Bronx Masquerade by Nikki Grimes Read Free Book Online

superficial judgments, how people look at you and think they know who you are, what you are, how they put you in a box: jock, china doll, whatever. That’s one thing me and Tanisha got in common. We know all about being put in a box. I feel like I’m gonna be climbing out of the one marked “dumb jock” all my life.
    “Hey, Jump Shot,” I hear somebody call me from behind. It’s Mike from the basketball team. I nod, then go back to reading Imamu Amiri Baraka’s Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note. Mike slams his tray down beside me and sits.
    “What’s that you reading?”
    “Baraka,” I tell him. “Poetry.”
    “Oh. Right. You got that class.”
    At first I don’t say anything. Then I decide. “No, man. It’s not for class. I’m reading it for me, actually.”
    “You gots to be kiddin’”
    “No.”
    “That’s so lame, man.”
    I keep my finger in the book and turn to face him.
    “You ever read Baraka?” No answer. “You should check him out.”
    “Hey, do what you want, man. I ain’t interested.” Mike picks up his tray and moves to another table, shaking his head. I go back to my reading, seeing as how he’d given me permission and all.
    Forget this. Tonight our team plays Bronx Science. When I get on the bus with the rest of the guys, I’m taking a copy of Baraka’s book with me to read, and I’m gonna make sure everybody sees it. Especially Mike.

OPEN MIKE
    BlacK Box
    BY DEVON HOPE
     
     
    In case I forgot to tell you,
I’m allergic to boxes:
Black boxes, shoe boxes
New boxes, You boxes—
Even cereal boxes
Boasting champions.
(It’s all a lie.
I’ve peeked inside
And what I found
Were flakes.)
Make no mistake,
I make no exceptions
For Cracker Jack
Or Christmas glitter.
Haven’t you noticed?
I’m made of skeleton,
Muscle and skin.
My body is the only box
I belong in.
But you like your boxes
So keep them.
Mark them geek, wimp, bully.
Mark them china doll, brainiac,
Or plain dumb jock.
Choose whatever
Box you like, Mike.
Just don’t put me
In one, son.
Believe me,
I won’t fit.

Tyrone
    The brotha’s right. I look around this class and nobody I see fits into the box I used to put them in. Startin’ with Mr. Ward. I figured him for a lightweight do-gooder who would last about five minutes in this neighborhood. But he stuck, and he got this poetry thing going. He even reads his own stuff sometimes. He’s okay.
    Devon’s okay too. I don’t know how bright the other jocks are, but there’s nothing dumb about this brotha. Mr. Ward says you have to take people one at a time, check out what’s in their head and heart before you judge.
    Word.

Sterling S. Hughes
    Devon shook his head when he saw me standing in the lunch line yesterday, fingering an imaginary fret, making the appropriate sound effects. Friend or not, he thinks I’m crazy, but the brother behind me got into it, snapping his fingers to the rhythm I set. “Yeah!” he said. “Preacher got it goin’ on.”
    My name is Sterling Samson, but everyone calls me Preacher. I intend to become a science teacher, not a preacher, but I don’t mind being called one. Just so long as you don’t call me Samson. I’m hoping to end up in a little better shape than he did.
    I turned to the brother behind me and eased into a smile. “I play a real guitar at church every Sunday. You ought to come by and check me out sometime.” Judging by the way the brother cut his eyes at me, his appearance on the steps of First Baptist Church seemed highly unlikely. Still, you never know.
    I went back to my invisible string playing to keep my fingers limber for later. I had promised to hold the bass line for some of the brothers reading at this week’s Open Mike. Mr. Ward was kind enough to lock my guitar up in his office in the morning so I wouldn’t have to worry about it walking away before then.
    Assuming I made it to his class without any trouble.
    A brother named Leon “accidentally” bumped into me as I