“Me too,” Jasmine says. “We can finally talk. So much is going on—”
“Yeah, I know,” Isaac says. “How’s your dad doing?”
I know how concerned Isaac is, but I also know that Jasmine doesn’t want to talk about her dad all the time. She doesn’t want to be known as the girl whose dad has cancer.
“He’s fine. Everything’s fine,” Jasmine says.
“Because I know when my mom was sick, we . . .”
“It’s not the same thing, okay, and everything is fine,” she says again. I can see the hurt in her eyes, and I put my hand on her back. Isaac can’t help but compare the situation to his own mom. He is always asking me what we could be doing for Jasmine. I wish I had an answer. The only thing I know to do now is to change the subject.
“Can we meet after clubs today?” I blurt out, trying my best. “I need a post-poetry-club support group.”
“Sure,” Nadine says. “Let’s grab dinner at Burger Heights. Does that work?” she asks, eyeing Isaac and Jasmine.
“Yeah, that works for me. That’d be good,” Jasmine says. Isaac nods that he’s in.
“Welcome, young, brilliant poets,” Ms. Hawkins says, opening her door and ushering us inside. She welcomes us in the same singsong fashion every day of clubs. She is the guidance counselor/social worker/lover of poetry who has been our advisor since my freshman year. She really does love poetry in a deep way. The only real problem is that her love of poetry seems to have stopped accumulating in the seventies. Ms. Hawkins was born in the fifties, and I only know that because she mentions it every other week when explaining why it’s so important to look to our past and study our history in order for us to understand the work that’s happening today . . . but we somehow never quite get to the work that’s happening today.
We all pile into her office, which is full of beanbag chairs and has two mini love seats, a round table with a few chairs, and posters of poets everywhere. There is one of Langston Hughes, Sylvia Plath, Phillis Wheatley, and Allen Ginsberg. She has a quote by Audre Lorde on the back of her door that reads: Poetry is not only dream and vision; it is the skeleton architecture of our lives. It lays the foundations for a future of change, a bridge across our fears of what has never been before. I love that—I love the thought that poetry can be in our bones, can hold us up and shape our whole lives. I’ve been writing since the sixth grade, when my mom bought me a fancy gold journal that came with the smallest lock and key I’d ever seen. I wrote every day, and I’ve kept a journal since then, with poems about my pet goldfish, the weather, food, and most recently, love, heartbreak, and beauty, or lack thereof. I look around the room. There are seven of us total, including two new freshmen who always seem ready to go, with their journals already out in front of them. The rest of us are sophomores and juniors, and one lone senior . . . my nemesis: Jacob Rizer. He’s obsessed with forms like sonnets and sestinas. He’s always answering every question and making sure we understand what he’s doing in his poems. And he’s always picking a fight with me, trying to push and get me to react. Sometimes I think it’s flirting, but there’s always an edge to it. Ms. Hawkins loves him the most, and since it’s the last year for both of them—with Ms. Hawkins retiring (finally) and Jacob graduating, I’m pretty sure they’re both gonna weep when spring comes. I had hoped there would be more new people this year, but September is almost over, and it seems like poetry is destined to stay the lowest-attended club at Amsterdam Heights. But as Ms. Hawkins always says, As long as I am here, and at least two of you, then we are considered an official club.
“I hope you brought your fresh minds and open hearts this afternoon,” Ms. Hawkins says, smiling wide. “Let’s get started, shall we? I am eager to continue getting to know you, so let’s begin class today with the six-word memoir introduction.” Ms. Hawkins has spent the last couple of weeks on identity—we wrote an ars poetica, which is kind of like a vision for how we want to live our lives, an I Come From poem, and then wrote a poem about a food that represents us. Mine was about veggie patties from the Concourse Jamaican Bakery—they represent me because they’re spicy, unexpected, and completely addictive. I thought it was hilarious, but no one laughed when I read it out loud.
“Get creative—show me something the rest of us don’t normally see,” Ms. Hawkins says. “And for an example, I’ll share my six-word memoir first: poetry is my heart and mind. There, see how easy it is?”
“That’s really original,” I say, under my breath but loud enough for the freshmen to hear me. Neither of them laughs.
“Your turn,” Ms. Hawkins says. “Show me who you really are!”
I look around again to see if I can catch anyone’s eyes, but they’re already writing. I look at the blank page in front of me. I can’t think of anything of write. I try out a bunch: Hearts and minds are my poetry. Um, no, that’s pretty much what I just made fun of Ms. Hawkins for writing. I am a big jerk sometimes. No, too obvious. From New York, likes to write. Yuck.
“Okay, time is up,” Ms. Hawkins says as her small timer buzzes. “Who wants to share first?”
The two freshmen shoot their arms into the air, as if they’ve been waiting their whole lives for this moment. I roll my eyes, but then catch myself.
“Puerto Rico lullabies me to sleep,” one of the freshmen, whose name is Maria, says first.
“Lovely, beautiful,” Ms. Hawkins says. “It tells me something about where your heart is and shows who you are. I can’t wait to hear more. Next?”
The class goes one after the other: Always dreaming of my next meal, we all laugh. High rise honey, NYC all day. Illusion is a concept I adore. I have no idea what that one even means. Born and raised in Washington Heights, and Boogie down Bronx—my first love. Both solid. I look down at mine one more time.
“I’ll go,” Jacob says. “For this assignment, I chose to do a haiku instead.” He looks around the room. I really roll my eyes this time. “A haiku,” he continues, “is a poem composed of three lines, each line containing a different number of syllables, five-seven-five to be exact. Generally, haiku are focused on the small changes in nature. For my example, I chose to do it my way. Here’s mine:
Whirr of the subway
The doors open to my life
A train jets away”
“Oh, wow. These are just wonderful,” Ms. Hawkins says, standing up and moving to her whiteboard. “Just wonderful and unique. I love them, and I know you will love our standout poets that we’re going to study this year.”
I raise my hand. “Uh, Ms. Hawkins, I didn’t go yet.”
“Oh my goodness, Chelsea, I am so sorry I forgot you. And you are like an open book, so I know yours will reveal something.” She smiles in my direction.
“Um, so my six-word memoir is: Rages against the myth of beauty.” I look up at Ms. Hawkins, ready for her to compliment my line.
“That is a good start, Chelsea, and I want to push you even more to take more risks in your writing, and think about the details, the specifics. You are a veteran in this group, so keep that in mind.”