Read Online Brown Girl Dreaming by Jacqueline Woodson - Free Book Online Page A

Just right
    of the tune.
    But I sing anyway, whenever I can.
    Even the boring Witness songs sound good to me,
the words
    telling us how God wants us to behave,
    what he wants us to do,
    Be glad you nations with his people! Go preach
from door to door!
    The good news of Jehovah’s kingdom—
    Proclaim from shore to shore!
    It’s the music around the words that I hear
    in my head, even though
    everyone swears I
can’t
hear it.
    Strange that they don’t hear
    what I hear.
    Strange that it sounds so right
    to me.

eve and the snake
    The Sunday sermons are given by men.
    Women aren’t allowed to get onstage like this,
    standing alone to tell God’s story. I don’t
    understand why but I listen anyway:
    On the first day, God made the heavens and the earth
    and He looked at it, and it was good.
    It’s a long story. It’s a good story.
    Adam and Eve got made,
    a snake appeared in a tree. A talking snake.
    Then Eve had to make a choice—the apple the snake
wanted her to eat
    looked so good—just one bite. But it was the only apple
in a kingdom full of apples
    that God had said
Don’t touch!
    It’s the best apple in all the world,
the snake said.
    Go ahead and taste it. God won’t care.
    But we know the ending—in our heads, we scream,
    Don’t do it, Eve!
That’s the Devil inside that snake!
He’s tricking you!
    But Eve took a bite. And so here we are,
    sitting in a Kingdom Hall
    on a beautiful Sunday afternoon
    hoping that God sees it in His heart to know
    it wasn’t our fault. Give us another chance
    send that snake back and we promise
    we’ll say no this time!

our father, fading away
    In all our moving, we’ve forgotten our family in Ohio,
    forgotten our father’s voice, the slow drawl
    of his words,
    the way he and his brother David made jokes
    that weren’t funny
    and laughed as though they were.
    We forget the color of his skin—was it
    dark brown like mine or lighter like Dell’s?
    Did he have Hope and Dell’s loose curls or my
    tighter, kinkier hair?
    Was his voice deep or high?
    Was he a hugger like Grandma Georgiana holding us
    like she never planned to let go or
    did he hug hard and fast like Mama,
    planting her warm lips to our foreheads where
    the kiss lingered
    long after
    she said I love you, pulled her sweater on and left
    for work each morning.
    In Brooklyn there are no more calls from Ohio.
    No more calls from our father or Grandpa Hope
    or Grandma Grace
    or David or Anne or Ada or Alicia.
    It is as if each family
    has disappeared from the other.
    Soon, someone who knows someone in Ohio
who knows the Woodsons
    tells my mother that Grandpa Hope has died.
    At dinner that evening, our mother gives us the news but
    we keep eating because we hadn’t known
    he was still alive.
    And for a moment, I think about Jack . . . our father.
    But then
    quickly as it comes
    the thought moves on.
    Out of sight, out of mind,
my brother says.
    But only a part of me believes this is true.

halfway home #2
    For a long time, there is only one tree on our block.
    And though it still feels
    strange to be so far away from soft dirt
    beneath bare feet
    the ground is firm here and the one tree blooms
    wide enough to shade four buildings.
    The city is settling around me, my words
come fast now
    when I speak, the soft curl of the South on my tongue
    is near gone.
    Who are these city children?
My grandmother laughs,
her own voice
    sad and far away on the phone. But it is
a long-distance call
    from Greenville to Brooklyn, too much money
    and not enough time to explain
    that New York City is gray rock
    and quick-moving cars.
    That the traffic lights change fast and my sister must
    hold tight to my hand
    as we cross to where a small man singing
    Piragua! Piragua!
    sells shaved ices from a white cart filled
    with bottles and bottles of fruit-flavored syrup
    colored red and purple, orange and blue.
    That our mouths water in the hot sun as we hand him
    our quarters then wait patiently as he pours
the syrup over the ice, hands