“I think some rap is very conscious,” said Damon. “Like Gil Scott Heron, the Last Poets and the Roots.”
“What do you know about the Last Poets?” asked Mrs. King, with a smile.
“The revolution will not be televised,” said Damon. Mrs. King laughed.
“I am impressed,” she said.
“Brown nose,” whispered Digger, another football player. He made a smooching noise. Damon ignored him.
“My dad used to listen to them all the time. He turned me on to them. They were kind of hype,” said Damon. “They were talking about angry young brothers and how we take our anger out on our own community. And how we should wake up, and stop being prisoners in our own minds.”
Brielle looked at Damon with adoration in her eyes. He could say the most profound things sometimes. It really excited her that he liked poetry and literature. As far as Brielle was concerned, Damon was just about perfect. She looked down at her notebook where she had doodled Brielle Hamilton over and over in the margins. Raised voices caught her attention and she looked up.
“They didn’t have it as hard as we have it now,” said Chauncey.
“How can you say that?” asked Damon. “A lot of the rap of today is just so much gibberish compared to this stuff.”
“Man, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Digger
“Okay,” said Mrs. King, holding up her hand. “I’m impressed that you’re all so passionate about this subject. The next assignment for this class is to find a poem by the Last Poets and compare and contrast it to a modern day rapper and his song. Five pages. Due next week, Tuesday.”
Everyone groaned.
“Damon,” said Mrs. King, ignoring the general discontent. “Can you recite the next poem by Paul Lawrence Dunbar?”
“Which one?” asked Damon. Paul Lawrence Dunbar was one of his favorites and he’d read the poetry over and over.
“Invitation to Love,” said Mrs. King. The class laughed nervously.
“It’s hard to just recite,” said Damon, still slouched in his seat. Chauncey snickered to his right. “It feels stupid.”
“Recite it to somebody then,” said Mrs. King. “Pretend that you’re talking to some girl that you want to get next to. And you’re feeling particularly suave and debonair. Or pretend it’s a girl that you’ve been longing for forever and you want to tell her how you feel.”
“Okay,” said Damon, with a shrug. “Should I just pick somebody?”
“Or you can ask for a volunteer,” said Mrs. King.
Damon stood up, turned around, and looked straight at Brielle.
“Me?” she mouthed silently. She pointed to herself. He nodded with pleading eyes and she stood up and came forward as though he had a rope tied around her and was pulling her forward. When she was two feet away, she stopped.
He started out so quietly that Brielle had to strain to hear him.
“COME when the nights are bright with stars
Or when the moon is mellow;
Come when the sun his golden bars
Drops on the hay-field yellow.
Come in the twilight soft and gray,
Come in the night or come in the day,
Come, O love, whene'er you may,
And you are welcome, welcome.
Brielle realized that he was reciting from memory, because he was looking her directly in the eyes. Damon’s voice got louder, resonating through Brielle as he continued,
You are sweet, O Love, dear Love,
You are soft as the nesting dove.
Come to my heart and bring it rest
As the bird flies home to its welcome nest.
Brielle clasped her hands together and smiled. He was saying the words like he really meant them. Damon walked closer, took her hand and continued.
Come when my heart is full of grief
Or when my heart is merry;
Come with the falling of the leaf
Or with the redd'ning cherry.
Come when the year's first blossom blows,
Come when the summer gleams and glows,
Come with the winter's drifting snows,
And you are welcome, welcome.
When he finished, Brielle let out the breath that she’d been holding. He squeezed her hand and then let it drop to her side. He’d held her eyes the whole time. The entire class was silent for a few moments. The girls sighed as one. Then Mrs. King broke the spell.
“Damon,” she said. “That was kind of hype.” She fanned herself with her hand. The whole class, including Damon and Brielle burst into laughter. They went back to their seats.
“Playa, playa,” said Chauncey holding out his fist for. Damon bumped Chauncey’s hand before he took his seat. “I might have to take lessons from this boy.”
Once the class settled down, Mrs. King asked Chauncey to recite another Paul Lawrence Dunbar poem called ‘The Poet.’
“Can I do it my way?” he asked.
“Be my guest,” said Mrs. King, leaning against the board. Chauncey had Digger drum out a beat on his desk and recited it like he was rapping. When he finished, he bowed with a flourish.
“And that’s how we do,” he said. Mrs. King clapped in acknowledgment and gestured with her hand.
“Who wants to go next?” she asked. Several hands went up. Brielle sat quietly in the back of the classroom and smiled. Her heart was singing.
October
Brielle
Brielle was nervous. She felt like a cat sitting in a room full of dogs. Her father, mother and sister were all sitting in the family room looking at her like she was some kind of alien life form. She had dressed carefully for the upcoming inquisition. She looked good. Inside she was a mass of jittery shivers.
“Now,” her father said, deep voice rumbling in his chest. “Who is this boy?”
“Damon Hamilton, daddy,” said Brielle. “You know him. He took us to eat after the swim meet. He’s Jada’s youngest brother.”
“The boy with those funny colored eyes?”
“Yes,” said Brielle.
“This boy is coming over, why?” asked her father. His dark face was scrunched up like a thundercloud. “We don’t do boys just dropping through. He doesn’t have it like that in my house.”
“He asked me to the homecoming dance, dad,”
