Read Online Bronx Masquerade by Nikki Grimes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nikki Grimes
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she’s earned a right to it. She had me when she was a teenager, but that didn’t stop her from finishing high school, and she moved more times than Steve could even dream of! Every now and then, when I consider dropping out, I take a good, long look at my mother and think again.
This year certainly gave me plenty of opportunities to practice.
Homework was a nightmare. Essay questions in history and English. What are they trying to do, kill me? All those words swirling around the page gave me a headache I’m still trying to get rid of. If only they could give homework a beat and put it on a CD. Now that would work for me. Then they’d be speaking my language. Chords. Melodies. Homework in the key of G. Oh, yeah.
Music has always come easier to me than words. My mother says I used to beat out rhythms on my high chair with a spoon. I don’t know if the story’s true, but she’s told it so often, everyone believes it. The one thing I know for certain is that I eat, sleep, and dream music. Man, when I see myself in the future, it’s on a bandstand, fingering my alto. I may not be much of a talker, but hey, give me a sax and I’ll talk all night long. My cousin Sterling says one day the whole world will hear what I have to say.
Last week, my English class was the world.
It was Open Mike Friday and I’d shown up with my saxophone case in one hand and a folded-up poem in the other. Not that I needed a copy of the poem. Besides the other kids, I knew we’d have a living, published poet in the audience, so I’d spent a week memorizing and rehearsing my poem in front of a mirror, if you can believe that. Even so, I still thought about maybe skipping the poem and just playing a piece on my sax. But there’d been too much skipping this year for me already. I’d skipped participating in every other Open Mike Friday, and Mr. Ward had skipped over me in class whenever it was time to read aloud. Which is why everybody thought I was three degrees below a moron. Not that I blame them. Even I used to think I was an idiot. Of course, now I know better. So does my English teacher.
Mr. Ward and I had discussed my problem back in September. He’d agreed to keep my secret, although he thought I should share it with the class. As for me, I didn’t think they’d understand, and I didn’t want anybody treating me as if I was diseased or mentally ill. It seemed easier to let them think I was stupid, so long as I knew I wasn’t. But after last Friday, I realized Mr. Ward was right. It’s only been a week and already I feel lighter. That’s not the way I felt when he called my name, though.
“Okay, Raynard,” he said. “You’re on.”
All my second thoughts rushed forward, causing a traffic jam in my mind. But Gloria caught my eye. “Go on,” she whispered. “Do it, Cuz,” said Sterling. “Yeah,” said Wesley. “Show us what you got.”
I nodded thanks and took a deep breath. I shoved the poem in my pocket, grabbed my sax, and went to the front of the room.
OPEN MIKE
Dyslexia
BY RAYNARD PATTERSON
Onion skin, acid-free linen,
80% recycled fiber—
the paper content
doesn’t much matter.
My eyes see
letters dancing backward
across whatever page
they’re printed on.
The why is a mystery to me.
Could it be I’m one gigabyte short?
Or maybe I was born feet first?
When the doctor smacked my bottom
did I laugh instead of cry?
Do my thoughts trade places
like letters, on the sly?
Such questions are enough
to make you crazy if
you’re not.
“Dyslexia is a minor disturbance,
nothing major once you learn
your way around it,” says the doc
as if he’s a radio jock
announcing a fender-bender.
Steer clear of the wreck ahead.
Try the Triborough
for smoother traffic the next time
you take your mind
for a spin.
Neurological distinction
notwithstanding,
something in me whispers Freak
every time I wriggle out
of reading aloud,
or have to ask a stranger
“Excuse me, but
what does that
This year certainly gave me plenty of opportunities to practice.
Homework was a nightmare. Essay questions in history and English. What are they trying to do, kill me? All those words swirling around the page gave me a headache I’m still trying to get rid of. If only they could give homework a beat and put it on a CD. Now that would work for me. Then they’d be speaking my language. Chords. Melodies. Homework in the key of G. Oh, yeah.
Music has always come easier to me than words. My mother says I used to beat out rhythms on my high chair with a spoon. I don’t know if the story’s true, but she’s told it so often, everyone believes it. The one thing I know for certain is that I eat, sleep, and dream music. Man, when I see myself in the future, it’s on a bandstand, fingering my alto. I may not be much of a talker, but hey, give me a sax and I’ll talk all night long. My cousin Sterling says one day the whole world will hear what I have to say.
Last week, my English class was the world.
It was Open Mike Friday and I’d shown up with my saxophone case in one hand and a folded-up poem in the other. Not that I needed a copy of the poem. Besides the other kids, I knew we’d have a living, published poet in the audience, so I’d spent a week memorizing and rehearsing my poem in front of a mirror, if you can believe that. Even so, I still thought about maybe skipping the poem and just playing a piece on my sax. But there’d been too much skipping this year for me already. I’d skipped participating in every other Open Mike Friday, and Mr. Ward had skipped over me in class whenever it was time to read aloud. Which is why everybody thought I was three degrees below a moron. Not that I blame them. Even I used to think I was an idiot. Of course, now I know better. So does my English teacher.
Mr. Ward and I had discussed my problem back in September. He’d agreed to keep my secret, although he thought I should share it with the class. As for me, I didn’t think they’d understand, and I didn’t want anybody treating me as if I was diseased or mentally ill. It seemed easier to let them think I was stupid, so long as I knew I wasn’t. But after last Friday, I realized Mr. Ward was right. It’s only been a week and already I feel lighter. That’s not the way I felt when he called my name, though.
“Okay, Raynard,” he said. “You’re on.”
All my second thoughts rushed forward, causing a traffic jam in my mind. But Gloria caught my eye. “Go on,” she whispered. “Do it, Cuz,” said Sterling. “Yeah,” said Wesley. “Show us what you got.”
I nodded thanks and took a deep breath. I shoved the poem in my pocket, grabbed my sax, and went to the front of the room.
OPEN MIKE
Dyslexia
BY RAYNARD PATTERSON
Onion skin, acid-free linen,
80% recycled fiber—
the paper content
doesn’t much matter.
My eyes see
letters dancing backward
across whatever page
they’re printed on.
The why is a mystery to me.
Could it be I’m one gigabyte short?
Or maybe I was born feet first?
When the doctor smacked my bottom
did I laugh instead of cry?
Do my thoughts trade places
like letters, on the sly?
Such questions are enough
to make you crazy if
you’re not.
“Dyslexia is a minor disturbance,
nothing major once you learn
your way around it,” says the doc
as if he’s a radio jock
announcing a fender-bender.
Steer clear of the wreck ahead.
Try the Triborough
for smoother traffic the next time
you take your mind
for a spin.
Neurological distinction
notwithstanding,
something in me whispers Freak
every time I wriggle out
of reading aloud,
or have to ask a stranger
“Excuse me, but
what does that
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