“Education is your ticket outta here, boy,”
. Momma said.
“You gotta fight your way out, you know that, right?”
. She wasn’t very good at fighting herself,
. so I did the fighting instead.
I chucked fists and stories across the playground and the desk since I was seven,
. knowing I’d have to fight to get myself heard
. on both levels.
I wasn’t no runt, but I wasn’t no giant neither;
. informal boxing lessons took place during recess every day
. in the corner where no teachers could see.
I wasn’t no retard, but I wasn’t no genius neither;
. formal writing lessons hit me hard
. but I learned to hit ‘em right back
. with a story that made Miss Johnson
. the new young teacher
. fresh outta teacher school
. say,
. “This is good. Really good. Tell me more for extra credit.”
And I did.
. I got that extra credit.
. And lots more since.
Grades went from D’s to B’s to a smattering of A’s
. and since I survived to make it to high school,
. I got an offer from a college
. and a scholarship for the wrestling team too.
So I took the Greyhound to upstate and hung out in run-down dorms
. and a sweaty gym
. and stuffy classrooms
. and an underworked mind.
. I got a lotta workouts there.
I got letters from my Momma,
. she said she was fine and told me to work hard, to make her proud.
. Her handwriting was shakier every time, though.
But I listened to my Momma and I worked hard.
I took the classes, got the credits—
. the same credits the fancy kids from downtown got,
. surrounded by their trust funds and their designer label jeans.
I got those credits,
. surrounded by second-hand binders and cheap textbooks
. which say the same thing as the expensive ones from the shiny campus bookstore.
I’ma keep slinging words across a page until I can get them outta here
. ‘cause even though I gotta go home and take care of my Momma
. words don’t have no responsibility
. except to
. fly.
Poem copyright Rachel Antonoff 2009
Submissions: Writing contest, 5 August 2009. (Deadline: 10 September 2009.)
