Chasing Butterflies Read online

  He’s a little under six foot, the color of fudge chocolate with a rich, deep voice.

  And from Brooklyn, New York.

  I love when he steps up to the mic.

  He always delivers his pieces with so much intensity.

  A staccato filled with passion and vulnerability.

  And sometimes anger.

  I watch as he moves through the crowd toward the stage.

  Crystal leans in and says, “He is sooo cute. I mean really cuuuuute.”

  That he is. “And he’s too old.”

  She sucks her teeth. “Dang. I can still look.”

  “Uh-huh. And lust,” I tease.

  She feigns insult. “Who, moi?”

  “Yes. You.”

  “I beg your pardon.” She laughs. “I don’t lust. I admire.”

  “Oh, that’s what you call drooling at the mouth? Admiration? Oh, okay. I’ll keep that in mind the next time I have to hand you a napkin.”

  She gives me a dismissive wave. “What. Ever.”

  I smile, shaking my head.

  Every other week Crystal has a new crush on a poet. She isn’t a poet; however, she enjoys the art. But I think she enjoys coming just so she can look at the male poets who grace the stage—the cute ones, that is—more than anything else.

  Legacy takes the stage.

  The room falls silent before he opens his mouth.

  He stands there, looking out into the crowd at no one in particular, I don’t think, since it’s his MO just before he gives the mic his signature one-hand caress.

  His jeans hang low on his waist, the waistband of his American Eagles showing.

  He motions with his hand for the DJ.

  And then...

  The lights dim, the spotlight going from a bright white light to a reddish glow.

  “Peace and blessings,” he says, coolly, into the mic.

  “Blessings and peace,” the crowd says in unison.

  “I’ma just get right into it. I was called the N-word the other night . . .”

  The room grumbles in disgust.

  A few grunt their dismay.

  Others want to know what he did.

  I shift in my seat.

  Lean forward.

  Wanting to know, too.

  “I’m not gonna lie. It had me tight. I wanted to crack his jaw . . .”

  “I know that’s right,” someone says.

  “But instead of using my fists, I chose to put it on paper. Chose to filter my erupting anger into something much greater, much more meaningful than his ignorance.

  “This piece tonight, ‘The Black Man I Am,’ is my response to being called the N-word.” He clears his voice, then begins, allowing words to flow from his lips like molten lava as he bares his soul.

  When he finishes, he says, “May we have a moment of silence for all those before us who have shed tears and spilled blood and died so that we may see a better day.” He bows his head.

  A hushed silence sweeps over the room.

  Everyone bows his or her head, including me. But I do not close my eyes. I keep them on him. Legacy.

  The prince of poetry.

  After several moments, his voice slices into the quiet. “Thank you.”

  And then comes the clicking of tongues, and the snapping of fingers, and a thunderous roar of applause. People stand and clap and shout.

  I smile, swept up in the energy.

  And then it’s my turn.

  The emcee calls out for me, and I get up from my seat, making my way up to the stage.

  “Yeah, Nia,” I hear Crystal call out.

  Someone else whistles.

  I grab for the microphone. Then I say, “Hello. This piece is inspired by Legacy. And to all the forefathers and foremothers.” I close my eyes. And begin...

  Stolen from the Motherland

  Dragged on slave ships

  Deafened by the sounds

  Of the Kings and Queens

  Who cried

  And died

  At the bottom of the sea

  Shackled

  Whipped

  Across the back

  Dragged by the feet

  Hung from a tree

  Robbed of a native tongue

  That belonged to me

  Bought and sold

  Like property

  Became enslaved

  Families torn apart

  Women raped

  Men burned

  And beaten

  Babies snatched

  From the arms

  Of wailing mothers

  Whose milk still drips

  And wombs still ache

  And bleed

  From your misdeeds

  Forbidden to speak

  So I spoke in codes

  To the beat of drums

  And looked toward the sun

  And the moon

  And the stars

  To guide me

  Toward a freedom

  You tried to keep from me

  Spit on

  Stepped on

  Hosed down

  Bit by dogs

  Jim Crow laws

  Burning crosses

  Segregation

  Degradation

  Plagued by the horrors

  Of a past

  Fueled by hate

  And bitterness

  Because of the color of my skin

  Still I rise

  Despite your sins

  From

  Imhotep

  Hatshepsut

  Nerfertiti

  Akhenaton

  Makeda

  And

  Cleopatra

  To

  Aesop

  Cetewayo

  Bambata

  Menelik

  Chaka

  And now Obama

  We have been mighty warriors

  Since the beginning of time

  Fighting for a cause

  Behind the cold glances

  I know you want to be like me

  But will never be me

  Imitate my swagger

  Bite off my dances

  Profit from my lyrics

  Yet

  You fear me

  That’s why...

  Despite my emancipation

  You still try

  To keep me on a plantation

  Chained

  To discrimination

  Humiliation

  Substandard education

  And

  Incarceration

  You think labeling me

  Hostile

  Dangerous

  Endangered

  Keeping me behind

  Concrete walls

  And

  Razor wire

  Will prevent me

  From becoming who I’m destined to be

  You try to inject me

  And infect me

  With your drugs

  And diseases

  And pour guns into my community

  In order to commit

  Homicide

  Suicide

  Another form of genocide

  Behind the smiling

  You disguise your contempt

  Through racial profiling

  And media lying

  But your sick

  Twisted ploy

  Will never get the best of me

  There’s nothing you can do to me

  That hasn’t already been done to me

  You can’t hurt me

  Can’t break me

  Will never destroy me

  I’m a survivor

  I rise

  I rise

  “You better talk about it,” someone shouts out.

  “Go ’head, li’l sister. You spitting nothing but the truth!”

  I continue . . .

  And despite your lies

  And distortions

  Of who I am

  I rejoice

  In celebration

  Of a rich history

 
; You’ve tried to hide from me

  For I am the descendant

  Of great achievers

  And believers

  Founders of civilization

  Who have paved the way

  Great men

  And women

  Who have shed tears

  And sweat

  And blood

  To build this nation

  And give birth

  To a new generation

  Of

  Leaders who rest

  On a solid foundation

  So in spite of

  Everything you’ve done to me

  I will continue to stand

  With my head held high

  And rise

  And rise

  And rise . . .

  13

  A few days later, Daddy is steering his Mercedes truck into the drop-off zone, dropping Crystal and me off for school. “All right,” he says, shifting the gear into neutral. “You girls enjoy your day.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Daniels,” Crystal says, opening the rear passenger door. She climbs out and shuts the door behind her.

  I lean in and give Daddy a kiss on the cheek. He smells of cologne and Dial soap. I breathe him in. He always smells so nice. “Thanks, Daddy. Love you.”

  He smiles. “Love you, too, Butterfly. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Wait. What time will you be home?” I ask, opening the SUV’s door.

  “Hopefully before seven thirty,” he says. “Do you want me to pick up dinner?”

  “No. That’s okay. I’m going to go over to Crystal’s after school, then maybe grab something to eat down at the Poetry Café. Is that okay?”

  “That’s fine. Do you need me to pick you up?”

  I shake my head. “No. Crystal’s mom will pick us up, then drop me off later.” He wants to know what time I’ll be home. I tell him before curfew. By ten.

  “Okay then.” He smiles at me. “Call me when you get out of school.”

  “I will.” I shut the door, then wave good-bye as he pulls off.

  Crystal loops her arm through mine. “How much you want to bet Cameron’s somewhere lurking by the lockers waiting for us?” She sucks her teeth. “Ugh. He’s so annoying.”

  Uh-huh. More like annoyingly cute.

  But okay. If she says so.

  “Um, no,” I say, shaking my head. “He’s waiting for you.” I know, I know. He swore up and down he doesn’t like her like that. But I don’t believe him.

  Not really.

  She stops and gives me a look. “Me? Oh, no. That boy had better go kick rocks. He is so not my type.”

  I shake my head. “You are such a liar.”

  She guffaws, swats me with a hand. “I am not. I’m serious. Have you seen him? That boy’s goofy.”

  And cute.

  “He’s like one of my annoying brothers,” she adds, half-convincingly. “That would be incestuous.”

  Now I’m giving her a sidelong glance, confusion painted on my face. But I don’t say anything. When we finally arrive at her lockers, guess who’s already here, waiting?

  You guessed it!

  Cameron.

  Crystal raises a brow, and gives me a look. “See. What I tell you? Stalker.”

  “Hey, Cam,” I say, dismissing her comment.

  “Hey,” he says back to me. Then to Crystal he says, “Good morning, Madame Ugly. Who’s stalking you? The ASPCA?”

  She rolls her eyes, then punches him. “You make me sick, boy!”

  “Ow!” he yelps, rubbing his arm. “I see someone ate their Wheaties this morning.”

  Crystal sucks her teeth. “Whatever, boy.”

  He grabs her, then kisses her face.

  “Ew!” she cries, shoving him away. “You’re such a loser.”

  She wipes her face with her hand.

  “Hey, but you love it.” He grabs her by the waist, picks her up, and twirls her around. She yells for him to stop, but is laughing at the same time.

  I roll my eyes. “Ugh. Get a room, already. Geesh.”

  He puts her down. And she pretends to be annoyed that he’s messed up her hair as he always does. But she’s still grinning. “I so hate you right now. I’ve been contaminated by this boy’s lips.” She wipes the side of her face again. “I wonder if I can press charges.”

  “Hey. You better frame that kiss,” he says, laughing. “It’s probably the only one you’ll ever get.”

  “Yeah, don’t you wish,” she says back.

  And then Cameron’s on to the next thing, glancing at his watch. “What took y’all so long, anyway? The bell’s about to ring in less than ten minutes.”

  “Well—”

  “Hey, Cameron,” Shelly Locksmith says, cutting me off and waving at him. She’s a senior.

  And campus flirt, I might add.

  “Hey, Shelly,” he says back. That only encourages her to stop in front of us, arching her back just so to make her boobs pop out of her low-cut blouse even more.

  I eye Crystal eyeing Shelly as she sidles over to Cameron, putting a hand on his arm.

  Crystal clears her throat. “Oh, how rude. So you don’t see anyone else besides Cameron over here?”

  She flashes a fake smile. Then she flips her lusciously long, sleek, hair over her shoulder as someone doing a shampoo commercial would. “Oh, hey, Crystal. Hey, Nia. Apologies. I get so overwhelmed every time I see this hard-bodied hunk that I forget my manners.”

  She giggles.

  Crystal frowns.

  And I have nothing but a blank stare on my face.

  Cameron doesn’t seem to know what to say to that. “Umm . . .” He shoots a look over at me, then Crystal. “Thanks.”

  This is like the only time I’ve known Cameron to be totally caught off guard.

  Shelly rubs Cameron’s muscled arm again. “Do you mind walking me to my locker, then to homeroom?” she asks, pulling him by the arm before he has a chance to respond. “I need to tell you something . . . in private.”

  She shoots a nasty look over at Crystal.

  Cameron has a confused look on his face, as I do. He shrugs. “Umm. Sure, I guess.”

  Crystal and I stare as she drags Cameron by the arm through the sea of students, disappearing into the crowd.

  “Ohmygod. She’s such a snot ball,” Crystal says, rolling her eyes.

  I can’t say I disagree. “What the heck was that all about?” I ask, opening my locker.

  Crystal shakes her head. “Your guess is as good as mine. She gave me a look of death like I’d seriously done something to her. I think I’ve officially become mortal enemy number one.”

  I wave a dismissive hand. “I wouldn’t pay her any mind.” I grab my books for the first three periods, then slam my locker shut. I lower my voice to barely a whisper. “They say paranoia runs in her family.”

  Crystal snorts. “Oh, so she’s genetically crazy. Ha! That’s good to know. That says it all.”

  14

  Later in the evening, Crystal and I are hanging out at the Poetry Café. Her mom dropped us off about an hour ago—she’ll pick us up around nine she said—and now we’re sitting here finishing up an order of honey-glazed wings and cheese fries that we’ve shared.

  Crystal licks her fingers. “Mmm. I love the wings here.” She plucks a cheese fry from the plate and holds her head back, dropping it into her mouth.

  I grimace. “Ugh. That’s so not ladylike.”

  She rolls her eyes, chewing. She swallows, then says, “Who has time trying to be ladylike eating cheese fries and honey wings? Not me.” She licks her fingers again, then smacks her lips. “They’re so heavenly.”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “Well at least try to be—”

  I’m not given a chance to finish my sentence. One of the Café’s regular poets walks over to our table, smiling. “What’s going on, Nia?”

  “Hi,” I say coolly.

  Oh Lordy!

  What’s his name?

  I don’t want to sound l
ame and ask him, since he’s always able to remember mine. But for the life of me, I can’t recall his name. I just know he’s really, really tall—like extra tall—and has lots of tattoos, and an eyebrow piercing.

  This is so embarrassing.

  Crystal elbows me, extending her hand out. “Hi. I’m Crystal. Dang, you’re tall. And cute. Don’t mind the sticky hands, though. Want a honey wing?”

  He eyes her, amused. “Nah. Thanks. Nice meeting you, though.”

  “Nice meeting you, too. Are you married? Single? Any babies?”

  “Ohmygod,” I say, utterly embarrassed at the drool gathering in the corner of her mouth. “Don’t mind my nutty friend,” I say. “She’s off her meds.”

  He chuckles. “It’s all love. I haven’t seen you around in a minute, Nia. Things good?”

  “Yes. They’re great. I’ve been around. Just haven’t been here in a while, though.”

  He grins, revealing a row of straight white teeth. “Yeah. I see. You’ve been missed, though.”

  Aww, dang. Now I really feel bad for not remembering his name.

  I smile back at him. “Thanks. Are you performing tonight?”

  “True indeed,” he says, nodding his head. “You?”

  I shake my head. “No. Not tonight.”

  He eyes me thoughtfully. “You should. I dig how you move on the stage. I enjoy watching you.”

  I shift in my seat, feeling myself blush. “Thanks,” I say sheepishly. “I might, if they still have room.”

  “They always have room for you,” he says. “And if not, they’ll make room. You know that.”

  Crystal clears her throat. “Umm, hello? Why am I being excluded from this conversation? Is this about to turn into some poets’ meeting I’m not privy to?”

  I roll my eyes and shake my head.

  Crystal is a mess.

  Mr. Extra Tall grins. “My bad. What would you like to talk about? Um . . .” He snaps his finger. “Crystal, right?”

  She tosses a look my way. “See. He remembers my name.”

  I roll my eyes up in my head as she stands in front of his six-foot-something frame, hand on her hip, flirting with him. “Let’s talk about you.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “Are you dating anyone?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Are you looking for a date? Because if you are, I’m free every day except for Tuesdays and Sundays, and so you should know I never, ever, kiss with an open mouth. I’m borderline germaphobe.”