Bronx Masquerade Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  OPEN MIKE - Attendance

  Chankara Troupe

  OPEN MIKE - Bruised Love

  Tyrone

  Raud Ramirez

  OPEN MIKE - Zorro

  Tyrone

  Diondra Jordan

  OPEN MIKE - If

  Tyrone

  Devon Hope

  OPEN MIKE - Bronx Masquerade

  Tyrone

  Lupe Algarin

  OPEN MIKE - Brown Hands

  Tyrone

  Gloria Martinez

  OPEN MIKE - Message to a Friend

  Tyrone

  Janelle Battle

  OPEN MIKE - inside

  Tyrone

  Leslie Lucas

  OPEN MIKE - Common Ground

  Tyrone

  Judianne Alexander

  OPEN MIKE - Cocoon

  Tyrone

  Lupe

  OPEN MIKE - El Noche

  Tyrone

  Janelle

  OPEN MIKE - Mirror, Mirror

  Tyrone

  Tanisha Scott

  OPEN MIKE - For the Record

  Tyrone

  Devon

  OPEN MIKE - BlacK Box

  Tyrone

  Sterling S. Hughes

  OPEN MIKE - D-Train

  Tyrone

  Diondra

  OPEN MIKE - High Dive

  Tyrone

  Amy Moscowitz

  OPEN MIKE - Ode to Stone

  Tyrone

  Sheila Gamberoni

  OPEN MIKE - What’s in a Name?

  Tyrone

  Steve Ericson

  OPEN MIKE - Doubtless

  Tyrone

  Raynard Patterson

  OPEN MIKE - Dyslexia

  Tyrone

  OPEN MIKE - News at Five

  Sheila

  OPEN MIKE - Private Puzzle

  Tyrone

  Janelle

  OPEN MIKE - The Door

  Tyrone

  Lupe

  OPEN MIKE - imagine

  Tyrone

  Diondra

  OPEN MIKE - Self-Portrait : A Poem for My Father

  Tyrone

  Porscha Johnson

  OPEN MIKE - A Letter to My Mother

  Tyrone

  Epilogue

  Tyrone Bittings

  School ain’t nothin’ but a joke. My moms don’t want to hear that, but if it weren’t for Wesley and my other homeys, I wouldn’t even be here, aiight? These white folk talking ’bout some future, telling me I need to be planning for some future—like I got one! And Raynard agreeing, like he’s smart enough to know. From what I hear, that boy can’t hardly read! Anyway, it’s them white folk that get me with this future mess.

  White folk! Who they think they kidding? They might as well go blow smoke up somebody else’s you-know-what, ‘cause a Black man’s got no chance in this country. I be lucky if I make it to twenty-one with all these fools running round with AK-47s. Here I am one of the few kids I know whose daddy didn’t skip out on him, and he didn’t even make it to thirty. He was doing okay ’til he got blown away on a Saturday. Blam! Another statistic in a long line of drive-bys. Life is cold. Future? What I got is right now, right here, spending time with my homeys. Wish there was some future to talk about. I could use me some future.

  “Grimes’ creative contemporary premise will hook teens, and the poems may even inspire readers to try a few of their own.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  OTHER SPEAK BOOKS

  SPEAK

  Published by Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road,

  Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand

  Published in the United States of America by Dial Books,

  a division of Penguin Putnam Inc., 2002

  Published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2003

  Copyright © Nikki Grimes, 2002

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE DIAL EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

  Grimes, Nikki.

  Bronx masquerade / by Nikki Grimes.

  p. cm.

  Summary: While studying the Harlem Renaissance, students at a Bronx high school

  read aloud poems they’ve written, revealing their innermost thoughts

  and fears to their formerly clueless classmates.

  eISBN : 978-1-440-67281-1

  [1. Poetry—Fiction. 2. Identity—Fiction. 3. Ethnicity—Fiction.

  4. Afro-Americans—Fiction. 5. High schools—Fiction.

  6. Schools—Fiction. 7. Bronx (New York, N.Y.)—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.688429 Br 2002 [Fic]—de21 00-031701

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Ashley, Bryan,

  Daniel, Imani, and Jordan—

  the teens who light up my life

  Wesley “Bad Boy” Boone

  I ain’t particular about doing homework, you understand. My teachers practically faint whenever I turn something in. Matter of fact, I probably got the longest list of excuses for missing homework of anyone alive. Except for my homey Tyrone. He tries to act like he’s not even interested in school, like there’s no point in studying hard, or dreaming about tomorrow, or bothering to graduate. He’s got his reasons. I keep on him about going to school, though, saying I need the company. Besides, I tell him, if he drops out and gets a J.O.B., he won’t have any time to work on his songs. That always gets to him. Tyrone might convince everybody else that he’s all through with dreaming, but I know he wants to be a big hip-hop star. He’s just afraid he won’t live long enough to do it. Me, I hardly ever think about checking out. I’m more worried about figuring what I want to do if I live.

  Anyway, I haven’t had to drag Tyrone off to school lately, or make excuses for not having my homework done, because I’ve been doing it. It’s the Harlem Renaissance stuff that’s got us both going.

  We spent a month reading poetry from the Harlem Renaissance in our English class. Then Mr. Ward—that’s our teacher—asked us to write an essay about it. Make sense to you? Me neither. I mean, what’s the point of studying poetry and then writing essays? So I wrote a bunch of poems instead. They weren’t too shabby, considering I’d only done a few rap pieces before. My favorite was about Langston Hughes. How was I to know Teach would ask me to read it out loud? But I did. Knees knocking like a skeleton on Halloween, embarrassment bleaching my black cheeks red, eyes stapled to the page in front of me. But I did it, I read my poem.

  Guess what. Nobody laughed. In fact, everybody thought it was cool. By the time I got back to my seat, other kids were shouting out: “Mr. Ward, I got a poem too. Can I bring it in to read?”

  Teach cocked his head to the side, like he was hearing something nobody else did.

  “How many people here have poems they’d like to read?” he asked. Three hands shot up. Mr. Ward rubbed his chin for a minute. “Okay,” he said. “Bring them with you tomorrow.”

  After class Teach came over to my desk. “Great poem,” said Mr. Ward. “But I still expect to see an essay from you. I’ll give you another week.” So much for creative expression.

  Long Live Langston

  BY WESLEY BOONE

  Trumpeter of Lenox and 7th

  through Jesse B. Semple,

  you simply celebrated

  Blues and Be-bop

>   and being Black before

  it was considered hip.

  You dipped into

  the muddy waters

  of the Harlem River

  and shouted “taste and see”

  that we Black folk be good

  at fanning hope

  and stoking the fires

  of dreams deferred.

  You made sure

  the world heard

  about the beauty of

  maple sugar children, and the

  artfully tattooed backs of Black

  sailors venturing out

  to foreign places.

  Your Sweet Flypaper of Life

  led us past the Apollo and on

  through 125th and all the other

  Harlem streets you knew like

  the black of your hand.

  You were a pied-piper, brother man

  with poetry as your flute.

  It’s my honor and pleasure to salute

  You, a true Renaissance man

  of Harlem.

  Tyrone Bitting

  School ain’t nothin’ but a joke. My moms don’t want to hear that, but if it weren’t for Wesley and my other homeys, I wouldn’t even be here, aiight? These white folk talking ‘bout some future, telling me I need to be planning for some future—like I got one! And Raynard agreeing, like he’s smart enough to know. From what I hear, that boy can’t hardly read! Anyway, it’s them white folk that get me with this future mess. Like Steve, all hopped up about working on Broadway and telling me I should think about getting with it too. Asked me if I ever thought about writing plays. “Fool! What kinda question is that?” I said. He threw his hands up and backed off a few steps. “All I’m saying is, you’re a walking drama, man. You got that down pat, so maybe you should think about putting it on paper.” When that boy dyed his hair, I b’lieve some of that bleach must’ve seeped right into his brain. I grind my teeth and lower my voice. “Boy, get out my face,” I tell him. He finally gets the message and splits. I’m ticked off that he even got me thinking about such nonsense as Broadway.

  White folk! Who they think they kidding? They might as well go blow smoke up somebody else’s you-know-what, ‘cause a Black man’s got no chance in this country. I be lucky if I make it to twenty-one with all these fools running round with AK-47s. Here I am one of the few kids I know whose daddy didn’t skip out on him, and he didn’t even make it to thirty. He was doing okay ’til he got blown away on a Saturday. Blam! Another statistic in a long line of drive-bys. Life is cold. Future? What I got is right now, right here, spending time with my homeys. Wish there was some future to talk about. I could use me some future.

  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

  Attendance

  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.

  Chankara Troupe

  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

  Bruised Love

  BY CHANKARA TROUPE

  A midnight thirst sent me

  padding to the kitchen

  for a jelly-jar of water

  and an accidental run-in

  with my sister.

  She tiptoed in, late

  and limping, her cheek

  raw as red-brown meat.

  I caught a quick glance

  in the chilly glow

  of the refrigerator

  before she had

  a chance to hide

  the latest souvenir

  her boyfriend gave her.

  “I bruise easily”

  is one of the lies

  she sprinkles like sugar.