Free Bronx Masquerade by Nikki Grimes Page A

always save the best for last.
Mr. Ward just eyed the clock. I better make this fast.
Listen up, my peeps, because I’ve got the 411.
News at Five is infotainment. That’s the game they run.
So forget about those gray heads with their slanted views.
Come tomorrow, we will be the ones to write the news.
Starting now, we can create ourselves a whole new crew.
We can’t do no worse than Nixon, I don’t think. Do you?
I am not a politician, but I know what’s right.
It’s high time we knocked the wall down between Black and
white.
    So what’s say we end this thing with Steven and Tyrone shaking hands and sharing hugs. Let’s leave these two alone!
     
    I am here to stay, yo. I am here to play, yo.
     
    Peace.

Sheila
    If anybody had to catch me, I guess I’m glad it was Wesley.
    I was in the doorway of a classroom watching Porscha as she walked by. No. That’s not right. I wasn’t watching Porscha, I was watching the way she walked, trying to study it. Then, once she turned the corner, I stepped into the hall and walked just like her. That’s when Wesley caught me.
    “Girl, what is your problem?”
    That’s the same question my mother and father keep asking me, although they don’t use the exact same words. “What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you be like your sisters?” I want to know that too. Why can’t I be like them, be like somebody? I hate sticking out.
    Everybody around me is dark and ethnic. Which is in, by the way. Look at all the supermodels. They’re from places like Venezuela and Africa and Puerto Rico. Then there’s me, white bread and pale as the moon. I can’t even tan without burning myself. I look around my neighborhood and this school, and nobody looks like me. I keep thinking if I could just stick out less, if I could learn to walk and talk like the kids around me, maybe I would fit in more. I don’t know. Maybe it’s a dumb idea. Wesley sure thinks so. When he pulled me aside in the school hall and I tried to explain why I was copying Porscha’s walk, stupid was the word he used. The minute he said it, I felt my cheeks go red. That’s not the color I was after. I jerked away from Wesley and avoided his eyes.
    “Okay, maybe it was stupid. But I just want to fit in. I’m tired of being different, all right?” Suddenly I thought, Why am I trying to explain this to Wesley? He’s Black. He already fits in. “Forget it,” I said, beginning to walk away. “You don’t understand.”
    “Oh, get a clue, girl! Everybody’s different. It don’t matter what your skin color is, or what name you call yourself. Everybody is different inside, anyway. We’re all trying to fit in. Ain’t nothing new about that.”
    “Great!” I said. “Since you’re so smart, tell me what I’m supposed to do!”
    Wesley shrugged. “Hey, I don’t know what to tell you, except be yourself.”
    “Wonderful! Pearls of wisdom. Thanks a lot.”
    Wesley put his hand on my shoulder. “Sheila,” he said, “you want to hang with brothas and sistas, it ain’t no big thing. Just don’t try to be them. Keep your name, change it—whatever. A name is a personal thing and I’m not going to get into that. But why you want to change who you are? Soon as you get out of here, you’re going to go to a college or get a job where everybody else is as blond and blue-eyed as you. They walk like you and talk like you. What’re you going to do, then? Change yourself back?”
    The truth of his words pinned me to the wall. I never even stopped to think about the future, about leaving this school, this neighborhood, maybe even this city. All I ever think about is now, because now hurts so bad.
    “I guess you’re right,” I said. “Yeah, well.” A couple of sisters passed by and threw us a dirty look. Wesley dropped his hand from my shoulder and shifted from one foot to another, suddenly uncomfortable.
    “Look, at least in Mr. Ward’s class, we make it easy. You want to hang, you want to fit in? It