Bronx Masquerade (2 page)

I’m just about ready to sleep off the whole year when this teacher starts talking about poetry. And he rattles off a poem by some white guy named Dylan Thomas that sounds an awful lot like rap. Now, I know me some rap, and I start to thinking I should show Mr. Ward what rap is really all about. So I tell him I’ve got a poem I’d like to read. “Bring it on Friday,” he says. “As a matter of fact, from now on, I’ll leave time for poetry readings at the end of every month. We’ll call them Open Mike Fridays.” Next thing I know, I’m digging my old rap poems out of my dresser drawer and bringing them to school. I’m thinking it can’t hurt to share them, even if there’s no chance I’ll ever get to be a songwriter. After all, it’s the one thing I could see myself doing if there really was a future. And I’m thinking that maybe there could be if I wanted it bad enough. And all of a sudden, I realize I do.

OPEN MIKE

BY TYRONE BITTINGS

 

 

We are all here,
Leslie and Bad Boy, Lupe and Raul,
Here, here and here.
Dear Mr. Ward
with his wards and wardettes.
Let’s have a show of hands today.
Is Porscha here? Is Diondra here?
Where oh where is Sheila?
It’s me, Tyrone,
up here all alone
rapping into a microphone
’cause I’ve got something to say:
MTV is here, Mir and
morning space-walks are here,
terrorism is here
lurking at the bus stop.
Can’t hop on the subway
without thinkin’ of Tokyo
—
we all know poison gas
does not discriminate.
It’s too late to worry
about my innocence
since fear is here.
Why is it a weekend visit
to your local Mickey D’s
may be deadly?
Why hasn’t somebody
censored death?
Don’t hold your breath waiting.
Still you can chill and celebrate
all that’s great about life, like music
and the tick-tick-tick of time
which is equal parts yours and mine
to make of the world what we will.
But first, say no to coke, and smoke.
Say no to police brutality
and causing fatality.
Say no to race hate.
Don’t underestimate
the power of love.
But most of all
take two poems
and call me
in the morning.

I am not in the mood for Tyrone’s sorry “Baby, gimme some loving” routine, so when I see him in the hall, I storm past as if he’s not even there. Eventually, he’ll figure out why.

I come to school sporting shades and a johnny-print across my left cheek, Johnny being the name of the idiot who smacked me last night. Naturally, Porscha is the first person who notices my new tattoo. She walks straight up to me and says, “You deserve better, girlfriend. And you know it.” No hello. No how are you. Just: “You deserve better.” Then she turns away and walks into the classroom. Typical Porscha. No nonsense. That’s why we get along.

Then here comes Sheila Gamberoni. The minute she sees me, she demands to know the name of the guy who gave me my shiner, like she’s gonna send her brothers after him or something. I keep his name to myself, just in case. She commences to call the guy everything but a child of God, which makes her feel better, I think, then gives me a hug and says she’ll see me later. Sheila is a bit over the top with this sister act, as if she’s trying to make up for being white, but she means well. I can do without some of the other girls who stare at me, though. I know they’re just looking for something to talk about, so I rip off my sunglasses, let them get a better look.
Might as well stare all you want. This is the first and last time you’ll ever see me like this.

Of course, that’s what they all say. Nobody knows that better than me. My sister’s boyfriends have been beating on her for years. I made up my mind a long time ago, I’m not having none of that.

Last night I tried telling this to Johnny, who seems to be hard of hearing. He’d brought me home from a movie. He came in for a while, got comfortable since Mom was working overtime and we had the apartment to ourselves. We locked lips for a few minutes. Next thing I know, he’s fingering my shirt buttons. I push him away, gently at first. “I think we better slow down,” I say. “No, no,” he says, voice all husky. “It’s just getting good.” This time, his hand shoots up my skirt. Bad move. I jump off the sofa like it’s on fire. “Maybe it’s time for you to go.” He grabbed my skirt and tried pulling me back down, which is right about when I hauled off and smacked him. He leaped up and smacked me back.

My jaw dropped from shock, and I looked in his eyes and saw my sister’s reflection.

I turned away, strode to the door, unlocked it, and held it open for him.

“I hope you enjoyed yourself,” I said, “’cause that’s the last time you’ll ever lay a hand on me. Now get out!” He actually looked like he was studying on staying, so I stepped out into the hall and screamed at the top of my lungs, “I said get out!” Fearing trouble, he left.

Now I’ve got this ugly tattoo on my cheek. I thought about skipping school today, but I hate to miss English. Besides, the bruise is temporary and so is the pain. Still, I’d rather not have kids gawking at me all period, so I park myself in the back of the room and wait for Mr. Ward to call our English class to attention.

Mr. Ward is funny. Sometimes he asks us a question with no warning, and tells us to answer quick, without stopping to think about it. The truth is always right on the tip of your tongue, he says. It’s the fabrications that take a lot of time. Yesterday he asked us: “What do you know?” Yesterday I said my name, but today would be different. Today I’d tell him a woman ain’t no punching bag. That’s what I know.

OPEN MIKE

BY CHANKARA TROUPE

 

 

My pops used to hit my moms like that.

When I was little, I used to hide under my bed and cry, scared he was coming for me next. Damn, I ain’t thought about that in years. How could you do that, Pops? I don’t get it. Is that why he hung around? So he’d have somebody smaller than him to beat up on? I don’t even want to go there. I’m just glad he finally stopped drinking and cleaned up his act before he checked out. It gave us a chance to have some good times together.

Chankara was the third one up today. Her stuff was so deep, nobody wanted to follow her. There weren’t but two more people planning to read anyway, including me. We both decided to bag it ’til the next Open Mike.

Meanwhile, I’m going to be busy writing me a rap about dudes beatin’ on women. I’ll call it “Little Men,” ’cause that’s what they are.

Lunch is a memory of indigestion. Chankara sat across from me in the cafeteria and I couldn’t help staring at her. Her bruises are almost gone, but I can still see the shadows they left behind. If she was my
hermanita,
I’d squash the cockroach who messed her up like that. That’s what I was thinking when I remembered it ain’t nice to stare. So I ate too fast and got out of there before she could catch me.

Only twenty minutes’til class starts, and Mr. Ward don’t like it if I leave a mess on his desk, so that’s eighteen minutes to paint, plus two more for cleaning up and washing the paintbrushes. If Raynard gets here early, he’ll help. He always does, I don’t know why. Tyrone’s another story. He checks in early lots of times when I’m here, but he keeps his distance, usually. Once he came up behind me and watched over my shoulder while I worked. Made me kinda nervous, if you must know. The Ricans and the brothers don’t always hit it off. Anyway, he stood there for the longest. Then he grunted and said, “You good, man, I’ll give you that.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“You wasting your time, though. You know you ain’t gonna make no money doing this.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” I said. “But some things ain’t about money.”

“You tripping, man,” said Tyrone. “Money is the alpha and omega. Ask anybody.”

I just shrugged and gave him my “No hablo ingles” look, like I didn’t get what he was talking about. It was the quickest way to end the conversation.

People just don’t get it. Even if I never make a dime—which, by the way, ain’t gonna happen—I’d still have to paint.

Don’t get me wrong. Money is useful. I’m lucky Mr. Ward leaves brushes and watercolor paper for me to use, though I ain’t gonna tell him that. It’s none of his business I can’t afford fancy brushes and watercolor paper at home. Anyway, it’s good for him to help out the future Diego Rivera. He knows I’m the real deal. Didn’t he come to me for advice on how to decorate the classroom? The paper frames were my idea. Good work belongs in a gallery, I told him. Especially if it’s mine.

I never thought about writing poetry before, but Mr. Ward said he’s going to start videotaping our Friday sessions. Guess who’s going to be the first one in front of the camera. Of course, that means I have to write a poem, so I better get busy. Even if it’s hard, I’ll do it. I don’t mind working hard. Whatever it takes,
ιentiendes?
Raul Ramirez, painter-poet. Yeah. I like the sound of that.

Someday I’ll have a poetry reading and a one-man show at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe on the Lower East Side. I’ll hand out tokens to all my friends so they got no excuse not to take the ride downtown, okay?

My brothers laugh at me just ’cause they’ve been in the world a little longer. They say I’m
loco en la cabeza,
that ain’t no spic gonna be no big-time artist in America. “First off,” I tell them, “I ain’t no spic. And second, watch me.”

Abuelita says my talent is as old as her bones. She says I got it, and my stubbornness, from her father. He never did nothing with his talent, though. I asked her why not.
“Porque la familia
could not eat paint,” she said. So I will be the first painter in the family. That’s fine with me.

I’ve been drawing pictures all my life. I used to make my sister model for me. I’d bribe her with whatever I could scrounge up from returning soda bottles to the grocery. Eventually, I got tired of digging through trash for bottles, and she got bored modeling. Now it’s easier. My girlfriend sits for me. Every painter needs a model, right? Anyway, she knows if she’s nice to me, one day I’ll make her famous. Even if she’s not nice, I’ll probably paint her because she’s beautiful.

I want to show the beauty of our people, that we are not all
banditos
like they show on TV, munching
cuchfritos
and sipping beer through chipped teeth. I will paint los
niños
scooping up laughter in the sunshine and splashing in the temporary pool of a fire hydrant. I will paint my cousins, turning the sidewalk into a dance floor when salsa or la bamba spills from the third-floor window. I will paint Mami, standing at the ironing board late in the evening, after a day of piecework in the factory, sweat pouring off her, steam rising from a pot in the background, me tugging at her skirt while she irons. I will paint the way she used to smile down at me, the love in her eyes saying “I only do this for you.” Mami’s beauty is better than a movie star’s. It survives a kind of life where pamper is a noun, not a verb. I will capture that beauty on canvas, someday, when I am good enough.

For now, I draw in my sketchbook and paint portraits of myself for practice. But it’s not so bad. I’m handsome, after all.

OPEN MIKE

BY RAUL RAMIREZ

 

 

Call me Zorro, all swash and buckle while the
cameras roll, cape swinging in the breeze, teeth showing
as expected. I lunge on cue, save the damsel in
distress. I understand my role. I’ve studied all
those scripts and comic books. I used to pose for
close-ups, knew how to dutifully disappear
when the script said:
“Fade to black.
”
Then
I’d wait uncomfortably
between the lines
of my own story ’til
someone with skin like
milk yelled “Action!”
But I’m done. I’m too
old for comic heros. It’s
time to lose the cape,
step off the page, except I think I’ll keep the mask.
Why make it easy for you to choose whether I am
Zorro or el
bandito
when I am neither? Your
categories are too confining. The fact is, you’re more
comfortable with myth than man. But I am here to help. First
off, put down your camera. Second, give me your hand.

Raul is on the money. You gotta make your own rules, Jack. That’s the real 411. Forget who white folks think you are, ’cause they ain’t got a
clue.

That’s some strong stuff Raul be writin’. That “Z” thing was cool too. He was working it.

Frankly, I didn’t know Raul had it in him. Matter of fact, I didn’t know he knew that much English!