Bronx Masquerade (3 page)

If only I was as bold as Raul. The other day, he left one of his paintings out on Mr. Ward’s desk where anybody could see it. Which was the point. He sometimes works at Mr. Ward’s desk during lunch. The wet paintbrushes sticking up out of the jar are always a sign that he’s been at it again. So of course, anybody who glances over in that direction will be tempted to stop by and look.

This particular painting was rough, but anyone could tell it was Raul. A self-portrait. He’ll probably hang it in class. Back in September, Mr. Ward covered two of the classroom walls with black construction paper and then scattered paper frames up and down the walls, each one a different size and color. Now half the room looks sort of like an art gallery, which was the idea. We’re supposed to use the paper frames for our work. Whether we put up poems or photographs or even paintings is up to us, so long as the work is ours and we can tie it in with our study of the Harlem Renaissance. I guess Raul’s self-portrait fits, since we’ve been talking a lot about identity. He’ll probably put it up next to his poem. You should have seen him hang that thing. You’d think he was handling a million-dollar masterpiece the way he took his time placing it just so. If you look close, you can see the smudges where he erased a word or two and rewrote it. Mr. Ward must be in shock. He can never get Raul to rewrite a lick of homework or anything else. And don’t even talk to him about checking his spelling! He’ll launch into a tirade on you in a minute. “What?” he’ll snap. “You think Puerto Ricans can’t spell?” Forget it. Anyway, I dare you to find one misspelled word in that poem of his! Maybe it’s a visual thing. Maybe he wants his poem to look as good as his self-portrait. And it is good.

I’ve never tried doing a self-portrait, but why not? I could maybe do one in charcoal. I like drawing faces in charcoal. I’ve been drawing since I can’t remember when. Not that anyone here knows that, except Tanisha, and she found out by accident when she came to my house to study once and saw a couple of drawings hanging in my room. Mom loves my watercolors and she hung one in the living room, but it isn’t signed. Nobody ever mentions it, especially not my father. He’s not too wild about my art. Mostly, he’s disappointed, first off that I wasn’t born a boy, and second that I won’t play ball like one. I’m six feet tall, almost as tall as he, and he figures the height is wasted on me since I don’t share his dreams of me going to the WNBA. I keep telling him not to hold his breath.

I hate always being the tallest girl in school. Everybody expects me to play basketball, so they pick me for their team, throw me the ball, and wait for me to shoot. Big mistake. I fumble it every time. Then they have the nerve to get mad at me, like I did it on purpose! But basketball is not my game. I have no game. I’m an artist, like Raul. The difference is, I don’t tell anybody. I refuse to give them new reasons to laugh at me. The Jolly Green Giant jokes are bad enough.

Yeah, it’s definitely time to try a self-portrait. I think I’ll paint myself in front of an easel. With a basketball jersey sticking up out of the trash. Then I could hang it in Mr. Ward’s class. See if anybody notices.

OPEN MIKE

BY DIONDRA JORDAN

 

 

 

 

 

If the sista read any faster, I’d be looking for her Supergirl cape. Talk about nervous! Diondra’s hands were shaking the whole time she was holding that poem. She sure spooks easy for somebody so tall.

“Yo!” I said. “Take a deep breath. Ain’t nobody going to hurt you here.” She smiled a little and tried to slow down. But I swear that girl burned rubber getting back to her seat when she was through. I guess she’s not exactly used to the limelight.

She’s got plenty of company. Four more kids read their poetry for the first time today. They were shaking in their boots, but it was all good. I only had to tell one of them to loosen up. Guess you could call that progress!

Jump Shot. What kind of name is that? Not mine, but try telling that to the brothers at school. That’s all they ever call me.

You’d think it was written somewhere. Tall guys must be jocks. No. Make that tall people, ’cause Diondra’s got the same problem. Everybody expects her to shoot hoops. The difference is, she’s got no talent in that direction. Ask me, she’s got no business playing b-ball. That’s my game.

I’ve got good height and good hands, and that’s a fact. But what about the rest of me? Forget who I really am, who I really want to be. The law is be cool, be tough, play ball, and use books for weight training—not reading. Otherwise, everybody gives you grief. Don’t ask me why I care, especially when the grief is coming from a punk like Wesley. Judging from the company he keeps, he’s a gangsta in sheep’s clothing. I don’t even know why he and Tyrone bother coming to school. It’s clear they don’t take it seriously, although maybe they’re starting to. That’s according to Sterling, who believes in praying for everybody and giving them the benefit of the doubt. I love the preacher-man, but I think he may be giving these brothers too much credit. Anyway, when I hang around after school and any of the guys ask me: “Yo, Devon, where you going?” I tell them I’m heading for the gym to meet Coach and work on my layup. Then once they’re out the door, I cut upstairs to the library to sneak a read.

It’s not much better at home. My older brother’s always after me to hit the streets with him, calls me a girly man for loving books and jazz.

Don’t get me wrong. B-ball is all right. Girls like you, for one thing. But it’s not you they like. It’s Mr. Basketball. And if that’s not who you are inside, then it’s not you they’re liking. So what’s the point? Still, I don’t mind playing, just not all the time.

This year is looking better. My English teacher has got us studying the Harlem Renaissance, which means we have to read a lot of poetry. That suits me just fine, gives me a reason to drag around my beat-up volumes of Langston Hughes and Claude McKay. Whenever anybody bugs me about it, all I have to say is “Homework.” Even so, I’d rather the brothers not catch me with my head in a book.

The other day, I duck into the library, snare a corner table, and hunker down with
3000 Years of Black Poetry.
Raynard sees me, but it’s not like he’s going to tell anybody. He hardly speaks, and he never hangs with any of the brothers I know. So I breathe easy. I’m sure no one else has spotted me until a head pops up from behind the stacks. It’s Janelle Battle from my English class. I freeze and wait for the snickers I’m used to. Wait for her to say something like: “What? Coach got you
reading
now? Afraid you’re gonna flunk out and drop off the team?” But all she does is smile and wave. Like it’s no big deal for me to be in a library reading. Like I have a right to be there if I want. Then she pads over, slips a copy of
The Panther
&
the Lash
on my table, and walks away without saying a word. It’s one of my favorite books by Langston Hughes. How could she know? Seems like she’s noticed me in the library more often than I thought.

Janelle is all right. So what if she’s a little plump? At least when you turn the light on upstairs, somebody’s at home. She’s smart, and she doesn’t try hiding it. Which gets me thinking. Maybe it’s time I quit sneaking in and out of the library like some thief. Maybe it’s time I just started being who I am.

OPEN MIKE

BY DEVON HOPE

 

 

Shoot. If I had moves like Devon, I’d be cruising crosscourt with Scotty Pippin! That’s probably what the brotha’s gonna end up doing, anyway, ‘cause he ain’t half the word-man I am. ’Course, I probably been at it longer.

He might get better. I said
might.
And who knows? Muhammad Ali was a boxer
and
a poet. Maybe it’s time for another hoop-man to rise to the occasion and show Shaquille he ain’t the only word-man on the court.

Janelle’s got a thing for Devon, but she ain’t the only one. Last week I seen some girl named Beth in here staring at him like he was chocolate ice cream she couldn’t wait to spoon up. She don’t even belong in this class. Come to think of it, a lot of extra kids been showing up in our class on Open Mike Fridays. They heard about the poetry and they been coming to check it out. A bunch of teachers are getting mad at Mr. Ward with all these kids skipping their classes. Everybody’s talking about it.

Poor Mr. Ward. He sends students back where they belong—when he catches them. Our class is big, though, and it’s easy to duck down behind someone in the back of the room and hide. Sometimes we’re halfway through the period before he notices someone who doesn’t belong. But he caught Beth last week, and I saw Janelle grinning. She don’t have Devon yet, but still she wants him all to herself. I know that feeling, when you love somebody like that. And not just a guy.

I love my Rosa.

Rosa is so beautiful. I wish I could bring her to school. Mr. Ward would love her. Her toes are like tiny
churros
you want to nibble all the time. And I do, whenever my big sister, Christina, has me over to baby-sit. She smiles more than she did before she had Rosa. Or maybe she’s just happy to be out of the house. I would be. There’s nothing for me there, that’s for sure.

My brother, Tito, left long ago, and then Christina. So it’s just me now, with Mami and her husband, Berto. Besides her factory job, all she cares about is him. As for Berto, he’s got no use for nobody’s kids, even Mami’s.

Why does she put up with him? All he does is belch beer and scream at her to bring him and his buddies more while they sit around playing dominos or watching fights on TV.

“I bet Papi doesn’t guzzle beer all the time,” I often say to Mami.

“You don’t know what he does, Lupe,” she always says. “How could you? You were only five when he left. And he left on his own, Lupe. Pero, what did I expect? He was a
jíbaro
through and through. He couldn’t
wait
to get back to his precious mountains ! And this is the man you love? But Berto, who puts food in your mouth, him you despise.
¡Dios mio!”

I hate it when she calls Papi a hick, the way she spits the word out.

I used to write him. So many letters. But he never wrote back. Why, Papi? There’s nobody here to love me now. Mami has Berto, Tito has his
carnales
on the streets, Christina has Chooch and Rosa. And me? Raul’s been giving me the eye lately, but he can forget it. He’s too much in love with himself, always drawing pictures of his own face. What’s that about? Besides, I already got a man. My Marco. Except, Marco hardly has time for me, even though he claims I’m his woman, his one and only.

Sometimes I say my rosaries and beg for someone to love. I lay in bed under the crucifix and pray ’til my fingers go numb on the beads.

Lately when I look at Rosa, I think I should do like my friend Gloria Martinez. I should make a baby of my own. Maybe that’s the answer.

I like Marco good enough. I don’t want to marry him, but he’s cute. We’d make pretty babies together, I think.

I’ve always loved babies. When I was younger, I would wrap my doll in the lace from my first Communion and I’d show her off to all my neighbors.
“Mira, mira,”
I’d say. “See my baby. Isn’t she perfect?” And she loved me better than anybody, because I was her mother. It was only pretend, of course. But if I had a real baby, she would love me like that. The way Gloria’s baby loves her. The way Rosa loves Christina.

I saw Gloria and her baby in the grocery last night. I waved to them and all the time, I’m thinking, Gloria, you have no idea how lucky you are.

OPEN MIKE

BY LUPE ALGARIN

 

 

So, the daydreamer speaks.

Every time I look at Lupe, she seems like she’s somewhere else. Or maybe she just wants to be. Maybe she’s thinkin’ about the guy in that poem. But if she is, how come she never smiles?

Pampers. Apple sauce. Strained peas.
I look up for a minute, see Lupe smiling at me. I nod, then go back to making my list.
Orange juice. Baby powder. Soy milk.
I didn’t even know what soy milk
was
a year ago.

“Gloria.” Raynard pokes me in the arm, gestures toward the front of the room. Mr. Ward is heading in my direction. I put my shopping list away before he can ask me what soy milk has to do with Zora Neale Hurston and the book he’s been reading to us,
Their Eyes Were Watching God.
I turn to Raynard and nod thanks. He doesn’t say much, but he always looks out for me.