by Nikki Grimes
billy clubs swinging—
the only kind of brooms they need
to gather up any bodies
unlucky enough to be
at the wrong place
at the wrong time
like my dad.
Too bad
so sad
your dad got busted
in a war he never
enlisted in.
I watched his face
get shoved to the ground,
never mind that no drugs
were ever found
on his person.
He is a person, remember?
Did they?
Either way, his arrest
was hardly what you’d call
a waste.
After all,
it did help one cop
make his quota
for the night.
DARRIAN
Damn.
BLACK BROTHER BREAKS IT DOWN
I sit with Marcel’s poem for a minute, think about my cousin Javier, who we called Giant because, at six feet, he was the biggest man in our family. I think about how he got snatched up one day on a corner where somebody was selling coke. Cops didn’t even give him a chance to explain that he was only passing by. They just shoved him in the back of their car, hauled him off to jail, and disappeared him from our lives.
Bam! Just like that.
Marcel’s words took me there, to that moment. The anger I felt as a little boy watching my big cousin being slammed against the car, then handcuffed; his helplessness and mine; the hurt that was more than enough to go around. I remember the hot tears streaking down my face. I feel them trying to come again.
I breathe heavy, push down the thoughts, unclench my fists, shake my head to clear it.
“Good,” says Mr. Ward, suddenly standing over my desk. “You’re learning how powerful poetry can be. Think about how the right use of words can shape the stories you want to write. Think about how you can use this tool to impact the people who will read those stories. Think about that.”
I close my eyes for a minute and concentrate on his words, think about all the things Marcel’s poem made me feel.
He’s right. If I can put words together in a way that can make somebody tremble inside, or cry, or maybe even clench their fists long enough to feel their anger, then let it go—that’s a good thing, a good tool. I just have to be careful how I use it.
I open my eyes and Mr. Ward’s still standing there. I give him a nod. He reaches down, gives my shoulder a squeeze.
“Keep sharpening your tools, Darrian. One day, they will serve you well.”
“Thanks, Mr. Ward,” I say.
BOY GOES BACK TO THE TOOLSHED
LI
I have study hall this period, one of my favorite times of the day. Most of my classmates use the time to catch up on schoolwork. But of course, I’m never behind, so I go to the library and use the time to write poetry. Not for class, just for myself.
Can you imagine if I was ever actually behind in my schoolwork? My mother would sprout a second head and the mouths of both of them would shout at me.
“Li Hsu Cheng!” She uses my whole name when she’s angry. “How do you expect to get into Princeton or Yale if you don’t study? I do not give you permission to waste your brain!” I would never hear the end of it, so I don’t give my mother an excuse to start.
I mentioned the poetry slam to my parents, but I just called it a poetry reading. A slam isn’t something they would understand.
“Why do you have to do a poetry reading?” asked my father.
“I don’t have to, BaBa,” I said. “I want to.”
My father shook his head. “Well, as long as it does not interfere with your studies.”
“It won’t,” I said. That seemed to satisfy both parents. Thankfully, the subject was dropped.
When I reach the library, I settle at a quiet table at the end of the poetry section and open my journal. I’ve been reading a lot of contemporary Chinese poetry lately, finding so many perfect lines by William Marr and others. Ah Xin writes, “Dawn, dripping with dew, floats down to the grassland at the foothills, like an armada.” Chen Yanqiang’s verses are no less sweet: “Right now, the night is getting deeper / and feeling even quieter than my loneliness.” It is Li Li, though, who reads my mind: “Let me count a few things that I can’t do without. . . . the lovely words on the pages I turn.” Of course we have the same name, but Li and I also have the same heart!
I’m not just reading contemporary poetry, though. I’m also studying classical forms like tanka, which I really like. I want to try writing a few of my own. I bite the end of my pen while I decide on the opening line and mentally count out the syllables. The first five come easily: More than metaphor. That’s as far as I get.
“Hello!”
I look up to find Darrian grinning at me.
“I came here to work on my poem for class. Do you mind?”
Before I can answer, he pulls up the chair opposite me and plops down.
Great. Now how am I supposed to concentrate? I lower my eyes to at least try.
“You’re really good at this poetry stuff,” says Darrian. He leans toward me so he doesn’t have to speak too loudly. He doesn’t want to disturb the other readers. Just me.
“Well, I love poetry, so I read a lot of it.”
“And write it.”
“Yes. And write it.”
Now will you please leave me alone? I can’t concentrate with you here.
I drop my head and focus on the page in front of me, and try to pick up the poem from where I started. I bring my pen to the page, and—
“Since you’re so good at poetry,” says Darrian, “and I’m only beginning, I wonder if you could help me.”
I sigh and set my pen down on the table.
I tighten my ponytail and ignore my rapid heartbeat. “Okay. I don’t know how I can help you,” I say, “but I’ll try.”
Darrian’s eyes twinkle.
“Great! I mean, thank you.” Darrian clears his throat and puts on a serious face. “Well, to begin, maybe you could tell me what you love about poetry, just so I understand. I really think that would help me.”
I don’t see how answering this question will help him, but I suppose it won’t hurt.
“Most writing is sharing information. The information may be interesting, but the writing usually isn’t. It’s . . . flat. But poetry! Poetry sings, and that’s what I love, the way you can weave words together so they make music and practically dance across the page. Sometimes I read a poem and the words are so delicious, I want to spoon them onto a dish and eat them for dinner.”
“Dancing and delicious?” Darrian looks confused.
“Okay. I’m mixing metaphors, but this is hard to explain. It’s really all about the words. I love language. I love the way each word feels differently on the tongue, and how each one sounds. And poetry takes advantage of that.”
“Now, that makes sense. Not the singing, but about each word being unique, special. I love newspaper writing, especially headlines. A good headline only has a few words, but if you choose the right ones, a headline reveals the heart of the story.”
“You’re right!” I say. “I never thought about that.”
“And a newspaper story, well, it might not sing,” says Darrian, “but it can be beautiful, especially if it’s true.”
“That’s something poetry and newspapers have in common, then. Truth. A poem that is not true is simply a manipulation of beauty.”
“A beautiful lie,” says Darrian.
“Yes.”
“A rip-off.”
“Yes!”
Darrian and I both smile.
“And when a story is true, you have to tell it, and you have to wr
ite it in a way that will force people to stop and read it. That’s when choosing the right word matters most. When the story the ink is printing on the page is true, the words have to be—”
“Perfect?”
“Exactly!” says Darrian.
I never get around to my tanka poems. Instead, Darrian and I spend the hour talking. He shows me his notebook of story ideas and headlines, and I share a few of my personal poems.
When the change bell rings, we rush off to our next classes, knowing we’ll speak together again. Soon.
Wild Words
by Li Cheng
Words
crack me open.
Only the right ones, of course,
those laced with beauty
or infused with the sweetness
of a ripe peach.
Each word, each lyrical phrase,
often powerful enough
to break, or heal,
the heart.
But you knew this
from the start.
Why else would you
come offering to share
your own wild words
with plain, ordinary me?
Words are clearly
the truest thing
we have in common.
Still, why me?
Never mind.
Your clever lines
have lassoed
my attention.
I’m listening.
DARRIAN
I casually look around the classroom, try to see if anyone has read between the lines. No one is looking in my direction, so I guess Li’s poem about me, about us, is still our secret.
Bueno.
Of course, I think her poem is perfection. Still, something tells me she won’t be saving that poem for the slam.
POEM PADLOCKS BUDDING RELATIONSHIP
On the way to lunch, I think about asking Li for a copy of that poem, but I get sidetracked. Some White kids I don’t know are jawing about Marcel. One of them gives him a nasty look and says, loud enough for him to hear, “There goes our junior felon. Or is it Felon Junior?”
Marcel spins around and cuts the kid up with a look that says, You really don’t want to mess with me, and the kid takes off.
“Yo, Marcel,” I call. “Wait up.”
When I get close enough, I say, “Hey, man. Why don’t you come sit with me at lunch.”
“I’m not that hungry,” he says.
I figure it’s that stupid comment that has spoiled his appetite.
“Look, blood,” I tell him, “don’t even pay that fool any attention. What does he know about being pulled over just ’cause your skin’s the wrong color? And don’t even get me started on that so-called war on drugs designed to destroy my people and yours. I guarantee you he don’t know squat about that!”
“Naw, man,” says Marcel. “It ain’t that. I don’t care about that dude. I just thought I’d drop in on the gym while it’s empty and shoot a few hoops for a minute. Try to keep my mind off of stuff.”
I’m not stupid. I don’t ask him what “stuff.”
“Okay. Well, later, man.” I’m about to walk away when Marcel starts talking.
“I’m just feelin’ a little off,” he says. “Today’s the anniversary of the night my pops got arrested and my family got split wide open, our guts spilling everywhere.”
I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t.
“That’s rough, man.” I know that sounds lame, but what else can I say? I heard Mr. Ward say something once that fits: Words are powerful, but sometimes words have a limit.
I decide to skip lunch and join Marcel in the gym. Mr. Hunt, the assistant principal, sees us slip in.
“You know you’re not supposed to be in here now,” he says. We need to be here, though, and he can tell.
“Just keep the door open,” he says. “I’ll come back and check on you in a few minutes.”
“Thanks,” I say, for both of us.
Marcel dunks the ball a bunch of times, and then we run it up and down the court, taking turns going to the net. I hit the rim more often than I score, but I’m only half trying. Truth is, my stomach’s growling. Marcel’s another story. I think he meant it when he said he wasn’t hungry. He’s too busy working something out. You can tell because Marcel is dribbling that ball so hard, I swear the floor’s about to crack.
BOY BEATS GYM FLOORBOARDS TO BITS
Seriously.
When the change bell rings, all I can think is Thank God. One, I get to go to my locker and grab the leftover piece of chocolate bar stuffed in my backpack from yesterday, and two, I get some distance from Anger Boy.
“Take care, Marcel,” I say, and I’m gone.
TEAM GIRLZ: ANGELA
Only four of us made it for the first meeting: me, Jenesis, Freddie, and Val. I wish she would let us call her Valentina. It’s such a beautiful name.
Freddie came in late, out of breath. She said something about running home to get her niece settled in with a neighbor. We had to wait for Mr. Ward to finish grading papers before we could get started anyway, so it turns out Freddie had plenty of time to get home and back.
I had asked Li to come with me, but she’s taking the SAT early. They’re offering it this weekend, and she said she needs to study. Yeah. Like there’s any chance she won’t ace it. She could do that test in her sleep.
“But it’ll be fun!” I told Li. “Can’t you skip the test, do it another day?”
“Sorry. I can’t. But I’ll make it to the next rehearsal, I promise,” she said so I wouldn’t push.
I don’t plan on doing much talking at this rehearsal. I’ll just watch, see how it goes. I don’t know anything about poetry slams. I don’t even know anybody who knows anything about poetry slams. Besides, the idea of being in one makes me nervous. What if I get up to do my poem and I blank out again, like I did that first time? The whole thing is scary.
We all take our usual seats and wait. It seems like forever before Mr. Ward looks up from his desk. He stacks his papers, sets them aside, and smiles.
“Anyone in the mood for a little poetry tonight?” He doesn’t wait for us to answer, he just jumps up and arranges a few chairs in an open circle. We each take a seat and wait to see who’s going to speak first. Naturally, it’s Mr. Ward.
“Welcome, Team Girlz! Since this is a new experience for most of you, I think a great way to get started is to break the ice and get to know each other a little bit. And my favorite icebreaker is a free write.”
I slip my hand up as if we’re in Language Arts.
“You don’t have to raise your hand, Angela,” says Jenesis. Embarrassed, I let my arm drop.
“What’s a free—what did you call it?”
“A free write,” said Mr. Ward.
“Yeah. That. What is it?”
“Actually, it’s exactly what it sounds like. I give you all the same subject to write about, and for a few minutes, you are free to write whatever you want to about that subject. The idea is to keep your pen on the page, writing continuously, until the time is up. You write whatever comes to your mind without worrying about grammar, or what others will think. Just write with no constraints except time. Write freely. Then, once everyone is done, each of you will share whatever you’ve written with one another.”
Why did he have to mention sharing? Everything was fine until he mentioned sharing. God! Why did I sign up for this?
“So, what’s the subject?” asks Freddie. Mr. Ward smiles.
“Scars,” he says.
“Scars,” Freddie repeats.
“Yes. Scars. It can be a physical scar or an emotional scar. You choose,” says Mr. Ward.
“Got it,” says Freddie.
Mr. Ward claps his hands. “Okay! Take out your notebooks and get started. I�
�ll give you, let’s see—five minutes. And your time starts . . . Angela, where’s your notebook?”
I quickly rummage through my backpack and pull out a pen and my spiral notebook.
“Ready?” asks Mr. Ward.
I nod.
“Your five minutes starts now!”
“Well, here goes nothing,” I whisper. Val catches my eye and nods for me to begin.
The first scar I think of is the one on my right leg. I was seven or eight years old, and just getting comfortable riding a two-wheeler, and I rode up and down the street for no reason except to feel the wind on my face, and this one time, I decided to take my hands off of the handlebar, like I’d seen some of the older kids do, and my mother had just come outside to check the mailbox, and I turned my head toward her, grinning proudly, and said, “Look, Ma! No hands!” and ran right off the curb, flipped over, and came away with a bloody gash across my right leg.
I’d never seen that much blood in my life before, except on TV, and for a while there, I didn’t know if it was ever going to stop. But it wasn’t the fall, or the blood, that scared me. It was that I was so sure that I could ride a bike perfectly, only I couldn’t. And it made me wonder what else I thought I could do, but really couldn’t. Up till then, I always thought I had it in me to do anything, to try anything, to be anything. Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure.
That’s the day I started being afraid!
Now I hold myself back from trying anything new, anything risky—and not just physically—because, who knows? I might get my heart broken, or my feelings hurt, or get embarrassed, or get my body banged up and bloody again—as if getting banged up is the worst thing in the world! After Kyle tells me, over lunch one day, about all his different surgeries, and his heart nearly stopping, I know better.
Suddenly, Mr. Ward is yelling, “Time!” We all look up, startled. I think everybody could’ve kept writing.
I look across at Freddie, Jenesis, and Val, and they all have that faraway look, like they just got back from a long journey, which is exactly how I feel.
“Okay,” says Mr. Ward. “Who wants to read first?”
I slip my hand up. “I’ll go,” I say, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel afraid. Not even a little.
