Grimes - Bronx Masquerade

I aint 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 hes not even interested in school, like theres no point in studying hard, or dreaming about tomorrow, or bothering to graduate. Hes 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 wont have any time to work on his songs. That always gets to him. Tyrone might convince everybody else that hes all through with dreaming, but I know he wants to be a big hip-hop star. Hes just afraid he wont live long enough to do it. Me, I hardly ever think about checking out. Im more worried about figuring what I want to do if I live.

Anyway, I havent had to drag Tyrone off to school lately, or make excuses for not having my homework done, because Ive been doing it. Its the Harlem Renaissance stuff thats got us both going.

We spent a month reading poetry from the Harlem Renaissance in our English class. Then Mr. Wardthats our teacherasked us to write an essay about it. Make sense to you? Me neither. I mean, whats the point of studying poetry and then writing essays? So I wrote a bunch of poems instead. They werent too shabby, considering Id 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 theyd 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. Ill give you another week. So much for creative expression.

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.
Its my honor and pleasure to salute
You, a true Renaissance man
of Harlem.

School aint nothin but a joke. My moms dont want to hear that, but if it werent for Wesley and my other homeys, I wouldnt even be here, aiight? These white folk talking bout some future, telling me I need to be planning for some futurelike I got one! And Raynard agreeing, like hes smart enough to know. From what I hear, that boy cant hardly read! Anyway, its 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 Im saying is, youre 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 blieve some of that bleach mustve 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. Im 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 elses you-know-what, cause a Black mans 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 didnt skip out on him, and he didnt 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.

Im 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 Ive got a poem Id like to read. Bring it on Friday, he says. As a matter of fact, from now on, Ill leave time for poetry readings at the end of every month. Well call them Open Mike Fridays. Next thing I know, Im digging my old rap poems out of my dresser drawer and bringing them to school. Im thinking it cant hurt to share them, even if theres no chance Ill ever get to be a songwriter. After all, its the one thing I could see myself doing if there really was a future. And Im thinking that maybe there could be if I wanted it bad enough. And all of a sudden, I realize I do.