Bronx Masquerade (9 page)

Me and Wesley usually team up, going back and forth, with Sterling on guitar layin’ down the beat. Sometimes we let Chankara jump in. She ain’t half bad either, but then, she’s a sister. What you expect? But Steve? Please. So of course I laughed.

“Boy,” I said. “Sit your white butt back down before you hurt yo’self.”

“Give the guy some slack,” said Sterling. See why we call him Preacher?

“Yeah, brother,” said Steve.

“You hear this white boy?” I said. I’m thinking he must like to take his life in his hands.

Wesley studied Steve a minute. “The question is, do you flow?” I figured that would be the end of it, ’cause I was sure Steve wouldn’t even know what the brotha was talking about. How could he?

“Yeah,” said Steve. “I flow.”

“Guys?” said Mr. Ward. “Today?”

I shook my head. “Yeah, okay, Teach.” I cut my eyes at Steve, betting this boy had never done a cipher in his life.

“Just try to keep up,” I told him. “Y’all ready?”

Preacher set up the beat, and we took off.

And guess what? That white boy can flow. Makes you kinda wonder ’bout his family tree, now don’t it?

What else can that boy do that I don’t know about?

OPEN MIKE

BY TYRONE BITTINGS, STEVE ERICSON, AND WESLEY “BAD BOY” BOONE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If anybody had to catch me, I guess I’m glad it was Wesley.

I was in the doorway of a classroom watching Porscha as she walked by. No. That’s not right. I wasn’t watching Porscha, I was watching the way she walked, trying to study it. Then, once she turned the corner, I stepped into the hall and walked just like her. That’s when Wesley caught me.

“Girl, what is your problem?”

That’s the same question my mother and father keep asking me, although they don’t use the exact same words. “What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you be like your sisters?” I want to know that too. Why
can’t
I be like them, be like somebody? I hate sticking out.

Everybody around me is dark and ethnic. Which is in, by the way. Look at all the supermodels. They’re from places like Venezuela and Africa and Puerto Rico. Then there’s me, white bread and pale as the moon. I can’t even tan without burning myself. I look around my neighborhood and this school, and nobody looks like me. I keep thinking if I could just stick out less, if I could learn to walk and talk like the kids around me, maybe I would fit in more. I don’t know. Maybe it’s a dumb idea. Wesley sure thinks so. When he pulled me aside in the school hall and I tried to explain why I was copying Porscha’s walk, stupid was the word he used. The minute he said it, I felt my cheeks go red. That’s not the color I was after. I jerked away from Wesley and avoided his eyes.

“Okay, maybe it was stupid. But I just want to fit in. I’m tired of being different, all right?” Suddenly I thought, Why am I trying to explain this to Wesley? He’s Black. He already fits in. “Forget it,” I said, beginning to walk away. “You don’t understand.”

“Oh, get a clue, girl! Everybody’s different. It don’t matter what your skin color is, or what name you call yourself. Everybody is different inside, anyway. We’re all trying to fit in. Ain’t nothing new about that.”

“Great!” I said. “Since you’re so smart, tell me what I’m supposed to do!”

Wesley shrugged. “Hey, I don’t know what to tell you, except be yourself.”

“Wonderful! Pearls of wisdom. Thanks a lot.”

Wesley put his hand on my shoulder. “Sheila,” he said, “you want to hang with brothas and sistas, it ain’t no big thing. Just don’t try to be them. Keep your name, change it—whatever. A name is a personal thing and I’m not going to get into that. But why you want to change who you are? Soon as you get out of here, you’re going to go to a college or get a job where everybody else is as blond and blue-eyed as you. They walk like you and talk like you. What’re you going to do, then? Change yourself back?”

The truth of his words pinned me to the wall. I never even stopped to think about the future, about leaving this school, this neighborhood, maybe even this city. All I ever think about is now, because now hurts so bad.

“I guess you’re right,” I said. “Yeah, well.” A couple of sisters passed by and threw us a dirty look. Wesley dropped his hand from my shoulder and shifted from one foot to another, suddenly uncomfortable.

“Look, at least in Mr. Ward’s class, we make it easy. You want to hang, you want to fit in? It ain’t no big secret. Just bring your poetry every Open Mike Friday and share right along with the rest of us. It’s that simple.”

“Yeah, I guess I can do that. I did it that one time.”

“Yes, you did. Hey, I’m out of here,” said Wesley.

He jogged down the hall to his next class before I could thank him. Halfway there, he turned back and yelled, “By the way, forget Porscha’s walk. It ain’t working for you.”

I don’t know where it came from, but somewhere inside myself, I found a smile.

OPEN MIKE

BY SHEILA GAMBERONI

 

 

That girl’s threatening to be a regular feature. This is the second week in a row she’s brought something to read for Open Mike Friday. Except for me and Wesley, I don’t think anybody’s read two times in a row. But hey, she can read all she wants. Least she ain’t talking that Africana mess no more. Good thing too. Now even Judianne can stand to have her in the same room.

If that girl ain’t careful, somebody might actually end up liking her.

Jojo asked me to marry him yesterday. When Tyrone heard me telling Lupe that, he laughed his head off.

Jojo is eight years old. He’s one of the kids I tutor at the public library. I was there yesterday helping him prepare for a math test when he suddenly cocked his head, looked up at me and said, “Miss Janelle, you’re the most beautifulest lady on this whole planet.”

“Thanks, Jojo.”

“I been thinkin’, Miss Janelle. Maybe we should get married.”

Just like that! Out of the blue. Jojo sounded so serious, it was hard not to laugh. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings though, so I pretended to cough a couple of times and covered my face.

“Well! I’ll have to think about that,” I said. “But first, we have to get you into the fourth grade. Deal?”

“Deal,” he said. Jojo’s such a cutie.

I’m glad somebody finds me beautiful, even if he is just eight years old! But maybe he’s not the only one, though. Not anymore. The kids in Mr. Ward’s class sure look at me differently these days. I noticed that at the last Open Mike Friday.

When I first got up to read, I was my usual self. I sucked in my stomach, walked slow to make sure nothing jiggled, and tugged down on my shirt, like I could really hide my extra pounds under there. I waited for Mr. Ward to switch on the video and then started to read.

I looked up from the page a few times and noticed kids in the front row with their eyes closed, smiling. Amy and Tanisha nodded every now and then, like I’d said something familiar, something they understood. Judianne, Leslie, and Porscha leaned forward so they could hear every word. Everybody really listened to what I had to say, even the guys. Tyrone, Wesley, Steve, Raul, Devon—they all stared at me like I was someone special. And nobody cared about the size of my body. Not even me.

OPEN MIKE

BY JANELLE BATTLE

 

 

I’ve been busy lately
carving a door of words
without a lock in sight.
Your ear is the key
that lets you into me.

 

 

When no one is looking
I check to see
if anyone else seems
as scared as me,
or lonely, or shy,
or insecure.
Is it just me?
I’m not so sure.

 

Janelle made it into the paper. I did too—in the group shot, looking all fuzzy. Devon was the only one got a close-up. They just love them pretty boys. That’s okay. I got my name in there.

Mr. Ward brought the paper to school and held it up for the class to see. “Look at this headline,” he said. “‘Student Poets Bloom in the Bronx.’ That’s you guys!”

I don’t know who was prouder, us or Mr. Ward.

He brought a few extra copies of the paper for the class, and passed them around for anyone who hadn’t seen it. I’d already bought my own, though. I had to, ’specially since they quoted what I said about how our poetry gives us a release, how it helps us relate to one another. They said our stuff was “energetic” and “rich in positive social messages.” My moms will frame this puppy, for sure.

I called the reporter this afternoon and thanked him for writing such a nice piece. I told him about our assembly. “We’ll be jamming,” I told him. “Why don’t you come check us out?” He said he’d try to make it.

Maybe we can get us another write-up out of this. You never know.

I went to Janelle’s this afternoon to study. Of course, before we could get started, she wanted to dish about Raul. Him and me had our first date over the weekend and, as far as Janelle’s concerned, it’s the biggest news since we all had our pictures splashed across the local paper. I know she’s been dying to find out what happened. She called me twice, but I was at the library. She left a message asking if we planned on doing a love poem duet for assembly in a few weeks. That girl’s crazy! I am looking forward to our last Open Mike Friday, though.