Jazmin's Notebook: Chapters 9–12

Once, in Central Park
I slogged through
early morning mist
and grabbed a fistful
felt it lick
my fingers
then slip away

It seems to me that ideas are like gossamer, or mist, fragile as a dream forgotten as soon as you awake, I guess that’s why they’re so hard to hold on to.

Judging by the fear in their white faces, the fact that I was, at that moment, a frantic, wild-eyed, Black teenager probably had something to do with it. But who had time to dispel racial stereotypes?

Judging by the fear in their white faces, the fact that I was, at that moment, a frantic, wild-eyed, Black teenager probably had something to do with it. But who had time to dispel racial stereotypes?

I must’ve been quite a sight, though, staggering through the park in drab T-shirt and holey bell-bottoms...

Finally I found a crumpled, but otherwise unsullied, Hershey’s candy bar wrapper, and whispered, Thank God!

It could have slipped from my pocket on the subway seat while the AA local lurched its way uptown.

One way or another, I lost the poem by the time I got home that day, and I can’t, for the life of me, recall a single verse. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

One way or another, I lost the poem by the time I got home that day, and I can’t, for the life of me, recall a single verse. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

I remember the excitement of molding that inspiration, and shaping it on the page, like clay.

And I remember feeling powerful and powerless, all at once, and how the pleasure of that moment lingered for a long, long time.

Nightly bullet ricochets remind me that Death plays hide-and-seek round here.

A month ago, for instance, I was minding my own business, checking the mailbox in the vestibule, when a fight broke out in the street.

He was a startling combination of dark and light, ebony skin and slate-gray eyes that had my heart singing “Ooo Baby Baby.”

A sprinkle of laughter, the tap and shuffle of a crisp, freshly cut deck, the ching of coins piling up at the center of the table as players ante up, the tinkling of ice cubes melting in glasses of scotch and water, and Clyde, crude as ever, belching up beer.

A sprinkle of laughter, the tap and shuffle of a crisp, freshly cut deck, the ching of coins piling up at the center of the table as players ante up, the tinkling of ice cubes melting in glasses of scotch and water, and Clyde, crude as ever, belching up beer.

Crew ordered a plate of fried chicken. He’s okay by me, so I gave him three extra wings, and a second dollop of potato salad.

I swallowed hard and prayed in earnest then because, number one, CeCe cannot abide firearms and, number two, she doesn’t own any.

T.C. studied my sister’s face, decided she was not joking, and slowly put his piece away. All of a sudden it hit me why she’s so good at poker. She knows how to bluff.

It’s the first day of school, and once again I’m the secondhand queen.

So, thanks to her, I fully understand the pedigree of my recycled skirts and jackets.

I turned my back to the security camera, neatly folded the silky soft, double-knit mini into my oversized canvas shoulder bag. Then I stood at the dressing room door for about an eon or two, waiting for the good sense God gave me to return.

Images of stimulating talks at the college snack bar, discussing politics and God and the state of the state, flash before my eyes.

I see myself dazzling university professors with my perfectly articulated Black brilliance.

I’m an A-student, so it’s not as if I were completely delusional.

And then it hits me: All this could be blasted away by the strategically placed bias of one Miss Lillian Wise, who stares at me and casually asks, “What seems to be the problem?”

“Miss Wise," I said, my voice a whisper, “I'd appreciate it if you’d revise my course schedule immediately, as I have every intention of going to college.”

“Well," she said, huffiness personified, “I was simply trying to help."

“Well," she said, huffiness personified, “I was simply trying to help."

I could’ve told CeCe what happened when I got home that day, but I decided the apartment was too tiny to contain both my outrage and hers.