Locomotion (4 page)

 

It's thundering now. Lightning too.
When the thunder comes hard, everybody jumps.
Then some people laugh.
Me? I don't jump or laugh
like a stupid person. Thunder don't scare me none.
Me? I'm just sitting here with nothing
to say wishing Ms. Marcus would vaporize
like the people do on
Star Trek.
Lonnie,
she says.
Are you writing about your family
or just daydreaming?
Me? I ain't got nothing to say today.
Just feel like sitting here
Watching the rain come down
and down
and
down.

There's some glass on Miss Edna's roof
You gotta make sure you don't sit on it in the dark.
It's from people roofing bottles
You finish your soda or whatever and
you throw your bottle on a roof
Sometimes people miss.
Once this bottle came speeding back down and broke
in a million pieces

 

This boy Isaiah had to go to the hospital
'cause glass went in his eye.
And nosy old Miss Portia who lives across
the street kept saying

 

 

Some of this glass is probably mine.
If I get cut on the butt it's my own fault.
But I come up here anyway.

 

Even when it's cold like tonight.
I just got to zip my jacket way up
and pull my hat way down
then I'm all right.

There's a fat moon and enough stars to read Lili's
Bible by
I don't understand a lot of the words
and I'm waiting for God to show Himself to me
Not for me so much—for Lili.

 

Yeah, I guess, for me too.

Today Angel said he was writing a book
of poems called
All of a Sudden, The Sun
Ms. Marcus's smile got so big
you could see her back teeth.
Angel got all show-offy then, saying
every poem is gonna be about
how sometimes the sun just comes out when you don't
expect it to—like when
it's raining and stuff. And Ms. Marcus
just kept smiling and shaking her head and saying
Wonderful, brilliant, excellent, good for you, Angel
until
other kids caught on to all the smiling she was doing
just for Angel and started talking
about books they were gonna write like
All of a Sudden, The Moon
and
All of a Sudden, The School
and
All of a Sudden, The Pepsi Cola Can
until
the titles got so stupid, Ms. Marcus stopped
smiling, told us poetry was over
for the day. Said it was time
for math.
And I didn't even care because
Angel's idea wasn't the best idea

I ever heard in the world even if
Ms. Marcus thought so.
She don't know everything anyway.
Probably wouldn't know a good poet if . . .
If . . .

 

If nothing.

 

Some days I hate poetry.
The way the good ideas be going
to somebody else.

Hey Dog!
That's how you call your boys.
Hey Dog. You want to hoop?
Then you and your dogs are throwing
the ball around and talking about
girls and ballplayers and stuff
you're gonna have one day
A red car
some slamming kicks
a shearling coat
a pocket full of money
a pretty girl
a satellite dish
and
cable
on and on you and your dogs
two
college degrees, straight A straight up
a phat deal with the Lakers
no, the Knicks
no, the Nets
Nah—the Nets ain't nothing.
What you talking about, Dog? The Nets got game.
Yeah, a game of checkers!!
Game of tag, maybe.
Game of pin the tail on the donkey!
Just grinning and talking junk
shooting hoops
not even knowing where
or when people started calling the people
they like to be around
Dog
but liking it and feeling good when
your dog slaps your hand, gives you a quick hug, says
What's up, Dog?

Ms. Marcus says that an occasional poem is a poem
written about something
important
or special
that's gonna happen
or already did.
Think of a specific occasion,
she says
—and write about it.

 

Like what?!
Lamont asks.
He's all slouched down in his seat.
I don't feel like writing about no occasion.

 

How about your birthday?
Ms. Marcus says.
What about it? Just a birthday. Comes in June and it ain't
June,
Lamont says.
As a matter of fact,
he says,
it's January and it's snowing.
Then his voice gets real low and he says
And when it's January and all cold like this
feels like June's a long, long ways away.

 

The whole class looks at Ms. Marcus.
Some of the kids are nodding.
Outside the sky looks like it's made out of metal
and the cold, cold air is rattling the windowpanes
and coming underneath them too.

 

I seen Lamont's coat.
It's gray and the sleeves are too short.
It's down but it looks like a lot of the feathers fell out
a long time ago.
Ms. Marcus got a nice coat.
It's down too but real puffy so
maybe when she's inside it
she can't even tell January from June.

 

Then write about January,
Ms. Marcus says,
that's
an occasion.
But she looks a little bit sad when she says it
Like she's sorry she ever brought the whole
occasional poem thing up.

 

I was gonna write about Mama's funeral
but Lamont and Ms. Marcus going back and forth
zapped all the ideas from my head.

 

I guess them arguing
on a Tuesday in January's an occasion
So I guess this is an occasional poem.

Ms. Marcus wants to
see all my poems. No way.
Some things just your own.

It's lunchtime.
I just ate a cheeseburger with french fries and some
applesauce
which means today's a good lunch day 'cause
sometimes they put stuff on your tray and you don't
know what
it is but you eat it anyway 'cause
Mr. Hungry don't care.

 

I'm shooting hoops by myself, liking the way the ball
sounds
Swish
when it goes through the basket without touching
the rim
and I'm by myself too 'cause both Eric and Lamont
are absent.
It's Friday.
Maybe they took themselves a three-day weekend.

 

LaTenya comes over, walking all slow.
She's wearing her hair in lots of braids
and she even got some cowry shells in some of them.
And the cowry shells make a little bit of noise
A nice noise.

 

You know you got some pretty eyes,
LaTenya says to me
My eyes just eyes but LaTenya's looking at them
like she's seeing them for the first time
and maybe later on I'll go back to Miss Edna's house
and look in the mirror at my eyes
try to see what she's seeing.

 

Thanks,
I say. And then I take another shot and miss
and LaTenya laughs
Guess they can't see the basket so good though, huh?
she says.
But she's only joking.
Then she leans against the school yard fence
and I take a few more shots
and they go in
Swish. Swish. Swish.

 

I want to say
I found God, Lili.
And throw up my hands.
And grin like somebody's big old fool.

You don't just get to write a poem once
You gotta write it over and over and over
until it feels real good to you
And sometimes it does
and sometimes it doesn't
That's what's really great
and really stupid
about poetry.

Lamont comes back on Monday morning
but Eric doesn't
Ms. Marcus stands up in front of the class and coughs.
Not a real cough. The kind of cough
grown-ups get when they'd rather not
be talking to you.
The tall lady from the agency gets that cough
when I ask her if me and Lili ever gonna live
together again.

 

Ms. Marcus says
I have some sad news
Eric is in the hospital.
She says he has a disease
and some of his cells are shaped funny.
And sometimes,
she says,
that makes his life very painful.
Can you catch it from him?
Angel asks, looking scared.
'Cause me and him was hanging a lot and I don't want
no disease.
No,
Ms. Marcus says.
It's not contagious.
She draws a shape on the board.
Does anybody know what a sickle is,
she says.
Nobody raises their hand.
I know what a sickle is. Slaves used it to cut
sugarcane and stuff.
I know a lot of other kids know too
but our minds are busy wrapping themselves around
Eric
and all the pain in his body and how
we never knew he had no disease.
Ms. Marcus explains what a sickle is.
Then she says,
Eric has sickle-cell anemia.
She coughs again and says
It's a disease that's common . . .
She stops talking
looks around the room for a minute
then she kind of whispers
among African Americans.

 

There's six Puerto Ricans in our class—
Manny, Lourdes, Jillian,
Samantha, Carlos, and Sophia.
There's two Dominicans—Angel and Maritza.
Gina and Cara are from Trinidad and
Guy is from Jamaica.
All the rest of us are from right here.
All the rest of us are African American.
Everyone looks around the room at everybody else.

 

Do you die with that,
Lamont wants to know.
Not directly,
Ms. Marcus says. But she doesn't explain
and nobody asks any more questions about dying.

 

in the hospital?
Somebody else wants to know.

 

I don't know,
Ms. Marcus says.
His mother doesn't know yet,
Ms. Marcus says.
Let's hope not long though,
Ms. Marcus says.
Ms. Marcus says.
Ms. Marcus says.
Ms. Marcus says and the words circle
round the room, bounce off the walls
keep zooming
past my head.
Zip! Zap!
Like they're banging against it.

 

I thought,
Ms. Marcus says
we could make him a card.

 

I take a deep breath and put my head down on my
desk.
I try not to think of Eric's angel voice singing in
church.
I try not to think of us shooting hoops together at
lunchtime.
My throat feels all choky though anyway.
My whole body feels bent out of shape and strange.
The last time Miss Edna came home and found me
crying she said
Think
about all the stuff you love, Lonnie.

 

Popsicle
Icicle
Bicycle

 

Sickle cell.

 

Popsicle
Icicle
Bicycle

 

Sickle cell.

LAMONT

Lamont comes in mad on Wednesday.
Ms. Marcus makes believe she doesn't see him sitting
over there with his arms folded,
his face all scrunched up staring out the window, his
back the only thing facing front.
Let's take out our poetry notebooks,
Ms. Marcus says.
I want to work on haiku again today.
I don't like forms. I like free verse when you can write
anything you want
any way you want but Ms. Marcus says
there's a time for form and a time for free verse
which I think is a stupid, very teacher thing to say.
I ain't writing no poetry,
Lamont says.
No black guys be
writing poetry anyway.
I already have my poetry notebook open but I close it
real fast.
What about Richard Wright,
Ms. Marcus says.
And
Langston Hughes.
Angel says
I know Richard Wright. He lives on my block.
His mom's name's Mrs. Wright.
I know Langston Hughes too,
Angel says.
I see a little smile on Lamont's face but he's still
sitting turned away
from the whole class.

Both of them died a long time ago,
Ms. Marcus says. But
she's kinda smiling too.
How's he gonna be dead and still live on my block?
Angel
wants to know.
He gives Ms. Marcus a look like she's lost her mind.
Pablo died,
Angel says.
He got shot by somebody last
year. But not Richard.
Richard Wright was right there playing basketball last
Saturday. He could slam-dunk.
But the rim's bent so it don't really count.
Richard Wright—the poet—
Ms. Marcus says
wrote haiku. Langston Hughes—the poet—wrote all kinds
of poetry.
Richard Wright also wrote novels.
Whole books?
I ask. I didn't know poets could write
whole stories.
Whole books,
Ms. Marcus says.
Lamont doesn't say anything but I see his head turning
front a little bit.
He make a lot of money?
Angel wants to know.
Ms. Marcus picks up a book off of her desk.
He wrote because he loved writing,
she said.
That's what matters.
Not if you broke,
Angel says. The whole class laughs.

 

Even Lamont.

 

But he looks over where Eric's empty chair is and then
he stops laughing real fast.
Do you think poor people aren't happy?
Ms. Marcus says.
Angel shrugs.
I don't know. Don't know any poor people.
But when you see those pictures on TV of those kids who
they want you to send money to,
they don't look happy to me.
They just look hungry and sad.
Ms. Marcus doesn't say anything. She looks stuck.
Real stuck and I feel
kinda sorry for her.
Let's take out our poetry notebooks,
she says again.
Everybody but Lamont takes out their notebooks and
just sort of stares down at them.
Ms. Marcus sits down at her desk.
She lets out a deep breath
pushes her hair away from her face
looks out at all thirty-two of us
shakes her head.