by Nikki Grimes
There’s not much I can do about Mom except help her to bed when she needs me to. So I focus on cooking, doing the laundry, mopping the floors, and keeping the dirty dishes from overflowing the kitchen sink. I grab money from her purse and get groceries when we run out. Mom usually manages to pay the bills on time, but I check once a week, just in case. Most nights, I squeeze in time to help Carrie with her homework, plus do my own. Hell. I get so tired.
I love it when a boy at school asks me if I want to hang, like I got time to throw away on some guy looking to party. Please!
The only kid in this class who for sure gets that life is not always a party is Jenesis. That’s why we hit it off so fast. I could tell we was on the same radar. Most foster kids I’ve met have it rough, so it’s no surprise Jenesis gets me.
When things at home get real bad, I shut my eyes, picture myself curled up on the grass of a college campus somewhere far away, book by Chaucer open on my lap, soft music pumping through my headphones. I’m soaking up all the knowledge I want, with no interruptions and no gin fumes clogging my nostrils. I feel the muscles in my jaw relax, the corners of my mouth lifting, slow and easy, into a smile. Call it a dream if you want to, but one of these days—
“Freddie!” Carrie cries out. “I’m hungry. What’s for dinner?”
Eggs. Again. I don’t tell Carrie that, though.
“Something yummy,” I tell her.
It ain’t really a lie. I’ll make sure the eggs are tasty. I’m getting pretty good at coming up with different ways to make them. Not much choice, since that’s all we got right now. It’s the end of the month, and Mom’s money don’t go but so far. She should be the one trying to make the food stretch.
I don’t even have to ask where Mom is. I’m willing to bet she’s slung across her unmade bed, fully dressed, out cold. Again.
I should write a poem about that, huh, Mr. Ward? No. I suppose not.
I end up writing a poem with some truth tucked inside. Before it’s my turn to read on Open Mike Friday for the first time, the boy sitting behind me taps me on the shoulder. I turn around to find a mouth full of teeth grinning at me.
“I don’t think we’ve met yet. My name is Darrian. What’s yours?”
I decide to be polite. “It’s Freddie.”
“Freddie? That’s a strange name for a girl.”
So much for polite. “What? You think I should maybe roll up on the Grand Concourse, calling myself Fredericka? Huh? Or you think my parents could have come up with a name you like better, something common like Jane, or Laurie, or maybe Mary Ann?”
“Well, no. I just meant—”
“The name’s Freddie. Take it or leave it.”
“Damn, girl. You’re hard,” says Darrian.
“Yeah, well, maybe there’s a reason.” I turn around to face front, leg bouncing nervously until Mr. Ward tells me it’s my turn to step up to the microphone.
“You go, girl!” says Jenesis. And so I do.
Escape
by Freddie Houston
Come rain or shine,
escape is a word
I turn over like a rock
in my dreams,
wondering each time
what I might find.
I feel ready
for an adventure,
but before I can measure
the distance I want to travel,
a thin voice pleads,
“Stay! Stay!”
As I’m about to get away,
somebody catches me with cords
of love and memory,
and before I know it, I see
my suitcase unpack itself,
leaving me and my
dreams of adventure
back on the shelf
of my crazy wide-awake life.
Meanwhile, I’m still
desperate for a change of view.
I chew a fingernail until
I notice a solution
resting on the bed stand
inches from my right hand,
sitting on the pile of schoolbooks
I’ve never been happier to have.
I pick up the right one,
flip through its pages,
and run, run, run
as fast and far away as I can
for the night
with Shakespeare.
DARRIAN
I studied Freddie when she spoke, and when she read her poem in class. Marcel seems to be studying her, too. Her eyes are soft, even though her words are sometimes hard. She said there was a reason for that, and I believe her. You can tell just a little from her poem, but I know there’s more story underneath the words, and I’ll find it. I’m a newsman, after all. Or at least I plan to be. Sniffing out stories is my job. Didn’t I catch Kyle giving Angela lessons on his skateboard the other day? Looks like she’s hoping his fearlessness will rub off on her.
You just wait, Freddie. Give me a little time, and I’ll find out what your story is.
DOGGED REPORTER DIGS UP TRUTH
I wonder what Freddie’s going to write for the poetry slam. I’ve been reading up on slams. If I’m going to write about ours for the school paper, I should do a little research, yes? But what would really help is to actually start working on one, so this morning, I raise my hand and get Mr. Ward’s attention.
“Mr. Ward, when are we going to start working on the slam?”
“The poetry slam! Yes! It is time we begin to practice. Thanks for the reminder, Darrian. Before we get into the practice schedule, though, let’s go over some of the details of a poetry slam, because not all of us have been to one.
“And by the way, the poetry slam is optional. You don’t have to participate if you don’t want to. It’s strictly your choice. Your final grade will not be affected one way or the other.
“Okay. Now, a slam is a competitive series of poetry performances. Both individual poets and poetry teams perform their poems, and a combination of judges gives each performance a score throughout the evening. The team that racks up the highest cumulative points wins. But, as those of us who love poetry like to say, the point is not the points. The point is the poetry. And so, what I really want each of you to focus on is the poetry itself. I want you to work hard on the language of your poetry, the rhythms of your poetry, and the emotional truth of your poetry.
“Now, about the practice sessions. Since we’re going to have two teams, I think each should practice separately. Ladies first, so Team Girlz, you’ll practice on Tuesdays. Team Boyz, you’ll get together on Thursdays.”
I look around the room, see everyone nodding. We’re on!
“I can’t wait to check out the girls,” I say, grinning.
“Oh, snap! Darrian’s going on Barbie Patrol!” cracks one of the boys. Freddie whips her head around, searching for the speaker. She doesn’t spot him, so she cuts her eyes at all the boys in general.
“Sorry, Darrian,” says Mr. Ward. “I should have explained. Those practices are to be private. Each team keeps to itself.”
“But I have to cover the practices for the school paper!” I say.
“Well, you can cover Team Boyz’s practices as much as you want,” says Mr. Ward. “But Team Girlz is off limits to you.”
“Dang!” says Kyle.
Freddie turns around and mouths, “Sorry,” which I can tell she’s not.
MR. KILLJOY COMES TO TOWN
I glare at Mr. Ward, but he just ignores me and asks, “Any questions?”
LI
The best thing about Saturday mornings is getting to sleep in. At least that’s what my classmates tell me. I’d hardly know. I may not have Mandarin language classes on Saturdays like my other Chinese friends because my parents want me to be all-American, but that doesn’t mean I get to stay in bed. My industri
ous mother always manages to find something for me to do just after sunrise. Today, it’s cleaning bathroom tiles and polishing the faucets.
Since I’m already in the bathroom, I finish up with a quick shower, then get dressed. Before I lace up my sneakers, I think of slipping under the covers for a few more minutes of sleep.
“Li,” calls my mother.
Just for a little while. A short nap.
“Li!”
“Yes, MaMa.”
“I need you to run to the market for me.”
So much for crawling back into bed.
“Coming, MaMa.”
I find her at the kitchen table, making a list. I wait. Eventually, she hands it to me and I head out the door.
I’m so busy studying the list as I walk that I practically bump into Maylin.
“Hey! Where are you going to in such a hurry?” she asks. Hanna is with her, and so is Jing.
“Oh! Hello! Sorry I didn’t see you. MaMa gave me a long list of vegetables and herbs to pick up for her. I was just checking it over.”
“If your mother’s got you out this early on a Saturday morning, she might as well send you to Chinese school with us!” says Jing. I’ve explained a hundred times why my parents chose not to send me, so I just shrug, but Hanna gives Jing a sharp look.
“What?” asks Jing. “I just think Li should have a chance to meet some of the cute boys we have in Chinese school.”
“She already has a boyfriend, remember?” teases Hanna. “His name is Darrian, right?”
I study my sneakers.
“Yes,” says Jing, “but she should meet Henry Wong.”
“Ha!” says Maylin, and she and Jing slip easily into Mandarin for a minute, sharing a story that leaves Hanna in giggles.
I look back and forth from one to the other.
“What?” I ask. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh! Sorry,” says Maylin, realizing she’d switched languages. “It was just something silly about Henry. He has a crush on Hanna, who won’t even give him the time of day. But poor Henry follows Hanna around like a puppy.”
“That’s sad,” I say.
“I know,” says Maylin.
“Yes,” agrees Jing, “but it’s kind of funny, too.” Jing laughs again, very loudly.
“Shh! Not so loud,” says Maylin.
Jing rolls her eyes. “What? Did I wake the ancestors? Again? You know me. I was born loud.”
“Please!” Maylin smiles at an old woman passing by as if to apologize for her noisy friend.
“Okay. Okay!” Jing lowers her voice. “Sorry.”
“We have to go or we’ll be late,” says Hanna. She grabs Maylin by the hand and tugs her to follow.
I wave goodbye to the club of three. The club that doesn’t include me.
I think about Val’s immigrant parents. Maybe one day I’ll tell her there’s more than one way to feel like an alien.
All-American
from Li’s notebook
I envy the easy laughter
of my Chinese friends,
using their well-trained tongues
to share stories
in a language
withheld from me
like a secret.
My well-meaning parents
have left me jealous
of every ni hao ma, every zai jian
that falls from lips
which look like mine
but aren’t.
Lonely is my
perfectly enunciated
all-American English.
I sometimes wish
I didn’t understand
the mathematics
of being different.
MARCEL
I wake up this morning, find Pops slung across a kitchen chair, throwing back a beer. The table is a mess of empty cans, some crushed, some bent in the middle. I go to pick up the empties and throw them away, but Pops snaps.
“Leave ’em! Leave ’em right there. I don’t need you picking up after me, boy. You think I can’t do it?”
“No. It’s not that, Pops. I just thought—”
“You thought what?” he snarls.
“Nothing, Pops,” I say.
“You think your old man is useless now, just ’cause he can’t get a decent job?”
I shake my head and look away. No point in speaking. There ain’t no right thing to say to Pops these days, no vocabulary that’s gonna take away his pain.
I miss my dad. I wish the kids at school could’ve met him.
School. I love how everyone there talks about truth, like it’s one thing and everybody agrees on it. But it’s not. And even if it is, some people treat it like it doesn’t matter worth a damn.
My pops got swept up in one those neighborhood war-on-drugs raids that keep hitting the hood. What? You think it’s an accident that 80 to 90 percent of all drug offenders are Black or Brown? Please.
Tyrone gets it. Darrian, too. They’ve been hassled by cops as often as me. You just be walking down the street while Black or Brown, and next thing you know, you’re shoved up against the wall, explaining that you’re just minding your business, trying to get home, and you don’t know nothing about no kid selling drugs on the corner or whatever. And you turn your pockets inside out quick, before that cop has a chance to sneak a nickel bag on you so he can set you up for an arrest to make his quota. Just ask me. Just ask my father.
Pops was on his way home from work one day when I was twelve. He’s minding his own business, coming down the street. I see him from the stoop and wave. That’s when a row of cop cars pile into our street. Dad looks around but doesn’t seem worried. Why should he? He hasn’t done anything. Besides, he’s got on his MTA uniform, and he wears it likes it’s armor. Who’s gonna give him grief when they see he’s a man in uniform? So he keeps walking straight ahead, his eyes on mine.
He lifts his arm to wave at me, and blue suits start spilling from their cars, slamming people against the wall, left and right.
“Dad!” I call out. I’m frozen at the top of the stoop, but I’m watching everything. A policeman grabs Pops and gives him a shove.
“Over there!” he orders, motioning to the growing line of guys against an apartment wall.
“Excuse me, Officer,” says Pops, “but I’m not—”
The policeman twists his arm. “Did I ask you to speak?”
Pops tries again. “Officer, there has been some—”
The blue suit jabs Pops with his nightstick. “Shut the f— up and get over there with your buddies. Now!” growls the officer.
“Pops!” I scream.
Pops closes his mouth and does as he is told. Even from where I am, I can see his shoulders start to slump. It’s when the handcuffs are put on my father that I lose it.
“No!” I scream, and take off down the stairs. Just as I reach the bottom step, Mom grabs me from behind. She must have come out when she heard all the sirens.
“Let me go!” I tell her, struggling against arms that are suddenly made of steel.
“You stay put, Marcel,” she orders.
“But Pops—”
“I know, son. I know. But I can’t let you get in the middle of this. We’ve just got to wait. It’s gonna be all right. They’ll see that your father is a good working man who hasn’t done anything wrong, and they’ll let him go. You’ll see. Hush, now.”
She keeps saying, “Shush. Hush now, baby,” even after Pops is loaded into a police car. Even after that car carries him away.
They say when you see a policeman, don’t run. Why run if you’re innocent? So my pops didn’t run. A lot of good that did him.
Everyone arrested that night went to jail. After a week, my father’s court-appointed attorney told him to plead guilty to drug distribution, even though
Pops was innocent. Lawyer told him the prosecutor was offering probation. But that’s crazy, ’cause my pops is innocent! He had the truth on his side, right? Nobody was interested in the truth, though. Nobody cared that he worked for the MTA. Nobody cared that he didn’t do drugs or sell them. He was “caught” in a drug sweep, so he was guilty until somebody important decided different. After a month of missing his family, and missing his job, and missing his bed, he agreed to the plea so that he could go home. They slapped him with ten years’ probation, plus fines. Then they set him free.
Free, my ass. The pops I knew is still locked up inside. He never did come home.
And guess what. That judge eventually dismissed the cases against everyone else in that group who didn’t plead guilty like Pops. There were only a few. Lucky for them. Turns out the arrest was based on the word of some lying rat who wanted to cut a deal with the prosecutor to shorten his own prison sentence. You think my dad’s court-appointed attorney knew or cared about that? He didn’t even stick around long enough to find out.
Go ahead. Ask me one more time why I’m mad as hell. I dare you.
Maybe it’s time I take the mike in Mr. Ward’s class, give everyone the real 411 on the war on drugs.
Sweep
by Marcel Dixon
Sweep. That’s a good word,
the way cops roll up on the hood,
treating Black boys, Black men
like dirt.
That’s what you sweep up, right?
I’ve seen them swoop in,
