by Nikki Grimes
Mr. Ward is quiet for a moment.
“How about this: What if we turn out the lights? I’ll leave one on so that you can see your poem to read it, but turn off all the others. That way, you won’t be able to see anyone staring back at you.”
“Could—could we really do that?”
“Why not? Come on,” says Mr. Ward. “Let’s give it a shot.”
So now I’m standing in front of the mike, waiting for the lights to go down. The sound of my knees knocking is splitting my eardrums.
Oh, God! I hope my stupid hands stop shaking. If they don’t, I won’t be able to read this stupid poem on this stupid piece of paper.
Unafraid
by Angela Marie Bailey
My mixed-breed feline
is—
Uhm, is, uh . . .
Is what? I can’t read my own stupid handwriting. Jeez!
What is that? Oh! Fierce! That’s it. Okay. Breathe. Breathe. It’s just you in the dark. Okay? Just start again.
My mixed-breed feline
is a fierce warrior,
routinely stalking dogs
three or four times her size
without a hint
of trepidation.
The neighborhood mice
don’t stand a chance.
I’ve seen her leap
from a windowsill,
skip two stories,
then land on a branch
of a nearby tree
and look back at me
as if to say,
Aren’t you coming?
Every day,
I study that
green-eyed sphinx,
trying to discover
the key to her courage,
all the while wondering
how many of her nine lives
she has left.
DARRIAN
I’ll bet she’s glad that’s over! She looked like she was going to faint. That would make for a good headline.
PANICKED POET PASSES OUT
I shouldn’t laugh, though. She really looked scared. I think cats are lame, but her poem was pretty decent. A few of us clapped to let her know, so maybe next time she won’t be shaking so bad. She gripped that paper so hard, I was sure it was going to rip in half.
Just goes to show you can’t judge anybody by appearances. You look at a person and you think their life is perfect. No reason, except they live on a street with no broken bottles, they got clear skin, and their hair and eyes are the colors TV tells you are the best. So that must mean life is a breeze for them, right? That’s what I thought about Angela. Wrong.
Mira, you can never go by the surface of things, not if you’re a newsman. You have to slip below the surface to find out what’s really going on, to find the truth. And the truth is never simple. Nothing is ever what it seems, I’m learning that much.
I see Kyle go up to Angela and whisper something in her ear, then walk away.
“What’d he say?” I ask her, like it’s my business.
“He said nobody knows how many lives they have left, so you just have to live. I wish I could do that.” Then she walked away, her head down, avoiding eye contact.
Pobrecita.
LI
I arrive at class early, as I always do, leaving extra time to organize my books and pens neatly on my desk. I open my notebook to a clean, crisp page so that I’m ready whenever Mr. Ward starts to speak. His chair is still empty, so I look around the room. There are more girls than boys, which makes me feel a little less isolated, since I’m the only Asian.
Val’s hair falls in soft waves today, and her turquoise sweater practically screams Look at me. And of course, all the boys do. No surprise. But Freddie also looks nice. Marcel can’t stop staring at her. Jenesis is pretty, too, with those blue eyes and her dark skin. And even shy Angela, every red hair on her head perfectly in place, how could you not notice her? I feel like I’m the only plain one.
I look down at my oversize gray sweatshirt and I hear my mother’s voice.
“Pretty doesn’t matter. Just because you’re a girl doesn’t mean you can’t be smart, confident. Study hard and you can be as accomplished as any boy. In another two years, you can join your brother at Princeton if you want to. Or go to Yale. Or Harvard. Forget about boys and pretty clothes. Concentrate on your studies and you can accomplish anything, just like your brother. There’ll be plenty of time for boys and pretty clothes later.”
The speech is an old one. My mother has been giving it for as long as I can remember. Hearing the same speech over and over again gives me a headache, but I get it. My grandmother gave my uncle special treatment because he was a boy. Mom spent her life working hard to prove to Waipo that she was just as good as a son. Grandmother never changed, but Mom made sure she and my father treated my brother and I the same. We were equally encouraged to do sports if we wanted to, and to study science and math—whether we wanted to or not.
Sometimes I feel pushed a little, but it’s all right. I understand that my mother wants me to be secure in my own abilities. But I look around at these girls, and they seem smart and pretty. So why can’t I be both? Of course, I’ll never be pretty like they are. My eyes are too small, my black hair is too straight and boring, and my skin is too pale. Still, I could put on a little blush, maybe. And some lip gloss. I tug the hem of my sweatshirt, wondering how I’d look in a nice blouse. Then I feel a pair of eyes on me and look up. It’s Darrian!
I lower my eyes quickly, and my hair falls over my face. I shove my hand in my jeans pocket and rummage for a rubber band. I ran out of the house so quickly this morning, my hair was too wet to pull back into my usual ponytail. I’d forgotten all about it. Until now.
Big mistake!
I fumble with the rubber band until my ponytail is in place, then look straight ahead. I pretend not to notice Darrian’s eyes still on my face.
“Good morning!” says Mr. Ward, striding into the room. Finally! Now I can concentrate on learning. That’s what I’m here for, right?
Sons and Daughters
by Li Cheng
Waipo,
my mother’s mother,
adheres to the old tradition
of treating sons like gods
while daughters’ egos
are left to wear thin
as rice paper.
Uncle calls me
“the lucky one.”
My mother twisted her resentment
into a new rule
for my father to follow,
an understanding underlined
in their wedding vows:
treat sons and daughters
the same.
Fierce as a general,
MaMa holds him to it.
Instead of caring for me
like a fragile flower
so I would bloom,
or station me permanently
near the cooking pot,
they sharpen my mind
like a sword
so I, too, can cut the air
with a thought
or expound on
the periodic table
at a moment’s notice,
like my brother.
I’ll surely design the next skyscraper,
or pilot a space shuttle,
or accomplish some new,
extraordinary feat
previously unknown
to womankind.
But who will teach me
what to do with
this heavy hair,
this slim girl’s body
that will never
grow hair on its chest?
Mother tries her best,
but I am left feeling
half boy, half girl.
DARRIAN
She doesn’t see herself, the beauty of her soul, how it comes out in her poetry. Li. Even the name sings.
I wish there was some way to let her know her mother gave her everything she needs.
At lunch, I see her head for the table she sits at every day with her Chinese friends. But this time, Valentina and Angela wave her over to join them.
Qué bueno.
Everybody can use new friends. Plus, Li is one of us now.
POETRY GANG GATHERS
JENESIS
I’m back at what passes for home these days, not that anyone notices. I stopped at the library for a couple of hours, so Mrs. Knox is already in the kitchen, working on dinner, by the time I arrive.
I slip into my closet-of-a-room, drop my backpack on the small desk, and toss my jacket on the twin bed that’s jammed against the wall.
There’s no dresser in the room, just some open shelves over the desk where they said I could keep my clothes and books and stuff, including my ratty underwear, which means I’ve got zero privacy. You know, in case I was planning on hiding drugs or something. Everybody knows all foster kids do drugs, right? I could just stuff them in a pillow if I wanted to, or in my shoes, or underneath the mattress, or in the plastic garbage bag the last home gave me to carry my stuff in. Did they think about that? Whatever.
Mr. and Mrs. Knox have two kids of their own, two girls. Karen, the older one, is mean as hell. Only one of us is a natural blond, and it’s not her. She hates that, which is stupid. I can’t help the way I look. Why hate somebody for that?
She made sure I knew she didn’t like me, right off the bat. She introduced herself my first morning there by disparaging my clothes. I was on my way to school that first day, and she stopped me in the hall, saying, “I hope you’re not going out wearing that crap.” I took care of the problem. When she wasn’t looking, I went to her room, borrowed a pretty purple shirt without asking, and walked right up to her in the lunchroom later that day.
“What do you think about my new shirt?” I asked, turning this way and that to model for her. Poor girl just about choked on her lasagna.
Naturally, she goes running to her mommy that night, crying about how I stole her shirt. I get yelled at and told to wash the stupid thing and give it back.
“Let her have it,” said Karen, pouting. “It’s got her stink all over it now.”
Fine by me. There’s nothing wrong with my stink, and I kind of liked that shirt, so I was happy to keep it.
I got sent to my room without dinner. Plus, no TV. Big deal. I tell you what, though. That little twit hasn’t said a thing about my crappy clothes since.
Mr. and Mrs. Knox are all right, I guess. They don’t beat me or anything. And I like the way Mr. Knox is gentle with his daughters. If I knew who my father was, that’s how I’d want him to be with me. Karen’s too mean to know how lucky she is.
Karen and her sister, Cassandra, share a large bedroom down the hall. They’ve both got dressers. Seems nobody’s worried about them having a place to hide drugs. Never mind.
The hours I spent in the library today were all about reading for fun. I’ve still got my homework to do, so I empty my backpack and get busy.
I’ve been bent over the desk for more than an hour when my stomach starts to growl. Lunch was forever ago. Naturally, when I walk in the kitchen, I see the family is halfway through the meal. They forgot to call me. Again.
Mr. Knox grunts when he sees me at the door. Mrs. Knox looks up, nods toward an empty chair. There’s no place set for me, so I hit the cabinet, snatch a plate, fork, and knife before I sit down. A quick scan of the table tells me just how late I am. The bowl of mashed potatoes only has a spoonful left. There’s some broccoli spears (yuck) and one anemic-looking chicken wing. Mrs. Knox follows my gaze.
“There are cold cuts in the fridge,” she says, “if you need some more food. You can make yourself a sandwich.”
I nod, keeping my eyes on the table. Hide my anger. I’m not much interested in making a sandwich, so I just pick at whatever food is left, starting with the mashed potatoes.
“So,” she says to one of her kids, “how was school?” Mr. and Mrs. Knox turn their full attention to Karen and Cassandra. I call them daughter number one and daughter number two. I concentrate on a broccoli spear. Might as well. Nobody asks me how my day was.
That Kyle kid complains about being smothered by his parents, says they care a little too much. Hah! He should trade places with me for a minute, try living with people who don’t care at all, see what that feels like.
My stomach growls, still half empty, so I jump up and slap together a sandwich, after all.
“Jenesis,” says Mrs. Knox. “Don’t forget to do the dishes when you’re done.”
“It’s not my turn,” I say. “It’s Karen’s.”
“Is that right?” asks Mrs. Knox. On cue, Karen starts to moan.
“Mom, I don’t feel so good. My stomach is bothering me.”
“Poor baby! Then go lie down, sugar. Jenesis can get the dishes this time.”
This time! This time? Hell! Try all the time!
Karen, who is anything but sick, staggers to her room, stopping just long enough to turn and stick her tongue out at me when her mother isn’t looking.
I grind my teeth, ball a fist under the table. What can I do? This isn’t the first time I’ve been told to pick up after some foster parent’s lazy brat. If I don’t go along with it, they could kick me out. Then what? It’s not like I’ve got somewhere better to go, and they know it. Treat me like a slave. But it’s no big deal, long as I got somewhere to live. At least until I turn eighteen. That’s what I keep telling myself. That’s what keeps me from spitting fire, from tossing bricks.
I finish my sandwich, take my plate to the sink, and run the water till it’s hot. I stack the dishes in the tub, squeeze in dishwashing liquid and get busy. Halfway through, Little Miss Suddenly Sick sticks her head in the door.
“Don’t forget the pots,” she says. I cut my eyes at her, pull a glass from the dishwater, and let it drop to the floor. Meanwhile, I’m looking straight at her.
“Oops!” I say.
Little Miss Suddenly Sick starts yelling. “Mom! Mommy! Come see what Jenesis just did!”
Yeah, I know. This probably means my social worker is gonna get a call in the morning, but I don’t care. I wasn’t supposed to be washing these damn dishes in the first place.
Foster Kid
by Jenesis Whyte
I seethe beneath
a mask of I-don’t-give-a-damn,
waiting for anger
to burn my bones to ash.
I dare you to
ask me why
there’s fire in my eye.
You know what? Never mind.
I’ll just tell you.
The answer is SHE,
the twisted, devil-spawn darling
of my foster parents.
There’s more to it, of course,
but it hardly helps
that this she-snake
sinks her fangs into me daily,
then hides her venom
behind the angelic
toothpaste smile
she keeps on rewind,
that just-right white
toothy grin her mother
is forever fooled by.
Desperate for a steady place
with bed and pillow,
I bite my tongue
and choke down the easy curses
I’ve memorized for
just such occasions.
Yeah, once in a while,
I flash like lightning,
slam doors and smash whatever
cutesy knickknacks
might be handy.
&nb
sp; And guess who gets
to sweep up the mess?
Mostly, I march through my days,
footsteps falling on deaf ears,
even when I stomp.
If I yell for help,
no one comes,
my voice always
a lonely echo,
no matter how crowded
the room.
Even the invisible
occupy a certain space.
Me? I can’t seem
to find a single place
to be seen.
To be heard.
And so I drift,
seething,
silent.
Until now.
DARRIAN
Man! No wonder that girl looks pissed half the time. Her life sounds messed up.
I thought foster kids had it better than orphans, but maybe not. I guess just because they have a place to stay doesn’t make it the same as having familia. Me and Papi, we look out for each other. Nobody’s invisible in our house. Jenesis—that’s a whole other story.
GIRL MISSING IN PLAIN SIGHT
She’s a kind of lonely I’ve never been.
We should be giving her a reason to smile. Somebody should step up. I could give it a shot.
“Hey, Jenesis,” I begin. “Nice poem today.”
FREDDIE HOUSTON
I’m sixteen years old and pretty much a full-time mother of two. First, there’s my eight-year-old niece, Carrie, my sister’s kid. Where’s her mom? She’s probably in a shooting gallery somewhere, plugging up her veins with heroin. Don’t ask. Then there’s my mother, child number two. I’d laugh if it were funny, if it weren’t true, but my mother forgot how to be one the first time she brought a bottle of gin up to her lips and tried to wash away all her brain cells, leaving me on my own with the niece who needs somebody to look out for her. Tag. I’m it.
Why couldn’t I just have a mom like most of the kids at school? Someone who’d take care of me, instead of the other way around?
I throw out the empty gin bottles Mom leaves all over the house when she’s on one of her binges. I used to try pouring her poison down the drain, but that stopped the day she caught me tipping one of her precious bottles over the toilet bowl. She balled her fists, hauled off, and knocked me clear across the room. After that, I figured if she wanted her booze that bad, she could have it. Now I just take care of the house, try to keep the mess down to a minimum so Carrie can have a halfway-decent-looking apartment to come home to after school. Bad enough she’s too ashamed to bring any of her friends here. Mom actually wonders why. She can’t seem to see she’s two different people: the neat and sober one who goes to work every day, and the useless alcoholic her child and grandchild get to deal with most nights.
