When I was in 3rd and 4th grade, my English Teacher at Golightly Elementary School was Mrs. Smith. Not Angelina Mrs. Smith but little chocolate pearl wearing mid-50s Mrs. Smith with the Dorothy Dandridge hair. She was one of the first people to encourage me to continue writing because she saw something in me that I had no concept of. But larger than that, she gave me poetry. Every two weeks, we were given a poem we had to memorize and recite in front of the class. Now, while I know this isn’t the most revolutionary of tasks, it changed my life completely. You see, I was shy. And (I have no problem admitting this) I was a follower. I was the tagalong friend. The one who didn’t say much. The one who was incredibly sensitive. The one who would cry if somebody accused me of cheating or anything else that was against the rules. I have ZERO problem admitting this about myself because, later in life, it would explain a lot of people I had in my life, situations I did or did not act upon, skills that I do and don’t have. But nonetheless, this reciting thing is important because it was the first time I had to do something solo in front of people and had full consciousness about it. Memorizing wasn’t so hard for me. Poems, I learned, were lovely lyrical fun things that you could almost sing on the playground if you already exhausted your “Beat It” singing for the day. At home, in the mirror (I NEVER did this in front of my parents for fear of dying of embarrassment), I was Maya Angelou-like. I had rhythm to my poetry reciting. I did a little dance. I had inflection and sass.
Those things abandoned me in front of class. I was suddenly mono-toned, blurry eyed, out of breath, sweaty and inclined to forget. So I just had to close my eyes and see the words. And that just helped me get through the poem. Not do the poem.
The particular poem below was sent to me from Poem-A-Day (yes I’m a nerd) and I was instantly taken back to the moment I knew I was not to be the one who performed but the one who could understand the performance. My best friend back then, Amika Price, was a little spitfire with dimples and chipped teeth. She had personality as long as Broadway and wasn’t afraid of anyone. I was in awe. She wasn’t inclined to write like I was (but she was the one who passed my short story notebook around demanding everyone read it and then asking me what happens after when she got to the end) but she was born to be in the spotlight. I didn’t know this until she stood up and read the poem below. When she finished, everyone, including clutching pearls Mrs. Smith, was on their feet and energized with a bunch of “I know that’s right” and “You betta say that poem, girl!”
When I got to be near grown and was living in NYC with all my poetry friends (still the silent flower in the corner), I would feel that feeling I felt watching Amika when I would watch Jessica Care, Saul Williams, Jasiri, Asha Bandele, Pierre Bennu, T’Kalla, Sharriff Simmons, Craig Knight, Shelly Nicole…utterly awestruck and proud. Once or twice I tried to be that big bright flower of flowing poetry magnetics but all times I felt the heat of the light on me and the tightness in my breath, the sweaty palms, the tripping and falling of my entire mouth….we all have a purpose in life. And sometimes loving the performance is just as great as performing. If not better (in the case of my Alvin Ailey Company obsession - I can and did dance but I would be no Judith Jamison, Torya Beard or Kamilah Henderson - my love for their performance though made me just as energized, like I was sitting on their shoulders while they moved).
So hear is the poem that gave me my place that I situated in quite nicely I would think. If you can, picture a little precocious chocolate girl, pigtails sticking out, eyes rolling, hands on hip, dimples sticking tough, chipped teeth and big bright eyes reading to you, giving you the whatfor.
Little Orphant Annie
James Whitcomb Riley
1 Little Orphant Annie’s come to our house to stay,
2 An’ wash the cups an’ saucers up, an’ brush the crumbs away,
3 An’ shoo the chickens off the porch, an’ dust the hearth, an’ sweep,
4 An’ make the fire, an’ bake the bread, an’ earn her board-an’-keep;
5 An’ all us other childern, when the supper-things is done,
6 We set around the kitchen fire an’ has the mostest fun
7 A-list’nin’ to the witch-tales ‘at Annie tells about,
8 An’ the Gobble-uns ‘at gits you
9 Ef you
10 Don’t
11 Watch
12 Out!
13 Wunst they wuz a little boy wouldn’t say his prayers, –
14 An’ when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs,
15 His Mammy heerd him holler, an’ his Daddy heerd him bawl,
16 An’ when they turn’t the kivvers down, he wuzn’t there at all!
17 An’ they seeked him in the rafter-room, an’ cubby-hole, an’ press,
18 An’ seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an’ ever’-wheres, I guess;
19 But all they ever found wuz thist his pants an’ roundabout: –
20 An’ the Gobble-uns ‘ll git you
21 Ef you
22 Don’t
23 Watch
24 Out!
25 An’ one time a little girl ‘ud allus laugh an’ grin,
26 An’ make fun of ever’ one, an’ all her blood-an’-kin;
27 An’ wunst, when they was “company,” an’ ole folks wuz there,
28 She mocked ‘em an’ shocked ‘em, an’ said she didn’t care!
29 An’ thist as she kicked her heels, an’ turn’t to run an’ hide,
30 They wuz two great big Black Things a-standin’ by her side,
31 An’ they snatched her through the ceilin’ ‘fore she knowed what she’s about!
32 An’ the Gobble-uns ‘ll git you
33 Ef you
34 Don’t
35 Watch
36 Out!
37 An’ little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
38 An’ the lamp-wick sputters, an’ the wind goes woo-oo!
39 An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the moon is gray,
40 An’ the lightnin’-bugs in dew is all squenched away, –
41 You better mind yer parunts, an’ yer teachurs fond an’ dear,
42 An’ churish them ‘at loves you, an’ dry the orphant’s tear,
43 An’ he’p the pore an’ needy ones ‘at clusters all about,
44 Er the Gobble-uns ‘ll git you
45 Ef you
46 Don’t
47 Watch
48 Out!
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