A Dime a Dozen
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
PART I : Genius
The Dream
Stroll
On Quiet Feet
Hopscotch
Handel
Music Lesson
Hair Prayer
Yo te amo
Gin Rummy
Second Mother
Sister’s Skin
Genius
PART II : The Secret
Daddy’s Promises
Less Than Perfect
Travelin’ Man
Mother’s Best Friend
Empty Pockets
Foster Home
Untitled
The Secret
Morning Menu
PART III : A Dime a Dozen
The Last Word
Soul Food
Bilingual
Self
Something New
Family Movers
A Dime a Dozen
A Note About the Author
Published by Dial Books for Young Readers
A member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
345 Hudson Street New York, New York 10014
Text copyright © 1998 by Nikki Grimes
Pictures copyright © 1998 by Angelo
All rights reserved
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Grimes, Nikki.
A dime a dozen/ Nikki Grimes; pictures by Angelo. p. cm.
Summary: A collection of poems about an African-American girl growing up in New York City.
eISBN : 978-1-101-15352-9
1. Afro-Americans—Juvenile poetry. 2. Children’s poetry, American.
[1. Afro-Americans—Poetry. 2. American poetry.]
I. Angelo, date, ill. II. Title.
PS3557.R489982D’.54—dc21 97-5798 CIP AC
The translation for the Spanish words in Yo te amo is “I love you with/all my heart.”
http://us.penguingroup.com
For my father, James, who told me that I was one of a kind —N.G.
To my three musketeers—Vickie, Pam, and Gwen —A.
Where Do Writers Come From?
I get all sorts of questions when I visit schools or speak at young writers conferences these days. Most people want to know what my background is, who inspired or influenced me, and how I came to be a writer.
So lately I’ve been thinking a lot about my childhood, my family, and the events—both good and bad—which have helped shape me. I’ve chosen a few of them to write about in this collection. These poems answer some of the most commonly asked questions, like: Did I become a writer because everyone thought I’d be good at it?
By the way, the answer to that one is NO! My mother thought it was a horrible idea, and the people in my neighborhood said, “Writers don’t come from ’round here!”
Looks like they were wrong, doesn’t it? That just goes to show, it pays to listen to your own heart!
PART I : Genius
The Dream
Oh! To poet
like a laser,
pierce darkness
with one word!
Stroll
Every time
we go walking
my long legs
gobble up
the distance
four times as fast
as Mom’s
short stems.
“Wait up,” she begs,
suggesting that
we match
our steps.
But
I set my own pace
’cause Spirit says
I’m heading places
that aren’t marked
on my mother’s
map.
On Quiet Feet
When my dad walks
into a room,
or down
the street,
he inches
up on me
silent
as shadow,
and I don’t know
he’s there
until I feel
his hug.
Sometimes
when he is
near
I might even
hear
his heart beat—
but never
his quiet
feet.
Hopscotch
His too-big feet
fill the chalk square
of my hopscotch box
but he doesn’t care
or seem to notice
the kids across the street
laughing out loud
each time his size tens
spill over the white line.
“You doin’ just fine,”
I tell him, and wink.
I’ll keep my dad, I think.
Handel
Some evenings
my father prays before
his music stand
and lays hands
on his violin
as if the wood
were holy.
We, silent
by the stereo,
relax while
Handel preaches
a sermon-song
through piccolo,
cello and bass,
trombone and kettledrum.
I fold my hands
and hum
until the music fades.
Then Daddy gently
lifts his bow
and plays
a violin solo.
He shatters
heaven’s crystal floor
with melody
that rings so pure
the angels pause
to listen while
I whisper,
That’s my daddy!
Music Lesson
The choir paints
the sanctuary walls
with bands of sound
more glorious than gold
And all around
the altar, voices raise
in matchless harmonies
of perfect praise—
Perfect, except
for Mom, who tonelessly
expands the meaning of
the phrase “off-key.”
She swears I’ll miss
her singing when she’s gone.
Says she, “Not all folks get
the gift of song.”
That may be true,
But miss her singing? Wrong.
Hair Prayer
I used to brush
her long black waves
each day until they’d shine,
And ask the Lord
for hair like Mom’s
instead of hair like mine.
“I wish I had
your short tight curls,”
Mom said to me one day.
“They frame your face
so perfectly.
I can’t get mine that way.”
I guess I’ll keep
the hair I have.
To change it would be wrong.
It suits me rather well. Of course,
I knew that all along.
Yo te amo
Maybe there’s some
scientific reason
she gets the urge to hug
whenever we’re
jammed together
in the rush-hour huddle.
Thank God, she knows better
than to cuddle—in public.
Instead, while the train
screeches to the next station
she leans down
to whisper in my ear
Yo te amo con
todo mi corazón.
If no one else can hear
I figure it’s okay
to smile.
Don
’t ask me
who she learned
that expression from
but someone
must’ve told my mom
that Spanish is
the language of love
’cause
she’s been speaking
mushy Puerto Rican
to me
for years.
Gin Rummy
If I could choose
I’d never lose
a game of cards.
But every time
Mom wants to play
I play.
More times than not
my mother’s luck
is running hot,
while mine is
icy cold.
When I am old
perhaps I will
admire Mother’s
proven skill.
But now...
I must confess
I’m honestly
my happiest
when Mother
lets me win
a hand or two
of gin.
Second Mother
Stop calling me your “baby.”
Don’t call me “Little Bit.”
Every time I
hear those words
I grind my teeth
and spit.
Besides,
I’ve got
a proper name—
and Baby
isn’t it!
Stop calling me your “baby.”
Don’t call me “Little Miss.”
You’re not my
mother anyway.
Remember? You’re
my sis!
Sister’s Skin
Her velvet skin’s
an
ebon
hue
In summer sun
it’s
nearly
blue
I once dreamt I
was
dark
as
she
And
Everybody
envied
Me.
Genius
“Sis! Wake up!” I whisper
in the middle of the night.
Urgently I shake her
till she switches on the light.
The spiral notebook in my hand
provides her quick relief.
It tells her there’s no danger
of a break-in by a thief.
“Okay,” she says, then props herself
up vertically in bed.
She nods for me to read my work.
I cough, then forge ahead.
The last verse of my poem leaves
her silent as a mouse.
I worry till she says, “We have
a genius in the house.”
PART II : The Secret
Daddy’s Promises
“We’ll go to the zoo,”
you said
“I’ll come by at two,”
you said
I sat by the door
to wait
The evening hour
grew late
I cried in bed
again
and wondered if
or when
you’d learn to keep
your promises
Less Than Perfect
A half-empty bottle
of blackberry brandy
drips its
sticky poison
on Mother’s nightstand.
She waves me
to my room
with trembling hand
and, like always, says
“Mommy’s just
tired, honey.”
So I pretend not to see
the berry-stained
shot glass
within her anxious
grasp.
Travelin’ Man
We’re on the road
just Dad and me
in his dusty black MG.
We’re going
it doesn’t matter where
as long as we go there
together.
Sometimes
when he leaves alone
I worry that
he might be gone
forever.
Mother’s Best Friend
When Ruby comes
she flips my mother’s
giggle switch,
and soon
Mom’s shadow of a grin
brightens into
a smile so wide
I could dive
into her dimples
and disappear
for days
and not be missed.
How could this
be the person
who hides inside
my mother’s skin?
Maybe next time
Ruby comes
she’ll leave this
laughing mom
behind
a little longer
for me.
Empty Pockets
I used to wish
Dad would stop
gambling
with his
borrowed
money
and Mom’s
buried
love.
Foster Home
I remember one foster home
how the mom reached out
that first day
and gathered me in her arms
how I pulled away
unable to explain that her
comforting embrace felt like
borrowed love
and I was afraid to slip it on
like a warm coat in winter
just in case
she might later
tap me on the shoulder
demanding
its return.
Untitled
It happened
to Maria
Malik
and Danny Gold;
To Javier
and Suki
Jim Roth
and Suzy Chow.
My parents
got divorced
last month
... I guess
I fit in now.
The Secret
She thinks I don’t see her
staring after Dad
when he walks out
the door but
I do. I catch him too
sneaking a lonely
peek at Mom
out the corner of his eye.
Why can’t they see
how much they still
want to be
together?
Morning Menu
“Dad, you are hopeless
in the kitchen,”
I tease every time
I come to visit.
Then I make him sit
at the table
while I sizzle up bacon
and fry eggs over easy
like Mom taught me.
And it’s a good thing
’cause Dad is nothing
but bones and skin—
especially thin
for someone
six feet tall,
and all he knows
about cooking
is that the word
begins with C.
That’s why
he needs
Me.
PART III : A Dime a Dozen
The Last Word
I peeled several potatoes
and tossed them in a pot.
Chop!
Said Grandma, “You should boil them first,
then peel them while they’re hot,”
Chop! Chop!
When they were done, I cubed them
into pieces one-inch thick.
Chop!
“No! No!” said she. “You slice them fine.
Like so. I know the trick.”
Chop! Chop!
“This recipe is mine,” I said.
(As if she cared a lick!)
Chop!
> “Just do it my way. Do it right.
Here! Hand me the knife!
Chop! Chop!
“You’d better learn to cook well
if you want to be a wife.”
Chop! Chop!
“I’ll have you know, I’ve made
this salad many times before.
Chop!
“I’m grateful for your help
but I don’t need it anymore.”
Chop!
“No need to get all huffy,”
said she, handing back the knife.
Chop! Chop!
I asked, “Oh, by the way,
who said I planned to be a wife?”
Chop!
Soul Food
“Soul food is really
not my thing.
I have no taste
for chitterlings,
though black-eyed peas
and rice are nice,”
I told my mom
when I was young.
“I don’t eat oxtail
soup or tongue,
but yams, collard
greens, and kale—
Mmm, mmm, mmm!
Lordy-Lord!
Just don’t cook them
in fatback
because I don’t
eat Black.”
Bilingual
My girlfriend
Guadalupe knows