Locomotion

by Jacqueline Woodson

  Maybe they took themselves a three-day weekend.

  LaTenya comes over, walking all slow.

  She’s wearing her hair in lots of braids

  and she even got some cowry shells in some of them.

  And the cowry shells make a little bit of noise

  A nice noise.

  You know you got some pretty eyes, LaTenya says to me

  My eyes just eyes but LaTenya’s looking at them

  like she’s seeing them for the first time

  and maybe later on I’ll go back to Miss Edna’s house

  and look in the mirror at my eyes

  try to see what she’s seeing.

  Thanks, I say. And then I take another shot and miss

  and LaTenya laughs

  Guess they can’t see the basket so good though, huh?

  she says.

  But she’s only joking.

  Then she leans against the school yard fence

  and I take a few more shots

  and they go in

  Swish. Swish. Swish.

  I want to say I found God, Lili.

  And throw up my hands.

  And grin like somebody’s big old fool.

  POETRY POEM

  You don’t just get to write a poem once

  You gotta write it over and over and over

  until it feels real good to you

  And sometimes it does

  and sometimes it doesn’t

  That’s what’s really great

  and really stupid

  about poetry.

  ERIC POEM

  Lamont comes back on Monday morning

  but Eric doesn’t

  Ms. Marcus stands up in front of the class and coughs.

  Not a real cough. The kind of cough

  grown-ups get when they’d rather not

  be talking to you.

  The tall lady from the agency gets that cough

  when I ask her if me and Lili ever gonna live

  together again.

  Ms. Marcus says I have some sad news

  Eric is in the hospital.

  She says he has a disease

  and some of his cells are shaped funny.

  And sometimes, she says, that makes his life very painful.

  Can you catch it from him? Angel asks, looking scared.

  ’Cause me and him was hanging a lot and I don’t want

  no disease.

  No, Ms. Marcus says. It’s not contagious.

  She draws a shape on the board.

  Does anybody know what a sickle is, she says.

  Nobody raises their hand.

  I know what a sickle is. Slaves used it to cut

  sugarcane and stuff.

  I know a lot of other kids know too

  but our minds are busy wrapping themselves around

  Eric

  and all the pain in his body and how

  we never knew he had no disease.

  Ms. Marcus explains what a sickle is.

  Then she says, Eric has sickle-cell anemia.

  She coughs again and says

  It’s a disease that’s common . . .

  She stops talking

  looks around the room for a minute

  then she kind of whispers

  among African Americans.

  There’s six Puerto Ricans in our class—

  Manny, Lourdes, Jillian,

  Samantha, Carlos, and Sophia.

  There’s two Dominicans—Angel and Maritza.

  Gina and Cara are from Trinidad and

  Guy is from Jamaica.

  All the rest of us are from right here.

  All the rest of us are African American.

  Everyone looks around the room at everybody else.

  Do you die with that, Lamont wants to know.

  Not directly, Ms. Marcus says. But she doesn’t explain

  and nobody asks any more questions about dying.

  How long they gonna keep him

  in the hospital? Somebody else wants to know.

  I don’t know, Ms. Marcus says.

  His mother doesn’t know yet, Ms. Marcus says.

  Let’s hope not long though, Ms. Marcus says.

  Ms. Marcus says.

  Ms. Marcus says.

  Ms. Marcus says and the words circle

  round the room, bounce off the walls

  keep zooming

  past my head.

  Zip! Zap!

  Like they’re banging against it.

  I thought, Ms. Marcus says

  we could make him a card.

  I take a deep breath and put my head down on my

  desk.

  I try not to think of Eric’s angel voice singing in

  church.

  I try not to think of us shooting hoops together at

  lunchtime.

  My throat feels all choky though anyway.

  My whole body feels bent out of shape and strange.

  The last time Miss Edna came home and found me

  crying she said Think

  about all the stuff you love, Lonnie.

  Let those things fill your head.

  Popsicle

  Icicle

  Bicycle

  Sickle cell.

  Popsicle

  Icicle

  Bicycle

  Sickle cell.

  LAMONT

  Lamont comes in mad on Wednesday.

  Ms. Marcus makes believe she doesn’t see him sitting

  over there with his arms folded,

  his face all scrunched up staring out the window, his

  back the only thing facing front.

  Let’s take out our poetry notebooks, Ms. Marcus says.

  I want to work on haiku again today.

  I don’t like forms. I like free verse when you can write

  anything you want

  any way you want but Ms. Marcus says

  there’s a time for form and a time for free verse

  which I think is a stupid, very teacher thing to say.

  I ain’t writing no poetry, Lamont says. No black guys be

  writing poetry anyway.

  I already have my poetry notebook open but I close it

  real fast.

  What about Richard Wright, Ms. Marcus says. And

  Langston Hughes.

  Angel says I know Richard Wright. He lives on my block.

  His mom’s name’s Mrs. Wright.

  I know Langston Hughes too, Angel says.

  I see a little smile on Lamont’s face but he’s still

  sitting turned away

  from the whole class.

  Both of them died a long time ago, Ms. Marcus says. But

  she’s kinda smiling too.

  How’s he gonna be dead and still live on my block? Angel

  wants to know.

  He gives Ms. Marcus a look like she’s lost her mind.

  Pablo died, Angel says. He got shot by somebody last

  year. But not Richard.

  Richard Wright was right there playing basketball last

  Saturday. He could slam-dunk.

  But the rim’s bent so it don’t really count.

  Richard Wright—the poet—Ms. Marcus says

  wrote haiku. Langston Hughes—the poet—wrote all kinds

  of poetry.

  Richard Wright also wrote novels.

  Whole books? I ask. I didn’t know poets could write

  whole stories.

  Whole books, Ms. Marcus says.

  Lamont doesn’t say anything but I see his head turning

  front a little bit.

  He make a lot of money? Angel wants to know.

  Ms. Marcus picks up a book off of her desk.

  He wrote because he loved writing, she said.

  That’s what matters.

  Not if you broke, Angel says. The whole class laughs.

  Even Lamont.

  But he looks over where Eric’s empty chair is and then

  he st
ops laughing real fast.

  Do you think poor people aren’t happy? Ms. Marcus says.

  Angel shrugs. I don’t know. Don’t know any poor people.

  But when you see those pictures on TV of those kids who

  they want you to send money to,

  they don’t look happy to me.

  They just look hungry and sad.

  Ms. Marcus doesn’t say anything. She looks stuck.

  Real stuck and I feel

  kinda sorry for her.

  Let’s take out our poetry notebooks, she says again.

  Everybody but Lamont takes out their notebooks and

  just sort of stares down at them.

  Ms. Marcus sits down at her desk.

  She lets out a deep breath

  pushes her hair away from her face

  looks out at all thirty-two of us

  shakes her head.

  And for a long, long time just stares

  down at her hands.

  HIP HOP RULES THE WORLD

  Hip Hop Rules the World, Lamont said

  grinning like somebody had told him

  he’d just won the lotto.

  But all it was was Ms. Marcus saying

  Of course rap is poetry!

  One of the most creative forms.

  So now Lamont’s writing lyrics

  and bopping his head

  and every chance he gets

  saying

  Hip Hop Rules the World

  and

  It’s one of the most creative forms

  and

  Hey Dog! Guess who else is a poet now!

  PHOTOGRAPHS

  There’s two of me and Lili.

  We were little then, dressed up at Easter time

  Big smiles—me with two front teeth missing

  and my head shaved Easter clean.

  Here’s Mama and Daddy dancing,

  Mama’s blurry foot lifted up in the air.

  Look how she’s laughing.

  When I look at the picture I can hear it.

  Here’s the four of us

  Everybody smiling at the camera but

  me. I’m looking away from it

  frowning

  Like I see something coming

  that ain’t good.

  NEW BOY POEM III

  He says My name is

  Clyde not New Boy, not Country,

  not Straw Head Cotton-Picker Dirt-Eater Bumpkin.

  Just Clyde. Easy to say. Easy to remember.

  Why don’t soma y’all try to use it sometime.

  After all, he says

  I thought city people was supposed to be smart.

  HAPPINESS POEM

  This afternoon I come home to find

  Miss Edna dancing with the broom

  The broom’s swishing across the floor and Miss Edna

  got a tight hold on its blue handle and singing

  along with the radio. She’s kind

  of soft-shoeing the poor broom back and forth

  across the kitchen floor like her mind

  is gone. That’s what I’m thinking, praying

  Please Lord don’t let Miss Edna’s mind be gone

  ’cause I was just getting used to living here

  Please Lord me and her don’t always get along but

  she’s all I got right now when Miss Edna turns

  to me with the biggest smile I seen in a long time

  and says My Rodney is coming for Easter

  My Rodney is bringing himself on home for a while

  Then she’s swish-swishing off again with me

  just standing there feeling the relief lift me up and

  set me right back down in Miss Edna’s kitchen again.

  BIRTH

  When I was born I didn’t even

  weigh four pounds, Mama used to tell me.

  See this chicken I’m about to cut up and fry?

  You were even smaller than it. Doctors said

  there’s a little bit we can do but mostly you

  have to hope hard

  and pray.

  Mama cut the wing off the chicken, rinsed

  it under the faucet, patted it dry—real gentle

  like she was deep remembering.

  So I hoped and prayed and sat by that tiny

  baby every hour of every day for weeks

  and more weeks. Doctors said it’s his lungs,

  they’re just not ready for the world yet. Can’t

  take a breath in. Can’t let one out. So I breathed

  for you, trying to show you how, I

  prayed to those lungs, Mama said. Grow!

  The chicken was cut up, spiced up, dipped

  in flour and ready to fry. Mama touched each piece

  still real gentle before she slipped it into the hot

  oil. Then you were four pounds, five pounds, six pounds

  bigger than this chicken. My big little baby boy

  not even two months old and already

  a survivor.

  LILI’S NEW MAMA’S HOUSE

  The #52 bus takes a long time coming and even though

  it’s the first day of spring it’s still a little cold so when

  the #69 comes real fast, I think That’s God. And when

  the heat’s turned up real high inside the bus and I

  ain’t shivering no more, I think That’s God too.

  And then I’m walking the blocks to Lili’s new mama’s

  house and when I get there, I see Lili standing at the

  window waving and grinning and I think

  There’s God.

  Lili’s new mama lives on a pretty block with trees and

  brownstone houses that all look alike so if you don’t

  know the address you end up knocking on a stranger’s

  door even if you been there a couple of times before.

  Now I know Lili’s mama’s house is the one with yellow

  curtains on the second floor and, most times, with Lili

  in the window.

  We sit in the living room. It smells like lemon and Lili

  says, “That’s what we clean the floor with.” The floors

  are made of wood and there’s pretty rugs in different

  spots. Not a whole lot of furniture but enough to find

  a nice place to sit. I don’t lean back though cause Lili’s

  new mama will give me a look. There’s chocolate chip

  cookies and two glasses of milk on the coffee table.

  I take one cookie and eat it real slow even though I

  want to take a whole bunch at one time. Then I take

  a little sip of milk and make sure to set my glass back

  down on the coaster thing ’cause I know Lili’s new

  mama is watching me from the kitchen. There’s bright

  sun coming in through the big windows and the house

  is like this yellow-gold color and warm. Even though

  Lili’s new mama doesn’t like me, I’m glad that my sister

  has such a nice place to sleep at night. And I’m glad

  she has a nice room to sit in and eat chocolate chip

  cookies and drink milk outa blue glasses that make

  you think of nights up on the roof in the summertime.

  God’s in this room, I whisper to Lili.

  She looks at me a minute without saying anything.

  Then she smiles.

  God is everywhere, I say.

  And with the sun coming in the room that way

  and my sister smiling so big and the plate

  of cookies there if you want them, just take one

  at a time and chew it slow

  I feel Him, right there beside us.

  CHURCH

  On Sundays, the preacher gives everyone a chance

  to repent their sins. Miss Edna makes me go

  to church. She wears a bright hat

  I wear my suit. Babies dress in lace.

  G
irls my age, some pretty, some not so

  pretty. Old ladies and men nodding.

  Miss Edna every now and then throwing her hand

  in the air. Saying Yes, Lord and Preach!

  I sneak a pen from my back pocket,

  bend down low like I dropped something.

  The chorus marches up behind the preacher

  clapping and humming and getting ready to sing.

  I write the word HOPE on my hand.

  NEW BOY POEM IV

  Takes the soccer ball

  around the school yard eight times

  His feet are magic.

  TEACHER OF THE YEAR

  The news people from Channel 7 Eyewitness

  News came to our school. ’Cause guess what?

  Ms. Marcus is the Teacher of the Year.

  Ms. Marcus smiling all proud brought them

  right into our classroom and we all crowded

  around the cameras, pulling at the mikes, making

  faces into the camera, getting into trouble.

  Me and Angel was standing together and we

  heard the newsman talking to Ms. Marcus about

  inner-city and underserved and Angel looked at me

  That’s the nice way of saying poor, he said.

  What poor person’s daddy can afford to buy him

  hundred-dollar kicks? He held up his foot to the camera

  showing off his new sneaker. The newsman heard

  him. He put the mike in Angel’s face and said

  Tell me about this man.

  He don’t live with us, Angel said, but he comes every