Sister Slam and the Poetic Motormouth Road Trip

Lesson 1 Never Ignore Spam Because It's Not Always What It Seems

Lesson 2 You Don't Need a List for a Road Trip

Lesson 3 Never Run from Hitting a Pig

Lesson 4 Don't Get Cocky with Cops

Lesson 5 Expect Annoying People

Lesson 6 How to Take Lemons and Make Lemonade

Lesson 7 Never Start a Slam Without a Cup of Coffee

Lesson 8 Always Check Out the Judges Before a Slam

Lesson 9 Always Check the Gas Tank Before Leaving

Lesson 10 Never Let Your Best Friend Attack Your Sanity and Your Vanity

Lesson 11 Expect That Some Things Will Be Crappy

Lesson 12 Don't Look at Your Hair While Driving

Lesson 13 Always Be Ready to Be Struck by the Love Bug

Lesson 14 Always Look Your Best Because You Never Know Who You're Going to Wreck Into

Lesson 15 Never Wash Your Face in the Bidet

Lesson 16 Be Very Careful When Chewing Hard Cinnamon Hearts

Lesson 17 Always Perform Poems in Public When Someone Wants You To

Lesson 18 Expect Magic

Lesson 19 Never Expect a Marshmallow Fluff Kind of Life to Last Forever

Lesson 20 Always Go Home When There's Trouble

Lesson 21 Never Let Doctors Blame You for Their Patients' Problems

Lesson 22 Never Take Your Friggin' Soul Mate for Granted

Lesson 23 Dream, Believe, Fly

Acknowledgements

For Lola Schaefer:
a spectacular friend, writer, teacher,
critiquer. Thanks for helping bring
Sister to life.

Sister Slam I am.

I don't like spam.

Not the fake pink ham

that comes in cans,

or the electronic moronic

supersonic junk mail

that never fails to sail

through your computer screen

like an intruder seen

only by you.

It was the first of June,

and soon, by the next full moon,

I'd be loony with jubilation:

my graduation celebration

would be happening with my

too-little two-person family

in the House of Crapper.

I swear, by every

blood-red hair on my spike-cut head,

or lightning may strike me dead,

that this is my real name:

Laura Rose Crapper.

My lame-brained name

was my main claim to fame

at Banesville High School,

where I wasn't exactly in

the cool group.

The kids of cool in Banesville School

drove brand-new cars

and lived in fancy mansions,

where I liked to imagine

they had monkey butlers.

These kids lived mostly on Sutler

Boulevard, in the rich mountain part

of town.

Pops and I lived down in the hollow,

just us, in a teeny green

submarine of a mobile home,

and I drove

my mom's old clunker car—

a '69 Firebird—

the funky sick color

of rabbit turds

dried in the sun.

Plus, I was way past chunky.

In fact, I was downright

clown-white fat,

and big hippie chicks

in thick-soled

black combat boots

just didn't fit into

the cool kids' group

at Banesville School.

I was an Outsider,

a Misfit, a Freak.

“You leak pain

all over the place,”

announced Ms. Nace,

who was a space case.

She was the school counselor,

and a total waste of time.

“Whatever,” I said,

slumped on her dump

of a lumpy old couch.

“Maybe I'm just a grouch,

or a natural grump.”

“Perhaps it's depression,”

said Ms. Nace.

“The hurt shows on

your face, and in

the slow pace

of your walk. You sulk.”

I just let her talk.

The House of Crapper

used to be happier,

back before cancer

won the war

in my mom's body.

Mom died when I

was nine, in July.

She was only

thirty-five.

I wasn't fine, never again,

but I was
maybe
okay.

So anyway,

it was just a normal day

of formal blue-suit sky

and baby birds

chirping for worms

on the first of June,

and I was checking

my hotmail account,

deleting, weeding out

seedy stuff and junk,

when an ad from
Creative Teen 'Zine

caught my eye.

“Come Try,” it said

in the subject line.

“Try what?” I muttered,

then clicked the mouse

and read the message.

“It doesn't matter

if you're an amateur

or a pro poet. Nobody knows

until they try it, what a riot

it is to sizzle in competition

in the sport of spoken word.

Sixth Annual Tin Can, New Jersey,

Poetry Slam.”

Well, wham-bam, thank you, ma'am,

a poetry slam! This was the spam

that saved my life.

This was serendipity:

a true whippity-do

of a gift

come straight

from techno-heaven.

Ever since I was seven

and saw the poet laureate

of the entire United States,

just like an everyday person,

eating a Hershey bar

in the local 7-Eleven,

I'd been revvin'

my poetic inspiration,

ignited with the sensation

that someday I'd be

a famous poet.

I wanted to light up

the night with the genius

of my rhyme schemes.

Well, don't you know it:

this was my chance

to dance in my underpants

with Peter Pan,

the green-jeaned,

flyin' and rhymin' man.

I'd always wanted to slam.

And so had

my best friend, Twig,

an indie-goth-hippie chick like me,

only Pringle's Chip skinny,

whose parents named her for the limb

of a teeny-weeny tree.

Twig and me,

we were a team,

and it seemed

that most of the poets

on TV were like us:

they tended to cuss sometimes

without even trying,

and they weren't afraid

of crying.

They wore black

and they liked Jack Kerouac

and some were wacked

and needed Prozac.

Poets seemed bohemian:

somewhere in between

what-passed-for-normal

and the lunatic crazies

in the Banesville Home

for the Insane.

Well, right there

on that day of June first,

I decided that the worst

thing that could ever happen

was for me to remain forever

tethered to the House of Crapper.

I'd just get me some magic

and a map, and ZAP . . .

I'd travel this nation

and be a sensation!

Laura Rose Crapper

would be one happy rapper . . .

a jazzer, a beboppin', hip-hoppin'

Beat poet, the Queen of Cool,

don't ya know it!

But I'd be a fool,

and that's no bull,

to keep the name

of Laura Crapper,

which sounds like a slacker

or a toilet.

So I changed my name

right there on the spot,

and wow, was it hot,

so hot it sizzled

and blistered my fingers

like Crisco-fried ham.

My new name was Sister Slam!

But damn, Pops got way hot

under the collar

of his Dollar Store

working-stiff shirt

buttoned all the way up

to his neck. (Heck,

Pops puts up with

shirt suffocation

and the humiliation

of dirt-factory work,

all for the perk

of a three-week

paid vacation.

I don't know why,

but he wears a tie

to make cherry pie

at the Mrs. Smith's

factory on Sixth Street,

where the freakin' heat

makes his face

even geek-redder than ever.)

But I never

saw his face

as beet-red

as that day,

when I said that

I'd changed my name

and that after graduation day

I was going away

to take a place

in the Tin Can

Poetry Slam.

“You're not as big as you

think,” he sputtered.

“And you've never

driven farther

than the next town

over. And there's

not a thing

wrong with your name, Laura.”

He was disconcerted,

but I asserted

my decision, mister,

fixing my vision of fame

firmly in my brain.

“Sister Slam I am,”

I said,

and did he turn red.

I thought I was dead,

he was that red.

Father Strangles Daughter

with Dollar Store Necktie

would be the headline

in the
Daily Local

(Loco)
News
of Banesville—

Hicksville—Pennsylvania.

“I don't like green eggs

and ham,” I said gently,

hoping to joke

his face less red.

Mom and Pops

(before Mom was dead

and I was fat)

used to read

Dr. Seuss books

to me a lot—
The Cat in the Hat
,

and
Red Fish, Blue Fish
,

and
Green Eggs and Ham
—

and probably

that helped

make me into

Sister Slam.

My parents

rocked me to sleep

by reading heaps

of poetry:

Edna St. Vincent Millay

and William Blake,

Edgar Allan Poe

and Van Fernando,

some guy they used

to know in high school.

Mom and Pops

created this

word-addicted

cool-kid-evicted

fat chick

who wanted to be a

butt-kickin', shit-slingin'

road poet.

Pop's eyes misted,

and I knew

that he was wishing

that Mom were here,

missing her

as much as ever.

It never goes away:

the ache for what

used to be.

“Do what you want,”

Pops said,

shaking his head.

His voice was soft.

“You're eighteen,

and you think

you're an adult.

It's not my fault.

It's not your fault.

Do it. I can't stop you anyway.”

Hooray. Whuppity-do.

Wham-bam, thank you, Pops.

Damn, that was easier

than a spray of

fake grease

in a hot, sizzling

frying pan.

Better than butter

in the sun.

I grabbed Pops,

wrapping him

in a hug.

My new name—

my claim to fame

in life after Banesville High—

was Sister Slam.

Sister Slam I am.

Twig and me,

we were getting ready

to take our show on the road,

in my toad-colored bedroom.

It was the day

after our graduation

celebration, and

we were eating

leftover red velvet

cake with white cream frosting.

“That was awesome,

how your pops