I also know that words have teeth. Sometimes I get tired of the bite marks.
“Papa, cleaning toilets—you are so much better than that.”
This made him angry. “Nobody is too good to clean toilets, mija! It is honest work! I’m glad to have it.”
“But, Papa—”
“Enough! I know who I am. That’s what’s important—not proving something to some strangers I don’t even care about, ¿entiende? I know who I am. Now, what I want for you, Valentina, is that you go to school, work hard, and decide who you are, who you want to be—for yourself. Not for anyone else, mija. Not for anyone else.”
I knew enough to drop the subject after that, for now, anyway. I gave my father a hug so he would know I love him, even though we don’t agree. He hugged me back and sent me to my room to do my homework.
I mentioned that we were studying poetry in school, and my parents gave me some of their old poetry collections to read. I began devouring my father’s favorite, a volume by Pablo Neruda. I read for an hour, then began playing with a poem of my own. When I was finished, I signed it Val Alvarez.
What You Don’t Know
by Val Alvarez
Mi padre, Ignacio,
is a book you haven’t read.
It’s filled with poetry
that can curl its fingers
around your corazón
and squeeze out joy.
Pero you’ve never
cracked the cover.
You scribble crítica
that questions
the measure of the man,
but you’ve never
peeled back the pages
of his biografía.
You toss el libro
onto the trash heap
marked “Immigrant”
y ustedes dicen it has no value.
But, of course,
you are categorically incorrecto,
which you would know
if only you could read
las palabras.
If only you, too,
were blessed
to be bilingual.
DARRIAN
That’s right! You tell them, chica! It takes heart to live out loud in two languages, to come from another country and figure out how to stand strong on ground your feet ain’t even familiar with.
Like Papi had to do.
Like Mami had to do.
I know one thing: nobody in this family is scared of work.
Mami nearly killed herself busing tables at a diner for the breakfast rush, then spending every afternoon cleaning hotel rooms downtown, on her feet all day long. Man. I don’t know how she did it. Then breast cancer had to show up and make her life even harder. Mami fought, though. She didn’t win, but she sure went kicking and screaming all the way. Didn’t you, Mami?
Yeah. She was tough, an immigrant just like Valentina’s dad.
I bet she would have liked Valentina.
Me? I like her already. And not just because of her dreamy eyes and those dimples you could dive in. There’s a lot more to this chica than pretty.
ALVAREZ BRINGS THE HEAT
KYLE NEWTON
Just call me Kyle. Forget the last name. In middle school, kids called me Newt. From there, it rapidly devolved (yes, I have a heightened vocabulary) to Eye of Newt, and by noon of the second day, my fate was sealed. I was the butt of jokes for the remainder of the school year. I’m not interested in that kind of abuse again, which is why, during roll call, the split second I hear the teacher say “Kyle,” I shout out “Here!” before he can make his way to the last name. So, for the record, it’s Kyle. Just Kyle.
This morning, I left home on the fly, late as usual. Skateboarded six blocks, smooth and easy, without catching one curb or cracked sidewalk. Whoosh! I went manual a couple of times, balancing on the back of the board while the front wheels were off the ground, but nothing too fancy. I’m still just an am, after all. (That means “amateur,” for those who don’t know the lingo.) Anyway, there’s no point in trying tricks on the street. There’s not enough room. It’s hard to carve or make super-fast turns when you’ve got pedestrians every few feet. Like this cute girl who had the nerve to cross my path, her sweet hips demanding my eyes follow them a little too long. I stopped just in time to keep from bailing or smashing into a light pole. Glad my mother didn’t see that. She’d have a cow.
You’d think I was made of glass, the way my parents fuss over me. And my poor brother feels practically invisible. He gets fed up with all the attention I get. I can’t blame him. So I have a heart condition. Big deal! Unless you see my scars, you’d never know. And it’s not like I go around shirtless every chance I get—not that I’d have a problem with it, mind you. I’ve got great pecs, and my scars make me look kind of tough. Manly. Still, I don’t go around showing them off.
My heart condition is just something I have. Some people have asthma; I have a man-made heart valve. I see the doctor for regular checkups, take blood thinners every day, and that’s it. I haven’t had a major surgery in years.
Okay, so there are certain things I can’t do. You know those commercials about joining the military so that you can be all you can be? Well, not me. I can’t. Never gonna happen, no matter how many times I dream it. Organized sports? Nope. But the thing is, I’m not sure I’d have been interested in playing them, anyway.
Skateboarding, that’s different. The first time I saw someone step onto that little board and sail down the street, I knew it was for me. The Doc said no, of course. Mom said, “Definitely not!”
I took months of saved-up allowance and bought a skateboard three days later.
My heart may be weak, but my head is hard as stone.
When the grown-ups saw I was going to skateboard anyway, they relented. Barely. Mom still looks at my skateboard as if it’s a tiny coffin with my name stamped on the rim.
I’ve got to figure out how to get my folks to let me breathe, especially Mom.
Before You Ask
by Kyle
In, and out.
In, and out.
The breath’s a silent gift
we unwrap
moment to moment
from the second we’re born.
How many breaths does it take
to scramble up an oak,
or go for a touchdown,
or peel around
a sharp curve
on a sweet board?
In, and out.
In, and out.
I never count breaths
or store them
in a bank for
&
nbsp; unimagined tomorrows.
Born with a weak heart,
I’m smart enough to know
any tick, any tock
could be my last,
or yours. So
I just fill my lungs,
dive deep into today,
and—go!
DARRIAN
¡Qué corazón! That scrawny little kid is ten kinds of tough. I don’t think I could risk my life like that every day. I’ve seen this kid slicing up the sidewalk on his way to school. He don’t play! Who knew he was sporting a weak ticker? You couldn’t tell. Papi would say that boy’s got a lot of heart. It’s not even a joke.
BOY TAKES HEART ON A WILD RIDE
This guy, I want to know better.
I look around for Kyle at lunchtime, find his table, and slide in next to him.
“Hey, Darrian,” says Kyle.
“Hey. That poem of yours was tight!” I tell him.
“Thanks!”
“So, it made me wonder,” I say, real easy. “What exactly is wrong with your heart? I mean, it’s not like anyone can tell you’re sick by looking at you.”
“I’m not sick,” he says. “Not anymore. Look, when I was a kid, I had to have surgery, and they put a man-made valve in me ’cause the one I was born with wasn’t working right. That’s it. Simple.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. Anyway, I take meds, go see my doctor for checkups, and that’s it.”
“Damn, man! You say that like it’s no big deal,” I say.
Kyle shrugs. “Well, I figure I got two choices. I can walk around like I’m half dead, or I can act like I’m completely alive—which I am.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But if you’re not careful—”
“I can die?” Kyle finishes my sentence. “Guess what,” he says. “We all could. And we all will, sooner or later. Might as well have some fun while we’re here.”
I nod, then turn my attention to the slice of pepperoni pizza on my plate.
Kyle takes a couple of bites out of his turkey burger. “Mm, mm, mm,” he hums between bites, enjoying that burger like it’s his last.
It’s cool the way he makes the most of every single moment, every single thing. We should all try that.
“So, Kyle,” I say, “you think you’re doing the slam?”
“I get it,” he says. “You need a token White guy on your team, right?”
Oh, man. I’m all ready to apologize when he cracks a smile.
“Just kidding! I wish you could’ve seen your face!”
STUDENT HUMOR FALLS FLAT
“You got me,” I tell him.
“Sure, I’ll do the slam,” he says. “It’ll be fun.”
MARCEL
That White boy’s got a pair, I’ll give him that. But he ain’t got to go through life with a target on his back. For that, his skin would have to be a whole lot darker. Still, I give him props for living life on his own terms. Me, I’m still trying to figure out what those terms are.
The day is over before I know it, and I head home. There’s no place for me in the living room when I get there. I’d go to my room if I had one. But I sleep on the couch. The extra bedroom is for the girls. My sisters have taken over the couch and the TV is blaring at them. Mikayla is trying to get the little ones to sit still, but she’s not having much luck.
“Hey, Mik.”
“Hey.”
I land in the kitchen, spread my books over the table. That’s where Pops finds me. He walks straight to the fridge, grabs a beer like he does every night. He never used to swig beer. Not before.
One day, after he got out of jail, Pops brought home a job application to fill out. He couldn’t get his old job back at the MTA ’cause they don’t hire former felons.
I remember watching Pops smooth that application and start filling it out, line by line. Everything was fine until he got to the question Have you ever been arrested? His jaw got tight, and he balled up that paper, threw it across the room, and slammed out the door. It scared me a little, so I went after him. When I got to the corner, I saw him slip into a bar across the avenue. When he didn’t come back out right away, I figured he was gonna be in there for a while. He’s been throwing back beers every day since.
He buses tables now at a local restaurant. The owner hired him because his son was in the system once. He gets it.
Pops hates the job. Mom tried asking him about it.
“What the hell you want me to say?” he snapped. “Grown man, busin’ tables. It ain’t right.”
Mom never asked him about that job again.
I miss Pops. My old Pops, the one who’d play pickup games with me after work. The one who’d smile. That guy is gone. All his dreams are gone, too. He used to imagine the house he’d buy for us in Queens once he saved up enough from working for the MTA. He left that plan locked up in his jail cell.
“Marcel!” Mikayla calls me. “Come watch Mia and Mariah. I got to get in there and make dinner.”
I don’t much feel like babysitting, but I don’t feel like cooking, either.
“Coming.”
Spaghetti and meatballs are on the table by the time Moms comes in for a quick bite between Job #1 and Job #2. We’re all tired of spaghetti, but we can’t get food stamps anymore, so we take what food we can get.
I used to hate food stamps.
Ain’t life a bitch.
Say Cheese
by Marcel Dixon
“Say cheese”
is something you don’t hear
around my house
’cause nobody’s getting ready
to smile.
It’s been a while since
I saw Dad’s mouth
curl up at the corners,
and my mother’s pretty much
out of practice, too.
You gotta understand,
the system broke my daddy’s heart
when it taught him
justice is just for people
without dark skin.
Too much melanin
can be deadly as cancer,
if you know what I mean.
This harsh reality
makes me wonder whether
the future is something
I should plan for at all,
seeing as how
chances are small
any dreams I might conjure
will survive.
ANGELA MARIE BAILEY
I’m afraid. That’s all you need to know about me. I’m afraid. Of everything, and I don’t know why. I’m afraid to ask. I’m afraid to wear a new style before somebody else does first. I’m afraid to meet new people. I’m afraid of not meeting new people. I’m afraid of looking like a dork. I am a dork, but I’m afraid of people finding that out. I’m afraid to wear heels because I might tip over and break my neck. I’m afraid if I don’t wear heels, no cute boy will look at me. When a cute boy does look at me, I’m afraid to look back. Mostly, I’m afraid of always being afraid. That’s why my guidance counselor, Mrs. Wexler, sent me to Mr. Ward’s class and signed me up for the poetry slam. (Why on earth did I ever mention to her that I wrote poetry? Stupid, stupid, stupid!) As soon as I realized I was going to have to read my poems out loud, I begged her to switch me to another class. Did she? Of course not! She said I needed to at least give this class a try. Perfect.
Mrs. Wexler thinks if I get up and read my poetry in front of a classroom of strangers, it will help me to be less afraid of things. Did I tell you that Mrs. Wexler is insane? If I get up in front of class and read my poetry, I’ll die. She’ll be sorry then! Of course, it won’t matter, because I’ll already be dead.
“You’re up, Angela,” says Mr. Ward. “Mrs. Wexler mentioned that you had a poem you’d like to read today, yes?”
That’s it, I think. When this class is over, I’m going straight to that woman’s office and give her a piece of my mind!
Oh, who am I kidding? I’m too afraid to even raise my voice to her!
“Angela?”
Oh, God! I feel sick. I am sick. If I don’t get to the bathroom fast—
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ward! I have to—”
I feel that first heave and take off running. I make it to the girls’ room just in time to puke my guts out.
Ugh! The smell!
Once I’m sure there’s nothing left inside my stomach, I go to the sink and spend a good five minutes washing my mouth out. I check my clothes to make sure there’s no vomit on them, then slowly start back to class. I might as well. I’d try hiding, but with flaming-red hair halfway down my back, I’d be spotted in no time. I keep thinking about dyeing it, but I’m afraid I’d only mess it up and turn it green by mistake.
“Are you all right?” Mr. Ward asks as I slip back into the classroom. I nod my head up and down, too embarrassed to speak. I go to my seat, but not fast enough.
“Class,” says Mr. Ward, “excuse us for a moment. We’ll be right back.”
Mr. Ward steers me toward the hall and closes the door behind us. I lean against the wall, staring at my shoes, expecting him to ream me out for leaving the room without a hall pass. I’m wrong.
“It looks like you have a bad case of stage fright,” says Mr. Ward. “It’s okay, Angela. Lots of people have it.”
“Sure,” I tell him. No they don’t.
“You don’t believe me. Listen, when I was in high school, I took a theater class. I loved acting and I was pretty good at it. But the very first time I had to go onstage, I threw up. Three times!”
“You did not!”
“Yes, I did,” says Mr. Ward. “It was so embarrassing.”
“Well? What did you do? After, I mean.”
“I went onstage and I played my role. Once I got through the first few lines, I was fine. I just had to get started. I think that’s all you need, too. If you get those first lines of your poem out, I bet you’ll be fine.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t think I can do it, not with all those eyes staring at me.”
