{"product_id":"between-the-lines-isbn-9780525515159","title":"Between the Lines","description":"This thought-provoking companion to Nikki Grimes’ Coretta Scott King Award-winning \u003ci\u003eBronx Masquerade\u003c\/i\u003e shows the capacity poetry has to express ideas and feelings, and connect us with ourselves and others.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Darrian dreams of writing for the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e. To hone his skills and learn more about the power of words, he enrolls in Mr. Ward’s class, known for its open-mic poetry readings and boys vs. girls poetry slam. Everyone in class has something important to say, and in sharing their poetry, they learn that they all face challenges and have a story to tell—whether it’s about health problems, aging out of foster care, being bullied for religious beliefs, or having to take on too much responsibility because of an addicted parent. As Darrian and his classmates get to know one another through poetry, they bond over the shared experiences and truth that emerge from their writing, despite their private struggles and outward differences.“Told in nine voices and interspersed with poetry, Grimes stuns in this companion novel to \u003ci\u003eBronx Masquerade\u003c\/i\u003e. The next iteration of teens in Mr. Ward’s class are learning how to write poetry, rhyme, and flow, all the while opening up to each other about their various struggles. . . . Aptly describes inner-city problems, from police discrimination to gangs, but the teens are the focal point of the novel. . . . Grimes excels at making the students multidimensional and complex. This diverse cast’s strong inner conflict will enhance any bookshelf.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Grimes adroitly orchestrates a chorus of emotional teenage voices in this thought-provoking companion to the Coretta Scott King Award–winning \u003ci\u003eBronx Masquerade\u003c\/i\u003e. . . . While underscoring the difficulties these teens face, Grimes’s economical writing provides glimmers of hope, showing how forming bonds of trust and finding the courage to speak one’s truth can help ease emotional pain and bring salvation.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“These complex students use poetry to find their truest voices and write their own stories. . . . Each character occupies his or her own space and no one character or voice monopolizes the story. The narratives of immigrants, foster children, families effected by incarceration, and teens taxed with familial burdens are thoroughly explored in a thought-provoking way. The poems and voices are a perfect blend of the many facets of American teens’ lives. An excellent companion book that lends itself easily to a teacher’s poetry unit, this is great choice for school and public libraries.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In this companion to Grimes’s \u003ci\u003eBronx Masquerade\u003c\/i\u003e, which again mixes students’ first-person narratives and their forays into poetry, Mr. Ward’s class becomes a cast of many players, each student given a voice among the multiple points of views woven throughout the story. . . . This group of students, all with different life stories, bonds over the power of words and comes together. . . . In her author’s note, Grimes highlights her character Jenesis, who has been in the foster care system all her life and is about to age out; Grimes offers help and resources for vulnerable teens in similar situations.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Horn Book\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eNikki Grimes\u003c\/b\u003e (nikkigrimes.com) received the Coretta Scott King Award for \u003ci\u003eBronx Masquerade\u003c\/i\u003e, and has also received five Coretta Scott King Honors. She has written more than fifty books, including \u003ci\u003eThe Road to Paris\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eJazmin’s Notebook\u003c\/i\u003e, the Dyamonde Daniel series, and the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestseller \u003ci\u003eBarack Obama: Son of Promise, Child of Hope\u003c\/i\u003e. She lives in Corona, California.\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003ePrologue\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e I check out Mr. Ward’s classroom early, find dark walls covered with poetry hanging in picture frames bright as jelly beans.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e     Who wrote all these poems? And where exactly does Open Mike Friday take place?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eMy eyes travel the room until I notice a low stage, off to the side. It’s not very big, but there’s a spotlight hanging overhead, and in the center of the stage is a microphone just begging for somebody to grab it. Me? I’m a newspaperman. What am I even doing here?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI look back over the last week, trace the thinking that brought me to this class.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eLike every other day, a week ago started off with breakfast.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eDarrian Lopez\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e                     BREAKFAST ON THE BOUNCE FOR FATHER AND SON\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e¡Perfecto!\u003c\/i\u003e If I was writing a story about this morning, that would be my headline. I drop two waffles into the toaster, smiling to myself. Papi looks up from \u003ci\u003eEl Diario\u003c\/i\u003e, wondering why. I shake my head, sorry he’s reading the wrong paper. For me, it’s the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e. The old man is cool otherwise, though, driving a city bus double shifts sometimes just so he can keep replacing the clothes I grow out of. He doesn’t say much, but he loves me enough for two.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI wash one waffle down with milk, grab the other for the road, and head out of the door.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Later, Papi.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e On the way to school, I run into Zeke and Shorty, guys from my neighborhood. As usual, they’re talking smack.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“You watch, Shorty,” spouts Zeke. “I’m gonna be the biggest thing in hip-hop since Heavy D.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“What you been smokin’?” counters Shorty. “You can’t even sing! But me? I got serious moves on the court, plan on bein’ the next Kobe Bryant. Look out!”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eThey laugh to take the edge off of dreaming bigger than they believe. I keep my dreams to myself. I don’t need their laughter. Besides, I have to pay attention to these cracked sidewalks so I don’t trip or step on broken whiskey bottles or the dirty syringes that turn up everywhere.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“So, what you plan on doing to get your Black ass outta the Bronx?” Zeke asks me.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“You mean my Puerto Rican ass.” I’ve told Zeke a million times, I’m not Black.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Quit lying! You Black. You just got an accent,” he says every time. And every time, I shake my head.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eFor the record, my mother’s not Black. My father’s not Black. I’m. Not. Black. We are \u003ci\u003ePuertorriqueño\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003ci\u003eBoricuas.\u003c\/i\u003e From the island. But what the hell. Black and Brown people all get treated the same, anyway.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI look at Zeke and shrug, then jog ahead, disappearing around the corner.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e                    BROWN BOY BETRAYS RACE\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eThat’s what they’d say if they knew I planned on writing for the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e. Let’s face it, some of those papers got a bad habit of getting Black and Brown stories wrong. We all know it. But I figure the only way to get our stories straight is by writing them ourselves. So I’ll get in there, show them how it’s done.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eYeah. Only I’m not sure how exactly to get started.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI whip out my notebook, flip past the last local news story I wrote, and scribble: \u003ci\u003eSee Mr. Winston for help.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eWriting my plans down makes them feel solid. I smile all the rest of the way to school.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Lunch bell rings just in time. Stomach’s growling loud enough to wake the dead. I jump up, head for the door. The \u003ci\u003eTimes\u003c\/i\u003e lying unfolded on the teacher’s desk stops me cold.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Mr. Klein?” I ask. “Can I borrow your paper over lunch? I promise not to get mustard on it.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“No problem,” he says. “I’m done with it, anyway.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI scoop up the paper and tuck it under my arm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e                    TEACHER'S CASUAL KINDNESS REMEMBERED\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eThe \u003ci\u003eTimes\u003c\/i\u003e is like my bible: If it says something, it must be true. You can’t say that about too many papers these days. Seems like half of what gets printed is based on outright lies. I’m all about truth, though, so I figure the \u003ci\u003eTimes\u003c\/i\u003e and me are a good fit.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI hit my locker, grab my sandwich, and sprint to the yard so I can read without interruption. I find a quiet spot, unwrap my sandwich, unfold my paper, and gobble up both before the bell rings.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Home. Ready to chow down on anything I can find. I dump cap, jacket, backpack in a sloppy trail on my way to the kitchen and plant my face in a bowl of cold cereal. I don’t even hear Papi coming in early.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Darrian!” he barks. “What’s your stuff doing all over the floor? You know better.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Thorry,” I manage, mouth full of flakes. Papi must not be too mad. He goes quiet in there. But just in case, I swallow fast and pop into the living room to clear my mess.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003ePapi’s in the middle of the floor, flipping through my news stories. He looks up when he hears me.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“\u003ci\u003e¿Qué es esto?\u003c\/i\u003e” he asks, waving the notebook at me. “Some new kind of homework?”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eMy ledger of headlines and neighborhood features is hard to explain.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Not homework,” I whisper. “Just . . . stories I write . . . for practice.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“\u003ci\u003e¿Por qué?\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI clear my throat, ball my fists, ready for the laughter I’m afraid of.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Practice for being a reporter at the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI grit my teeth, wait for it. Papi grunts, hands me the evidence of my crime.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Go on, \u003ci\u003ehijo\u003c\/i\u003e. Pick your stuff up. Put it away.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eThat’s it. That’s all he says.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI breathe, forgetting all about being hungry.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eLater, I flop on my bed, bury my head under a pillow.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eNow I’ve gone and done it, said out loud what I want to do, to be. But how do I get there from here? Where do I start?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFirst thing in the morning, my questions carry me to the library to see Mr. Winston. Before I reach his desk, I notice a girl hunched over a table I can barely see the top of, there are so many books spilling across it. I can only make out one title without stopping to stare like some creep. It says \u003ci\u003ee. e. cummings\u003c\/i\u003e, all in small letters. Is that supposed to be a name? ’Cause that’s weird. I mean, who writes their name in all small letters? Never mind. I’m here to see Mr. Winston. He’s the only person I know who loves newspapers as much as I do.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“So, you want to be a newspaperman,” says Mr. Winston.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Yes, sir.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Well, here’s what you do.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI whip out my pen to take notes.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Get excellent grades so you can attend a good journalism school. Apply for a summer job at a local paper so you can see the work up close. As for right now, keep studying the dailies. And learn as much as you can about all sorts of writing, not just articles but essays, short stories, even poetry.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI quit writing when he gets to that last thing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e                    LIBRARIAN LOSES HIS MIND\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Poetry? Why do I need to learn about poetry?”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Because poetry, more than anything else, will teach you about the power of words. If you’re going to be a reporter, that’s something you need to understand.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI nod, only half convinced. Poetry. That’s a new one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI drag myself in the door that night, a Brown balloon with all the air let out.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eHow am I supposed to learn about poetry?\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI’m folded up in a kitchen chair, head on the table, when Papi comes in.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     Thwap!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eSomething lands heavy beside my head. I crack one eye open, see the bold black ink of a familiar logo that gets my attention. I sit up straight, rub my eyes.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Folks leave newspapers on the bus almost every day,” says Papi. “I usually toss these out at the end of my shift, along with \u003ci\u003eEl Diario\u003c\/i\u003e and all the other papers. \u003ci\u003ePero\u003c\/i\u003e now that I know you like these ones so much, I figured I’d bring ’em home.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eTwo days’ worth of \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e are right there, rolled up next to me. My eyes turn from the headlines to my dad’s face, then back to the paper.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“\u003ci\u003eGracias\u003c\/i\u003e, Papi,” is as much as I can manage between all that grinning and feeling like something’s stuck in my throat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e     \u003ci\u003e     \u003ci\u003e     \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eGIFT LEAVES BOY SPEECHLESS\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eMan!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNext day at school, I hear some kids talking about Open Mike poetry readings that happen in Mr. Ward’s class on Fridays. He taught tenth grade last year, but he moved over to eleventh grade this year, which works out for me since that’s the grade I’m in. We’re only one week into school, so I beg my guidance counselor to switch me over into his class. I beg with puppy eyes so she won’t have a chance to say no. She shakes her head, tries to hide a smile, and signs me up.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eNow I’m here, checking out Mr. Ward’s classroom before the rest of the class piles in.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI notice one of the poems, shaped like a Z. That gets me to look closer. The shape doesn’t make sense until I read it. It’s a pretty cool poem about Zorro and how most people think of Latinos as one stereotype or another, because all they know about us is some fairy tale they’ve seen in the movies or on TV.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Raul Ramirez wrote that one,” says a voice behind me. I practically pee in my pants! I didn’t hear anybody come into the room.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“I’m Mr. Ward,” he says. “And you are?”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Darrian Lopez,” I manage, still breathing heavy. “I just signed up for your class.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eMr. Ward smiles.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“So, what do you think of the poem?”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“It’s pretty good. I mean, I like it,” I say, trying not to sound too impressed.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Well, these are all poems by last year’s class. I took them all down at the end of the year and turned them into an anthology. I made photocopies of my favorite poems, though, so that I could hang them back on the wall. By the end of this year, there will be new poems. Maybe one of them will be yours.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“I don’t know about that,” I say. Anyway, that’s the end of our conversation, because the class is filling up. I wait until everyone sits down so that I can tell which seats are still free.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eMr. Ward welcomes me into class quietly, which I’m happy about. He motions me to the back, where there are a couple of empty seats. I take one near a pretty black girl with straight blond hair. I don’t know how I’m going to feel about poetry, but I know I like the scenery!\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI pay attention when the roll is called.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Valentina Alvarez.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Here.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI wonder about the personalities behind each name.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Angela Marie Bailey.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Here.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Li Cheng.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Here.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI turn my head. Wait! That’s the girl I saw in the library! Cool. Now I’ll get to ask her about that e. e. cummings book.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Marcel Dixon.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Here.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Freddie Houston.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Here.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Darrian Lopez.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eOh! That’s me. “Here.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eEvery now and then, my mind wanders. I don’t catch every name.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Kyle—”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Here.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI notice there are more girls than guys.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI like that.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Jenesis Whyte.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Here.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eJenesis, huh? So that’s who I’m sitting next to! Her name makes me think of beginnings. A new class. A new year. This is going to be interesting.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Yesterday,” says Mr. Ward, “we started talking about narrative poetry. A narrative poem, simply put, is a poem that tells a story. In order to write a narrative poem, then, you must first decide on—what?”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Your story,” says Jenesis.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Exactly. Open your notebooks and, for the next few minutes, I want you to think about a small story, or an anecdote from your childhood, and write about it in a paragraph or two. Keep it simple.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“What kind of story?”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI’m glad someone else asks so I don’t have to.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“You decide. It could be a favorite memory of someone in your family, a road trip or vacation that stands out, something that happened in school when you were little. You are the narrator. You choose the story. But keep in mind, you will be turning this into a poem, so keep the story short.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     Story. I can do that.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Close your eyes,” suggests Mr. Ward. “It may help you to focus.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eMr. Ward is right. I close my eyes and concentrate on Papi, on how we used to be together when I was little. As soon as I do, I remember the rattle of newspaper as Papi folded \u003ci\u003eEl Diario\u003c\/i\u003e on Sunday morning at the breakfast table. I remember scrambling up onto his lap so I could see what he was looking at. Thinking of those days makes me smile. I open my eyes and start to write.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eThat night, our assignment is to turn our paragraphs into a poem. Closing my eyes doesn’t help much now. All I know about poetry is it rhymes, so I keep trying to find words that rhyme with \u003ci\u003enewspaper\u003c\/i\u003e. Forget it!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     \u003ci\u003eIn the mornings\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      on Sundays\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      Papi and me\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      we always\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      sat at the breakfast table\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      with \u003c\/i\u003eEl Diario\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      before I was able\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      to read or understand\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      the newspaper\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      in Papi’s hand . . .\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e    \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eI know. Pretty lame.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eThe next time we have class, Mr. Ward starts off by asking, “How many of you wrote your poem?”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eAlmost all our hands go up.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“And how many of you tried to write your poems in rhyme?”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eMy hand slips up, along with maybe half the kids.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“And how did that work for you?”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eThe last question was followed by a lot of grumbling, including from me.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“I’m not surprised,” says Mr. Ward. “Most people mistakenly think that all poetry has to rhyme. In fact, they use the words \u003ci\u003epoem\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003erhyme\u003c\/i\u003e interchangeably. But rhyme is only one element of some forms of poetry, and there are many forms that don’t employ rhyme at all.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     Damn! Now you tell me!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e                    TEACHER BURIES THE LEAD\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Instead of trying to force your words to rhyme, I want you to start thinking of poetry in a different way. A poem paints a picture using words. So a narrative poem is a poem that tells a story and paints a picture using words. You want to use language that is lyrical, that is descriptive. If rhyme comes to you naturally, it’s fine to use it. But if it doesn’t, that’s fine, too. \u003ci\u003eRhyme\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003epoetry\u003c\/i\u003e are not synonymous! Okay?”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI copy down everything Mr. Ward says, word for word. After school, I pull out my paragraphs about Papi and me reading the newspaper, and I start working on a brand-new poem. This time, I give up worrying about rhyme and start paying more attention to lining up words with the same letters and turning words into pictures.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eI won’t lie. It takes a lot of practice. Like, instead of just writing \u003ci\u003epaper \u003c\/i\u003ewhen I’m talking about the special paper the daily news is printed on, I try to find words that tell you how that paper feels when you touch it. Writing this way takes more time, but it’s worth it. The poems I end up with are pretty decent. They still have a little rhyme in them, though. Even so, I can’t wait to show the latest poem to Mr. Ward.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eThe following day, Mr. Ward introduces some kid named Tyrone from his class last year. He invited him to drop in to kick things off for our first Open Mike Friday poetry reading. I thought I knew what to expect. Not even close.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eTyrone Bittings\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Y’all got no idea, but you’re in for something deep. Trust me,” I tell Mr. Ward’s class.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Mr. Ward asked me to help y’all get this year’s Open Mike Friday started. I’m totally pumped to do it, especially since I can’t hang so much this year. I’ve got some schedule conflicts since I’ve decided to go for a JC—that’s \u003ci\u003ejunior college\u003c\/i\u003e, for those of you who don’t know the lingo. I need to kick up my grades in math, in science, in history, in . . . well, in pretty much every subject but English. Time to man up if I’m gonna chase my dreams, as my homey Wesley ‘Bad Boy’ Boone would say. Anyway, I’ll be dropping in during my study period, when I can. I’m not in class officially, but I’m gonna be like—Teach, what do you call it in college when you sit in a class, but don’t get credit?”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Audit,” says Mr. Ward. “But you can’t actually audit a class in high school, Tyrone.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“No? Well, it sounds cool. Anyway, Mr. Ward gave me a special pass so I can drop in whenever I don’t actually need study hall to study. Guess I’ll be doing my homework at home!”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eThat got me a laugh.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“So listen, y’all heard a little bit about Open Mike already, right? Well, last year, we had it for the first time. It all started when Teach did this lesson about the Harlem Renaissance. To me and my homey Wesley, the lesson was all blah-blah-blah until Teach started reading poetry. Sorry, Teach, but it’s true.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Teach read this one poem that made me think of rap, which I know something about, seeing as how I gots mad rhyming skills myself and know how to tell a story with a beat, you feel me? So I asked Mr. Ward if I could read one of my raps. A couple other kids had poems they wanted to read, too. So Mr. Ward started this regular Open Mike poetry reading in class, and next thing we know, kids from all over the school are practically busting down the door to get in on the action.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“A slight exaggeration,” says Mr. Ward.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Well, okay. But a lot of kids were getting passes to come to our room whenever we were doing Open Mike, and that ain’t no lie.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“What I loved best about it was getting to know everybody. I mean, before Open Mike, we were all in our own separate little groups, thinking we were so different from each other. But when people started sharing who they were through their poetry, turned out we were more alike then we were different. Black, White, Puerto Rican—it didn’t matter. Truth is truth, and everybody bleeds red.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“The kids in that class? They are all my peeps now. And they helped me believe in myself, in my dreams of what I could be. Bet you didn’t know poetry could do all that, huh?\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Y’all should look around the room, check out the people you’re sitting next to. You might think you know who some of them are, what they’re about. You’ve got no clue. By the end of a semester doing Open Mike, you will.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Cool? Okay. Let’s get this thing started! Who wants to go first? I’d read one of my poems, but I don’t want to show you up.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eEverybody laughs, which is exactly what I wanted.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“No, I’m just kidding. I’ll get the ball rolling. After that, the mike’s all yours.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e“Oh! And one more thing: At the end of the semester, there’s gonna be a poetry slam, Team Boyz against Team Girlz, so get ready for a little competition. And you know the Boyz are gonna crush it. It’s throwdown time, people!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eTruth\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e     \u003c\/i\u003eby Tyrone Bittings\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   \u003ci\u003e   Yo, yo\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      I know\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      you think a poem\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      ain’t nothing but\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      a reason for a song.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      I hear you, but you’re wrong.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      Trust me:\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      A poem can split skin\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      and let the blood run red.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      A poem can turn the clock back,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      help you crack the code of you.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      A poem can strip away fear,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      leave a messed-up mind clear\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      to understand what’s going on\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      deep inside the heart,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      the one part\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      of our world\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      where we can maybe make some sense,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      since, suddenly, unnatural disasters\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      crash the nightly news\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      on instant replay.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      High crime and Homeland Insecurity\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      are the order of the day.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      But, hey,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      rap and rhyme is one way\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      to strap on your own power,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      at least for an hour.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      So slide a pen in your holster,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      lock and load whatever\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      words you choose.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      Use them to cry, to shout,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      to whisper—whichever.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      Just step up, step up to the mike\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      and let your truth fly, loud,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e      proud, raw.\u003c\/i\u003e","brand":"Nancy Paulsen Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301126164709,"sku":"NP9780525515159","price":11.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780525515159.jpg?v=1767722506","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/between-the-lines-isbn-9780525515159","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}