by Nikki Grimes
Jenesis goes next, then Val. Freddie reads last. When she finishes, Mr. Ward gives us a huge smile.
“Now,” he says, “you’ve all got something to write a poem about. Great start, ladies.”
JENESIS
Val leaves right after the free write, but the rest of us hang around for a minute. While Mr. Ward packs up his satchel, Freddie and I pull Angela aside.
“I liked your free write,” I tell her.
“Thanks.”
“You know, there’s lots of things to be afraid of in life. The trick is not to let that fear get in the way of what you want.”
“Preach!” says Freddie.
“You’ve got to take that fear and show it who’s boss, okay?”
Angela nods. “I think I did that today,” she says.
“You damn sure did,” says Freddie.
Angela smiles. Next thing I know, she’s throwing her arms around Freddie and me and hugging us like we’re her long-lost cousins.
“Thank you,” she whispers. Then she grabs her notebook and runs out the door.
Jenesis and I look at each other and laugh.
“That was weird,” I say.
“Tell me about it,” says Freddie. “Her free write was really good, though.”
“Yeah,” says Jenesis. “She owned it. And for once, there was no fear in her eyes.”
FREDDIE
We had to write an essay this week, and Angela came up with this dog-ate-my-homework excuse for not turning hers in on time. Seriously. I just shook my head.
Why is no one else bothered by Little Miss Redhead? So she’s got a phobia or two. Big whoop. She can afford to see a shrink about it, she’s got Hollywood looks, both parents, a room in a house her parents own, and nobody to look after but herself, so from where I stand, her life looks pretty perfect.
She should try trading places with Jenesis, or with me.
You want to talk excuses? You want to talk real issues? Fine. I’ll go first.
Last night, Carrie was in the mood for attention—like I actually had time to give her some. And, of course, Mom was missing in action.
I made Carrie some macaroni and cheese for dinner and went to my room to get some homework done while she ate. But thirty seconds after I cracked my book open, she was screaming for me to come sit with her, ’cause all of a sudden she couldn’t eat by herself. Fine. I went to sit with her, anything to spare my eardrums. After the mess of dinner (how exactly did that glob of macaroni end up on the wall?), I got her settled in front of the TV and went back to my room.
“Aunt Freddie!” Carrie yelled for me. “Aunt Freddie! AUNT FREDDIE!”
There was absolutely nothing wrong with that girl, and I knew it, so I closed my door and turned to my homework assignment.
It took me a minute to clear my mind. I shook out thoughts of my deadbeat sister, my missing mother, my screaming niece, who’s got every right to want somebody to pay attention to her, and I forced myself to focus on the subject. I picked up my pen to write, and three words into the first sentence, the volume of the TV was cranked up so high, the walls vibrated.
“Damn it, Carrie!”
I stomped down the hall into the living room, grabbed Carrie’s arm, and squeezed. She looked up at me, wide eyed, too scared to do more than whimper. Suddenly, I was five years old, and my mom, half drunk or angry or both, slammed me across a room. I banged against the wall and looked up at her the same way Carrie looked at me. I started to shiver and dropped Carrie’s arm.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry, Carrie.” And I took her in my arms and rocked her for a long while. Then I set her down on the sofa and sat next to her to keep her company. I leaned my head back on the sofa, let Carrie watch TV, and quietly waited until it was her bedtime.
After I tucked Carrie in for the night, I went to the living room, curled up on the sofa, and tried to quiet myself.
My niece. She’s driving me crazy, I swear. Sometimes I feel like I could really hurt her. When I squeezed Carrie’s arm so tight, it scared her. Scared me, too.
I counted to ten, breathed, tried to get myself in control.
Lord, don’t let me hurt that child. Please.
A voice inside me said, Just love her the best you can.
I took another deep breath and went to Mom’s room, got her out of her clothes, and helped her into bed. I smoothed her hair away from her face and kissed her forehead.
It was late when I finally got back to working on my assignment.
I was up for hours, but I got my essay done. So it ticks me off when kids come to class with those dog-ate-my-homework stories. And it really fries me when the teacher buys it.
But Mr. Ward’s not buying Angela’s story this morning.
“I expect that essay tomorrow, Angela,” says Mr. Ward. “No more excuses.”
“Yes, Mr. Ward,” mumbles Angela.
That makes me smile.
“From now on,” adds Mr. Ward, “anyone who fails to turn in assignments on time will be excluded from the poetry slam. It’s your choice.”
That’s not even funny. We’re just starting to get a rhythm going, and Angela’s part of that. She better get her act together, is all I’m saying. I give her a look that says so. She sets her jaw tight, so I know she’s taking this seriously. Good.
No Excuses
by Freddie Houston
People tell me
I have a penchant
for speaking my mind,
so maybe it’s about time
I tell you something:
I have zero patience
for the excuses
a few people parade
in place of whatever
homework assignment
is due. You
would have to go
to hell and back
in order to beat me
for rational reasons
to miss a deadline,
except I’m not inclined
to use any.
Look here:
I was born into a world
of narrow spaces.
Every breath I take
is dedicated to pressing
back the walls,
forcing them to move
by the sheer strength
of my stubbornness.
The mathematics of poverty
are already against me,
so I allow no wiggle room
for excuses.
You feel me?
I will, I will, I will
break into a world
large enough to contain
all that I am
capable of doing,
capable of being.
And not a single excuse
will get in my way.
I wonder:
Can you say
the same?
TEAM BOYZ: DARRIAN
The girls are mum. I haven’t been able to get a word out of them about their slam practice, not even from Li, and she’s my little honey. Whoever said girls like to run off at the mouth hasn’t met these chicas!
SECRETS UNDER LOCK AND KEY
I don’t know why they call women the weaker sex. I don’t see any weakness here. Papi says girls are born knowing how to balance the world on one hip. Boys, we’re still trying to figure out how. We just don’t admit it. I think Papi’s right.
So now it’s our turn, and Mr. Ward starts us off with something called a free write. He tells us to write whatever we want for five minutes.
“Write about what?” I ask him.
“Guilt,” he says.
I shiver. I know about guilt. Every time I think about Mami and the last time I saw her, guilt takes a chunk out of me. Even though Papi says I shouldn’t feel that way.
Mr. Ward says, “Go,” and my hand moves across the page like it’s been waiting for this chance.
I can’t stand the smell of hospitals, or that endless beep, beep, beeping of those machines hooked up to people who look half dead already. Mami was half dead. Maybe even three-quarters, but she kept hanging on, mostly because we wanted her to. But what was the point? The cancer had already won. Mami was mostly bones, and her skin—you could practically see through it. And no hair. She had no hair left.
Where’d my beautiful Mami go?
One afternoon, I just couldn’t just sit there anymore, next to that cold metal hospital bed, waiting for her to—
I ran out of the room, told Papi I needed a soda. Told him I’d be right back. But I wasn’t. I pushed through the hospital doors, stumbled outside, and gulped as much air as my lungs could take. I started walking, first just up the block and back again. Then I walked around the block, and crossed Broadway, and kept walking, walking, not paying attention to where I was or how much time had passed.
Why? Why did my mother have to get cancer? It wasn’t enough that she was poor all her life? That she worked herself to the bone? That she hardly had time to spend with her family, with me? God, you’re making a big mistake. Take somebody else. Please!
I don’t know when I started crying. Eventually, I went back to the hospital to sit with Papi. But it was too late. Mami was already gone. How many times can you say I’m sorry? It seems like that’s all I could think of to say to Papi. I wasn’t there in the end. I wasn’t there to say goodbye, to tell Mami I love her. I love you, Mami! I’m sorry I wasn’t there to say goodbye. Please forgive me. I don’t want to feel guilty anymore.
“Time!” calls Mr. Ward.
I had forgotten he was there. I had forgotten the other boys were there, too.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand, and cough a few times to clear my throat.
“Okay,” says Mr. Ward. “Who wants to share first?”
• • •
On the way home, I spot Zeke and Shorty at the neighborhood basketball court. Zeke’s doing his best impression of Kobe Bryant going for a layup, but he fumbles the ball.
“Man, this is painful! Give. It. Up,” taunts Shorty from the bench.
“Shut it!” says Zeke. He chases the ball, dribbles it up to the basket, then notices me.
“Yo!” he calls out. “Wazzup?”
“Hey,” I manage, but I keep walking. I’m in no mood to watch Zeke practice shots or to sit around with Shorty jawing about his dreams, or even mine. Not tonight. I just want to be quiet. I just want to sit with my thoughts about Mami.
Private Pain
by Darrian Lopez
Numb, I sit on the edge
of the bed
Mami y Papi share.
Shared.
I feel light as the ghost
my mother has become.
Her picture
on the bedside table
looks blurry until
I wipe my eyes.
“Pobrecito,” she would say
if she were here,
if she were anywhere
in this world.
“Mijo,” she would whisper
and touch my cheek,
and I would answer,
“Mami.”
But this time,
The word never leaves
my throat.
And what difference
does that make?
When I wasn’t looking,
Mami’s heart stopped
like a broken clock.
Half past 36,
the final tick,
the final tock.
Explain to me
exactly how
I’m supposed to
tell time now.
VAL
On the way home today, I pass a local bodega made ugly by a sign spray-painted across the front window: GO BACK HOME! The criminal didn’t add We don’t want you here, but he might as well have.
I want to cry, but I’m way too pissed off. The lovely old couple that run the store are as sweet as the churros they sell. So kind. Never hurt anyone. This country needs more people like them, not less. Fewer. Whatever.
Honestly, I don’t know their story. Green card, no green card? It’s none of my business. But I know they’ve made a home here for forever. I’ve seen their children, their grandbabies. They’ve been here for as long as I can remember.
These mean messages are turning up everywhere these days. It’s crazy. Most of the people in my neighborhood were born here, but nobody asks. Go back home? We are home. There is no “back.” There is only here. And we are staying. Get used to it.
Home
by Val Alvarez
Lately, I keep seeing
signs in my neighborhood
instructing me
to go back home.
Since I am home already,
apparently some definition
is required.
Home: village, house,
social unit formed by family
living together.
Place of residence.
A congenial environment where
I lay my head.
Is any of this ringing a bell?
A place of origin, as in
where a person was born,
that person being me.
Do you see what I’m getting at?
I could make it plainer,
but I’m not that sure
you’re paying attention.
How about: base of operations?
Habitat. Location. Station.
Nation of which I am
a citizen, by birth,
not accident,
in case you
were wondering.
¿Entiendes? No?
How about this:
Americano,
su casa es mi casa.
Sorry if that rocks your boat.
Chances are,
it was leaking, anyway.
DARRIAN
I go up to Valentina as soon as she sits back down.
“Cousin,” I whisper, “you have got to include that poem in the slam!”
She nods. “Okay. I was thinking about it, anyway.”
“Good.”
HOME, SWEET CASA: SECOND-GENERATION LATINA STAKES HER CLAIM
MARCEL
I’ve had my eye on Freddie for a while. She’s tough. Like me. I like that.
I’ve been wanting to talk to her. You know. To maybe get something going. I just don’t know how to start. My sister Mikayla says I’ve got no game, and she’s right.
One day, I’m studying Freddie’s hips as she moves down the school hall, heading to her next class, and it hits me: This girl is all kinds of fine. If I don’t make some kind of move, somebody else will. So I go for it.
I catch up to her and say, “So, how long you been taking care of your niece?”
Freddie stops dead in her tracks, plants a hand on her hip, and cocks her head to the side. “Well, hello to you, too!”
My palms suddenly feel sweaty.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” Jeez! That sounded stupid! “Hi. I’m Marcel.”
“I know who you are,” says Freddie. “We’ve been in the same class for weeks.”
“Yeah. Yeah, but we’ve never, you know—talked.”
Freddie drops her hand to her side, and she smiles, just a little.
“You’re not good at this, are you?”
I breathe heavy. “No,” I say.
That’s when her smile gets big. She nods like she’s made up her mind about me.
“Okay,” she says. “I’ve been taking care of Carrie—that’s my niece—since sh
e was about two. That’s when her drug-addict mom dropped her off at our house and kept going.”
“Jeez,” I say. “And the father?”
“Please!” says Freddie. “We don’t even know who that is.”
I look off for a minute, thinking about my own pops. “Maybe the kid’s better off. There’s all kinds of ways to lose a daddy.”
“True,” says Freddie. “Sometimes divorce takes him away. Other times, jail.”
I don’t say anything.
“At least you got yours back,” says Freddie.
“Naw,” I tell her.
“But didn’t he get out of jail?”
“Yeah. But the guy that came back, he’s not the same, you know? He’s somebody altogether different.”
Now Freddie’s the one with no words.
The final change bell rings.
“Look,” says Freddie, “we need to get out of this hall. I’ve got a class to get to, and so do you.”
“Oh!” I say. “Right! So, uhm, I guess—”
“I’ll see you later,” Freddie fills in.
“Right,” I say. “See ya.”
I’m grinning now, ’cause that went better than I thought.
Finesse
by Marcel Dixon
Finesse is something
I should maybe
take lessons in.
I don’t know.
Is there a school
where I could go,
pick up some juicy
pickup lines
to snag the attention
of a fine mama?
Or maybe it’s better
to just jump in
using whatever words
gather on your tongue
like soldiers,
ready to march
as soon as you
give the order,
which is whenever
you get it in your mind
to speak.
Does it really matter
whether what comes out
makes you sound like a geek,
or just plain silly?
Who cares when you’re there
in the moment,
