Nikki Grimes - Dark Sons and a Girl Named Mister: Two YA Novels

He calls himself my father.
So why is he sending me away?
This is the question
Im tired of asking.
Better to accept what I know:
between my mother and me,
we have a bow, a loaf of bread,
a waterskin, and the clothes
on our backs.
No donkey laden with bags of grain.
No tent to pitch against the rain,
or sun, or swirling dust.
Just lonely desert ahead,
a carpet of sharp rock,
a smattering of trees,
miles of dry weed and briar,
without a settlement in sight.
We can expect a company
of wild goats or sheep,
the few sturdy inhabitants
of this terrain.
Fresh well water is bound to be
the stuff of dreams.

My head hurts from
imagining the worst.
I ignore the tears in my eyes,
pretend my father,
a few feet away,
is already dead,
and take my mothers hand.
All will be well, I tell her,
sounding as manly
as I can muster
at seventeen,
knowing full well
that our survival
will strictly be
a matter of miracle.

The moving van
pulls away from the curb,
cutting off my air supply.
My anger a stammer,
I stare through the window
at the guy loading his car
for the move from Brooklyn to Manhattan.
Hes supposed to be my dad.
Im glad hes not waiting
for me to smile and wish him luck.
Like I give a flying
What is he thinking,
leaving Mom in the first place?
Why does he have to run off?
To start some new family?
With her?
Like we arent good enough,
like Im not all the son
hell ever need.
And what about tomorrow?
Child support wont put a dent
in the rent,
and Moms hasnt worked a job
in years. I dont want to bring on her tears,
so I keep quiet, and when she
comes up to me
and slips an arm around my waist,
I say, Yo, Mom. Not to worry.
Well be okay. Its all good.
Sure, I know better.
This citys just waiting
to eat us up alive. If a man take a wife and she give this man a maid-servant as wife and she bear him children, and then a man take a wife and this maid assume equality with the wife: because she has borne him children her master shall not sell her for money, but he may keep her as a slave, reckoning her among the maid-servants. My father was eighty-five,
rugged still, but his hair
was dipped in silver
and so was Sarahs.
She could have played the part
of grandmother,
but her long, lonely years
without a child
made that a cruel joke.
Worse yet, she was pregnant
with the promise of God
to make her husband ancestor
of more children
than there are stars.
A sweet promise,
but slow.
Ten years and counting,
her belly remained empty
as an ancient well.
So she told my father,
Have a baby with
my servant, Hagar.
Make her Second Wife.
The law made provision
for such things.
The child Hagar had
would be as good as Sarahs.
They all agreed.
It seemed
an acceptable solution,
at the time. One night. One night.

As soon as that,
and I was on my way
into the world,
a feat that seemed
like magic
to Sarah,
whod tried the trick
for years
and got nothing but tears
for her trouble.
Then comes my mother, a dark beauty,
a young Egyptian,
strutting with the pride
of the pharaohs in her veins,
saying, Look at me!
I am already with child.
I am told the smack
that nearly cracked
my mothers jaw
could be heard
for miles.

Her clothing quickly
bundled in a sack,
face still stinging,
my mother ran.
Never mind the murdering sun,
the moonless dark,
the distance, the danger
of strange animals
and robbers.
The way she tells it,
she ran toward Shur,
stumbling into the wilderness,
feet split by thorn
and jagged rock, falling,
parched and breathless
near a spring,
encountering Adonai Adonai! My fathers Lord and Master,
the God she barely knew,
who spoke to her,
unlike the several gods
of Egypt. Hagar, he said,
Return to your mistress
and I will bless your son.
He told her
she would grandmother
more children
than she could count.
She believed him,
and why not?
God never lies.
So she rolled his promises
around in her mind
like rubies,
slipped them in the pocket
of her memory,
and hurried home. The angel of the Lord
gave me your name
that night, Mother said,
warned me youd be
more thorn than rose,
that someday
youd be at odds
with all your kin.
I knew then Id drown
in tears of grief
over you.
I stuck my tongue out
when she said it and
rolled over on my
sleeping mat.
He knew you, son,
she said,
before you ever were.
I pulled those last warm words
up over me,
snuggled up for the night
and went to sleep. Half Chaldean.
Half Egyptian.
Half slave.
Half free.
Half loved.
Half hated.
Half blessed.
All me. Sarah owns my mother and me,
a truth Id run away from
if I could.