by Nikki Grimes
My father’s right. I don’t need to change my name. I never did.
We Are
by Freddie Houston
Jenesis Whyte
Valentina Alvarez
Angela Marie Bailey
Li Cheng
Look at us.
We are all about being pretty
smart, pretty
strong, pretty
elevated, pretty
educated, pretty
motivated to tear down
whatever walls
others fabricated
to slow our gait
and keep us from reaching
our fullest potential.
It is essential
that we stay pretty
determined to turn
our will into skill,
to mold our inherent ability
into economic stability
for the future.
We are pretty
certain that the curtain of success
will rise on our tomorrow
if we simply borrow
and build upon the strength
of a powerful panorama of pretty
remarkable women who
came before:
women who traveled to space,
took their place on the Senate floor,
swore oaths to serve the Supreme Court,
counted themselves among the best
entrepreneurs, educators, entertainers,
poets, pilots,
designers, dancers,
emcees, MDs,
firefighters, financial wizards,
wing-walkers,
psychologists, psychiatrists,
psych-you-out spies
for, say, the Civil War Union Army.
Look at us.
Are we capable
of being more than
sassy swiveling hips and
red-painted pouting lips and
whatever cup size
you have in mind?
Give us a minute
and you’ll find
we women are pretty—amazing.
LI
The slam is finally here. Tonight.
I stand in front of the bathroom mirror for a minute and take a deep breath.
“Here goes.”
I dab a little blush on each cheek, then turn my head from left to right.
“Not bad.”
Then I pull out the tube of lip gloss Valentina helped me pick out. I study my naked lips, then cover them with a few swipes of color.
“Almost done.”
I pull the rubber band from my ponytail and let my hair fall loose. I comb it to one side and hold it in place with a silver comb I borrowed from my mother. Finally, I step back to get the full effect.
“Oh!”
Something spills down my cheek and I don’t wipe it away. I just keep staring at my reflection. The girl in the mirror is almost—pretty.
MaMa was wrong. You can be pretty, and have a boyfriend, and still be smart, all at the same time. You don’t always have to choose.
The phone rings, and I break away from the mirror and finish dressing. I put on a new pair of tight jeans and a bright red shirt with matching wide belt that shows off my waist.
I gather my notebook, even though I’ve memorized my poems, and I go downstairs.
“Ooh!” says BaBa when he sees me.
“Daughter!” says my mother. “Fancy.”
“Well,” I say, “tonight is special. All the kids are dressing up.” Then I add, casually, “Many of their parents will be coming.” I say this without looking either of them in the eye. I don’t want them to feel judged for not coming to hear me read.
“I don’t understand why you have to go do this—this reading,” says my father.
“I told you before, BaBa. I’m going because I want to, not because I have to.”
My mother grunts.
I ignore her, clutch my notebook, grab my small purse, and finally look her in the eye.
“I know poetry is not important to you, but it is important to me,” I tell her. “MaMa, you know, growing up, I always wanted to learn Mandarin. All of my friends got to go to Chinese school and learn the language of their parents, but not me. You wouldn’t send me or my brother because you wanted us to just be American and only speak English.
“Every day, I hear you and BaBa speaking Mandarin and I can pick up a word of two, but not much, and that makes me sad. Well, MaMa, I may not have learned Mandarin, but I did learn a special language of my own: poetry. I’m sorry you can’t speak it, but I have friends who do, and I need to be with them tonight. I’m sorry if that displeases you.
“I promise to return home as soon as the slam—as soon as the poetry reading is over.”
Then I walk out the door before I lose my nerve. It isn’t every day I talk back to my parents!
DARRIAN
Mr. Winston, the librarian, was right. Studying poetry has taught me new ways to use language. Better yet, taking this class meant I got to meet some of the most newsworthy kids around, not to mention finding a girlfriend. Plus, I get to do a poetry slam for the first time. I’ve got so much material for a feature article, it was easy talking the editor of the yearbook into give me the space to write one.
JUNIOR NEWSMAN NABS HEADLINE
Now all I need to finish off the story is the name of the poetry slam’s winning team.
• • •
I can hardly believe it’s almost over already. In one way, it seems like we’ve been practicing our poems forever. In another way, it feels like we just got started. Crazy.
The last few weeks, even Papi started getting anxious, asking over and over again, “When is your poetry festival?”
“Poetry slam, Papi,” I corrected him. “It’s in a few weeks.”
Now, at last, the big day is here.
The auditorium is jam-packed. Kyle’s folks are here, and Angela’s.
I notice a little girl who looks like she could be Freddie’s sister, then I realize it must be Freddie’s niece, Carrie. She’s sitting with Angela’s family.
Jenesis doesn’t have any family in the audience, not unless you count that girl nodding in her direction.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” says Jenesis.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s Karen. From my foster home. She said she was coming, but I didn’t believe her.”
“Why’d you invite her, then?”
“I didn’t,” snaps Jenesis.
“Hey! Don’t bite my head off, chica!”
“Sorry.”
There’s one other person here for Jenesis, some woman sitting next to Mr. Ward’s wife. Jenesis stares at the lady for a long time. Later, I find out it’s a lady from Inspire Life Skills Training, an organization that helps foster kids after they turn eighteen and have to leave the system. From what Jenesis tells us, she’s going to need help like that.
The lady is there to talk to Jenesis about a new beginning. You can tell it’s a good thing, because Jenesis looks like someone switched on a light behind her eyes.
Valentina’s family takes up half a row. Exactly how many relatives does that girl have, anyway?
Then I see Li. At least, I think it’s Li. Her hair is loose, falling over her shoulders. She’s got on a bright red top that fits her just right, and her lips are darker than usual. Is she wearing lipstick? Whatever. Li looks—wow.
I don’t see Li’s parents with her, but she said they probably wouldn’t come. I can’t wait for a chance to steal a kiss. It will be easier without her parents around. Still, too bad they’re not here to check out what an amazing poet she is.
I keep looking around, checking off parents and trying
to find Papi. I have a hard time picking him out, but I know he’ll be here. I finally spot him a few rows back. The second I see him, I wave like a little kid. So much for trying to look cool!
And guess who’s sitting right behind Papi? Zeke and Shorty from the neighborhood! Shorty’s eyes catch mine and he gives me a thumbs-up. And I haven’t even done anything yet.
ANGELA
For once, I’m not the only one ready to jump out of her skin. Everybody backstage is pacing, half wishing the curtain would go up already, half wishing it wouldn’t. Except for Val and Tyrone. Tyrone and his buddy Wesley are deep in conversation. Catching up, I guess. As for Val, she’s too busy eyeing Raul Ramirez to be nervous. Can’t blame her, though. He’s as cute as everyone said.
I peek out into the audience and notice a few people holding paddles. One says 1, another says 2, and one says 2.5. They’re judging paddles, and the numbers go up to 5.
Tyrone says in most slams there are twenty-five poets, so you only get to present two poems each. There are fewer of us, though, so there will be three rounds, and each of us will get to present three poems, plus our group poems. You have to perform them, though, not read them, which means we’ve all been cramming like crazy to memorize every word. Whenever I stumble over a line, I think, Thanks, Mrs. Wexler! Then I begin the poem over again.
Speaking of Mrs. Wexler, that’s her sitting in the front row, right next to my mother! Guess she wants to check on her special project, meaning me. I’m glad she came, though. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her. Joining Mr. Ward’s class turned out to be a good thing, after all. I’ll say hello to her later. I might even admit that she was right. Or not.
I wish there weren’t any judges for this thing. After each poem, the judges will raise their point paddles and someone—Mr. Ward, I think—will write down the scores. I don’t even want to know mine. I just want to do my poems. That’s it. I’m kind of looking forward to the group poem, though. I know it’s worth five points, easy.
I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and repeat: “It’s going to be fine. It’s going to be fine.” Why? Because I am enough. I. Am. Enough.
Little by little, my heartbeat slows to an easy rhythm. I am calm. I feel confident. Kyle is right. I am plenty, and now I’m finally beginning to believe it.
I hear the curtain rising. I open my eyes and step into place beside my team. It’s showtime.
“Good evening, everyone,” says Mr. Ward. “Welcome to our first poetry slam!”
DARRIAN
Boom! Así como así, the slam is over, and we’re waiting for the final score. It’s impossible to tell which team is ahead. Most of us were too busy trying to remember our lines to keep up with the count. I figure it’s close, though. Still, I have my fingers crossed.
Mr. Ward studies the score sheet for the longest. He looks from one team to the other, then out at the audience. When he finally speaks, he says the one thing nobody expects.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll call this a draw,” says Mr. Ward.
A chorus of “What?” goes up around the auditorium. At first, people onstage are grumbling, too, especially the boys. But then Tyrone, whose poems were as good as anybody’s, steps forward and grabs the mike.
“Guys, we best take what we can get, because honest to God, we all know Team Girlz killed it.”
A big whoop shoots up from all the girls in the audience. A few boys still grumble, but most of us have to nod our heads. That’s when I turn to the girls’ team and start clapping. One by one, every other guy on the team joins me. Applause spreads like a wave until the entire audience is on its feet, clapping, cheering, and whistling for Team Girlz. If you ask me, it’s a beautiful thing.
The girls lift their arms in triumph, then hurry off the stage. Tyrone gives Jenesis a high five, and I bow to Li and Valentina. I’m surprised that Angela doesn’t look like a deer in headlights. She actually managed to get through the whole slam without fainting or choking on her words, which was something for her. “You did it!” Kyle tells her. Angela starts smiling like her face had invented it.
Mr. Ward is smiling, too.
“So what’d you think, Mr. Ward?” I ask him, taking out my notebook and pen. A good newsman gets all the quotes he can, right?
“I think we should do this again next year,” he says. “Are you up for that, Darrian?”
I think about the best way to answer his question. I think about why I came to his class in the first place. And then I look up at him and say, “Once you teach a bird to fly, you should expect him to use his wings.”
Mr. Ward grabs my shoulder and gives it a warm squeeze.
“I’ll see you, Darrian,” he says.
“See you, Mr. Ward.”
I reach for Li’s hand, and we leave the auditorium together. Just as we get to the exit, I notice an old Chinese couple slipping out. I think it’s Li’s parents.
“Li, look!” I point to Mr. and Mrs. Cheng. I’ve never seen my girl’s face light up like that. She looks from them, to me, and back again. I’m supposed to introduce her to Papi, and then we were going to hang out for a while with the rest of the gang and celebrate, but . . . I give her a kiss on the cheek and whisper, “Go. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”
Li’s hand slips from mine, and she runs to catch up with her parents. I’m happy they came. That’s plenty for her to celebrate.
Papi is waiting for me out in the lobby. He has tears in his eyes when he sees me. My eyes are a little wet, too.
It’s been some kind of night.
Tomorrow, I’ll sit down and write that article about the slam for the yearbook. But this last headline is just for me.
BOY FINDS POETRY IN A FATHER’S TEARS
Now, that’s what you call good news.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I hope you enjoyed Between the Lines. As in Bronx Masquerade, this novel explores the lives of many different characters. Right now, I want to focus on just one of them: Jenesis Whyte.
I spent several years in the foster care system when I was young, and as a result, I am especially sensitive to the incredible challenges experienced by teens who age out of the foster care system after their eighteenth birthday.
I was fortunate. I didn’t end up on the streets, like so many former foster kids do, but I did sleep on a lot of floors, and my older sister slept on her fair share of park benches. Lots of former foster kids experience much worse, and since Between the Lines is a novel about teens, I wanted to take the opportunity to shine a light on this subject. I did so through the story of Jenesis Whyte, the character in foster care who will soon age out of the system. There are teens like her on nearly every high school campus across the country.
Like most teens in foster care, Jenesis faced the very real possibility of becoming homeless once her foster care status was terminated at age eighteen. As a consequence, she was at risk of becoming vulnerable to the dangers of human trafficking and the ravages of the sex trade.
The statistics for former foster kids are alarming: 50 to 70 percent of former foster youth become homeless; 25 percent of the young men end up incarcerated; and the young women are six times more likely to have babies before the age of twenty-one. In other words, the odds are very much stacked against these teens. If they are to beat those odds, they need help.
Inspire Life Skills Training, Inc., is one of the organizations that offer critical assistance to former foster youth in need. That’s why I mentioned them, briefly, at the end of the novel, as a ray of hope for the Jenesis Whyte character. Jenesis may be a work of fiction, but thankfully, Inspire is not.
With six single-family homes scattered throughout Southern California’s Inland Empire, Inspire’s services include:
Providing affordable housing
Full-time education/job training
Life skills training
Part-time employment
<
br /> Mentoring
Access to professional counseling and medical care
Those who successfully complete the program go on to attend and graduate from college or vocational school, enter the job market, and establish their own financial independence. All it takes is a deep desire, hard work, and a little help from some friends.
Inspire Life Skills Training, Inc., is based in Southern California, but there are other organizations across the nation focused on meeting the needs of former foster youth.
Are you a teen about to age out of the foster care system? If so, consider reaching out to one of these organizations for help. Offering you help is the reason they exist.
inspirelifeskills.org
covenanthouse.org
theteenproject.com
alternativesforgirls.org
agingoutinstitute.org
childrenscabinet.org
beaconinterfaith.org
communityyouthservices.org
y2yharvardsquare.org
fosterclub.com
These are just a few of the organizations waiting to give you a hand up. For additional links, check my website: nikkigrimes.com.
Asking for help to transition can be difficult, I know. But if you get that help, you’ll be doing us all a favor, because, frankly, the world needs the gifts you have to offer.
Stay strong.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A great deal has been said about the solitary nature of writing, and I can’t argue the truth of it. However, it is also true that the journey of creating a book is one that, ultimately, draws a community of people together. Acknowledgments must be given.
Thanks to Lea Lyon, Steve and Jill Elliott, Jane Yolen, Kathy Montague, Elliot Asp, and Amy Malskeit, who generously shared work space, warm meals, listening ears, and comradeship during several all-important writing retreats at which much of this text unfolded.
