We did not stay because the building was big and old
and when the bathroom ceiling fell
into the bathtub, my mother said,
I am not Henny Penny and that is not the sky!
So she called Aunt Kay and her boyfriend, Bernie,
they borrowed a truck and helped us pack,
bundled us up in winter coats
turned off that swinging light
and got us out of there!
herzl street
So we moved to Herzl Street
where Aunt Kay and Bernie lived upstairs.
And Peaches from Greenville lived below us.
And on Saturday nights more people
from Greenville came by
sitting and running their mouths
while the pots on the stove bubbled
with collards and sizzled with chicken
and corn bread baked up brown
inside Kay’s big black oven.
And the people from Greenville
brought people from Spartanburg
and Charleston
and all of them talked
like our grandparents talked
and ate what we ate
so they were red dirt and pine trees
they were fireflies in jelly jars
and lemon-chiffon ice cream cones.
They were laughter on hot city nights
hot milk on cold city mornings,
good food and good times
fancy dancing and soul music.
They were family.
the johnny pump
Some days we miss
the way the red dirt lifted up and landed
against our bare feet. Here
the sidewalks burn hot all summer long.
Here we wear shoes. Broken bottles
don’t always get swept up right away.
But our block has three johnny pumps
and a guy with a wrench
to turn them on. On the days when the heat
stops your breath, he comes up the block
pulling it out of his pocket. Then the johnny pump
is blasting cool water everywhere
and us and other kids running through it,
refreshed and laughing.
Even the grown-ups come out sometimes.
Once, I saw my
never-ever-barefoot-outside-in-the-city mother
take off her sandals,
stand at the curb
and let the cool water run over her feet.
She was looking up at the tiny piece of sky.
And she was smiling.
genetics
My mother has a gap between
her two front teeth. So does Daddy Gunnar.
Each child in this family has the same space
connecting us.
Our baby brother, Roman, was born pale as dust.
His soft brown curls and eyelashes stop
people on the street.
Whose angel child is this? they want to know.
When I say, My brother, the people
wear doubt
thick as a cape
until we smile
and the cape falls.
caroline but
we called her aunt kay,
some memories
Aunt Kay at the top of the stairs, her arms open,
her smile wide
and us running to her.
Aunt Kay dressed up on a Friday night
smelling of perfume,
her boyfriend, Bernie, her friend Peaches.
Aunt Kay in the kitchen with Peaches and Bernie
passing a blue-and-white box of Argo starch
back and forth, the hard white chunks of it,
disappearing into their mouths like candy,
the slow chew and swallow.
Aunt Kay and Mama and Peaches, in tight skirts
singing in a band.
Aunt Kay braiding my hair.
Aunt Kay running up the stairs to her own apartment
and me running behind her.
Aunt Kay laughing.
Aunt Kay hugging me.
Then a fall.
A crowd.
An ambulance.
My mother’s tears.
And here, my Aunt Kay memories end.
moving again
After the falling
the stairs were all wrong to us.
Some days I head up there, my mother said,
forgetting that Kay is gone.
After the falling
Bernie and Peaches
packed their bags, moved out
to Far Rockaway, telling my mother
how much Kay loved the ocean.
After the falling
we took the A train
to their new apartment, played on the beach
till the sun went down, Mama quiet on a blanket
looking out at the water.
Kay was her big sister, only ten months older.
Everyone always thought they were twins
so that’s what they said they were.
Couldn’t look at one of us, my mother said,
without seeing the other.
After the falling
the hallway smelled
like Kay’s perfume
whenever it rained
so we moved again
to the second floor of a pink house
on Madison Street.
Out front there was a five-foot sculpture
made from gray rock,
ivory and sand. A small fountain sent water
cascading over statues
of Mary, Joseph and Jesus.
People stopped in front of the house,
crossed themselves, mouthed a silent prayer
then moved on.
This house is protected, the landlord told my mother.
The saints keep us safe.
This house is protected, my mother whispered to us.
By the Saint of Ugly Sculpture.
After the falling
sometimes I would see my mother
smiling at that sculpture. And in her smile,
there was Aunt Kay’s smile, the two of them
having a secret sister laugh, the two of them
together again.
composition notebook
And somehow, one day, it’s just there
speckled black-and-white, the paper
inside smelling like something I could fall right into,
live there—inside those clean white pages.
I don’t know how my first composition notebook
ended up in my hands, long before I could really write
someone must have known that this
was all I needed.
Hard not to smile as I held it, felt the breeze
as I fanned the pages.
My sister thought my standing there
smiling was crazy
didn’t understand how the smell and feel and sight
of bright white paper
could bring me so much joy.
And why does she need a notebook? She can’t even write!
For days and days, I could only sniff the pages,
hold the notebook close
listen to the sound the papers made.
Nothing in the world is like this—
a bright white page with
pale blue lines. The smell of a newly sharpened pencil
the soft hush of it
moving finally
one day
into letters.
And even though she’s sma
rter than anything,
this is something
my sister can’t even begin
to understand.
on paper
The first time I write my full name
Jacqueline Amanda Woodson
without anybody’s help
on a clean white page in my composition notebook,
I know
if I wanted to
I could write anything.
Letters becoming words, words gathering meaning, becoming
thoughts outside my head
becoming sentences
written by
Jacqueline Amanda Woodson
saturday morning
Some days in this new place
there is only a box of pancake mix
an egg, and faucet water, the hiss
of those together
against a black cast-iron pan,
the pancakes sticking to it
syrupless but edible and us
complaining about it wishing like anything
we were back in Greenville,
where there was always something good
to eat. We remember
the collards growing
down south, the melons, fresh picked
and dripping with a sweetness New York
can never know.
We eat without complaining
or whining or asking our mother when there will be
syrup, butter, milk . . .
We remember Greenville
without her, count our blessings in silence
and chew.
first grade
My hand inside my sister’s hand,
we walk the two blocks to P.S. 106—
I am six years old and
my sister tells me our school was once a castle.
I believe her. The school stretches for a full city block.
Inside
marble stairs wind their way to classrooms filled
with dark wood desks
nailed down to dark wood floors polished to a high
and beautiful shine.
I am in love with everything around me,
the dotted white lines moving
across my teacher’s blackboard, the smell of chalk,
the flag jutting out from the wall and slowly swaying
above me.
There is nothing more beautiful than P.S. 106.
Nothing more perfect than my first-grade classroom.
No one more kind than Ms. Feidler, who meets me
at the door each morning,
takes my hand from my sister’s, smiles down and says,
Now that Jacqueline is here, the day can finally begin.
And I believe her.
Yes, I truly believe her.
another kingdom hall
Because my grandmother calls and asks
if we’re spreading Jehovah’s word,
because my mother promises my grandmother
she’ll raise us right in the eyes of God,
she finds a Kingdom Hall on Bushwick Avenue
so we can keep our Jehovah’s Witness ways.
Every Sunday, we put on our Kingdom Hall clothes
pull out our Kingdom Hall satchels,
filled with our Kingdom Hall books
and walk the seven blocks
to the Kingdom Hall.
This is what reminds us of Greenville,
the Saturday-night pressing of satin ribbons,
Hope struggling with the knot in his tie,
our hair oiled and pulled back into braids,
our mother’s hands less sure
than our grandmother’s, the parts crooked, the braids
coming undone. And now, Dell and I
are left to iron our own dresses.
My hands,
my mother says,
as she stands at the sink, holding a crying Roman
with one hand,
her other holding a bottle of milk
under hot running water,
are full.
My mother drops us off at the Kingdom Hall door,
watches us walk
down the aisle to where Brothers and Sisters
are waiting
to help us turn the pages of our Bibles,
lean over to share their songbooks with us,
press Life Savers into our waiting hands . . .
Then our mother is gone, back home
or to a park bench,
where she’ll sit and read until the meeting is over.
She has a full-time job now. Sunday, she says,
is her day of rest.
flag
When the kids in my class ask why
I am not allowed to pledge to the flag
I tell them It’s against my religion but don’t say,
I am in the world but not of the world. This,
they would not understand.
Even though my mother’s not a Jehovah’s Witness,
she makes us follow their rules and
leave the classroom when the pledge is being said.
Every morning, I walk out with Gina and Alina
the two other Witnesses in my class.
Sometimes, Gina says,
Maybe we should pray for the kids inside
who don’t know that God said
“No other idols before me.” That our God
is a jealous God.
Gina is the true believer. Her Bible open
during reading time. But Alina and I walk through
our roles as Witnesses as though this is the part
we’ve been given in a play
and once offstage, we run free, sing
“America the Beautiful” and “The Star-Spangled Banner”
far away from our families—knowing every word.
Alina and I want
more than anything to walk back into our classroom
press our hands against our hearts. Say,
“I pledge allegiance . . .” loud
without our jealous God looking down on us.
Without our parents finding out.
Without our mothers’ voices
in our heads saying, You are different.
Chosen.
Good.
When the pledge is over, we walk single file
back into the classroom, take our separate seats
Alina and I far away from Gina. But Gina
always looks back at us—as if to say,
I’m watching you. As if to say,
I know.
because we’re witnesses
No Halloween.
No Christmas.
No birthdays.
Even when
other kids laugh as we leave the classroom
just as the birthday cupcakes arrive
we pretend we do not see the chocolate frosting,
pretend we do not want
to press our fingertips against
each colorful sprinkle and lift them,
one by sweet one
to our mouths.
No voting.
No fighting.
No cursing.
No wars.
We will never go to war.
We will never taste the sweetness of a classroom
birthday cupcake
We will never taste the bitterness of a battle.
brooklyn rain
The rain here is different than the way
it rains in Greenville. No sweet smell of honeysuckle.
No soft squish of pine. No slip and slide through grass.
Just Mama saying, St
ay inside today. It’s raining,
and me at the window. Nothing to do but
watch
the gray sidewalk grow darker,
watch
the drops slide down the glass pane,
watch
people below me move fast, heads bent.
Already there are stories
in my head. Already color and sound and words.
Already I’m
drawing circles on the glass, humming
myself someplace far away from here.
Down south, there was always someplace else to go
you could step out into the rain and
Grandma would let you
lift your head and stick out your tongue
be happy.
Down south already feels like a long time ago
but the stories in my head
take me back there, set me down in Daddy’s garden
where the sun is always shining.
another way
While our friends are watching TV or playing outside,
we are in our house, knowing that begging our mother
to turn the television on is useless, begging her for
ten minutes outside will only mean her saying,
No. Saying,
You can run wild with your friends anytime. Today
I want you to find another way to play.
And then one day my mother
comes home with two shopping bags
filled with board games—Monopoly, checkers, chess,
Ants in the Pants, Sorry, Trouble,
just about every game we’ve ever seen
in the commercials between
our Saturday morning cartoons.
So many games, we don’t know
where to begin playing, so we let Roman choose.
And he chooses Trouble
because he likes the sound the die makes
when it pops inside
its plastic bubble. And for days and days,
it is Christmas in November,
games to play when our homework is done,