Nikki Grimes - A Girl Named Mister

Would I nestle Junior

in a sling

across my chest?

Slot hot bottles of formula

in my backpack between

history books

and my English journal?

Get serious, I tell myself.

High school has no

show and tell,

and Junior isn’t It.

Idiot.

I curse myself

for thinking crazy.

“I’ll have to get a babysitter,”

I think aloud.

“Yes,” says Mom.

“And they’re expensive.”

And so are diapers,

bottles, vitamins, and

what about home?

My room’s already

an obstacle course

of daybed, desk, and dresser.

What am I going to do,

stick her in the top drawer,

laid out on a soft bundle

of clean socks and T-shirts?

Look at this place!

Lord knows,

there’s no space here

for a crib.

Besides,

my dreams for Junior

reach higher than

this ceiling.

God, I want the stars

for this kid.

At least, I want to want that,

you know?

Can you take care of him, Lord?

Take care of me?

I still want to see

whatever dreams

you always had in store

for my future.

I worry that I’m selfish,

but Mom says

I need to be true

to me,

to you.

Junior is especially

restless this morning.

He/she is somersaulting, I swear.

Is that possible?

“Calm down, in there,” I whisper.

“Everything’s okay.

School’s over on Friday.

Then you’ll have me

all to yourself.

And, in ten more weeks,

you’ll get to see your mom.

You’ll find out who she’ll be.

I’ll get to say hello,

and maybe say good-” No.

Don’t go there, Mister. Not now.

“Where was I? Oh!

You’ll get to play outside.

Till then, enjoy the ride.”

In a way,

it feels like any other

summer Saturday afternoon,

the usual New York swelter

chasing a gang of us kids

out to the edge of the ocean.

But this trip to Coney Island

with Seth and friends

is blah.

Sure, I can block out the stares

of nosey passengers

on the long subway ride to Brooklyn,

and there’s still the flutter

in the pit of my belly

as the park rushes into view

through the train window.

But that’s all the excitement

I’m gonna get for the day

‘cause once I get there,

strolling the boardwalk broadway,

munching a cheesy slice of pizza

or one of Nathan’s juicy hot dogs,

and digging my toes in the sand

is all I’m good for.

There’s no strapping myself in

for a slow round ride

skimming the sky on

the Wonder Wheel,

or enjoying the screaming drop

of Astroland

or the Cyclone rollercoaster.

No sir.

No female whales allowed.

Maybe next summer.

If I can find a cheap

babysitter, that is.

“No” used to be

two squiggles on a page

that mostly meant nothing to me.

Now, suddenly,

those letters together

are like prison guards

telling me where to go,

what to do,

who to be.

Or not.

I keep asking myself

where did all my freedom go?

Then I remember:

I forgot to say no

when it counted.

“My sweet boy.” I coo

and cuddle him,

swaddled in white

and smelling of sweet oil,

thanks to the royal rubbing

Joseph gave him

after his birth.

Joseph was amazing,

holding my hand

through every piercing pang,

even though I squeezed his hand

till it was bloodless.

He caught the little one

as if he had done the same

a hundred times.

“Joseph the Midwife,”

I called him,

and he filled this barn

with laughter, startling

the cows and goats, I think.

I might sniff the hay and offal,

and look round this stall

meant for animals, and wonder

what it all means, that there

was no spare room for us

at the inn,

that we were forced to spend

the night in a barn.

But at this moment,

I only have eyes

for the bundle of love

who now lies

in my arms.

Lord,

here is your son,

the one you shared with me.

May he grow strong

in my care, and Joseph’s.

Thank you for this good man,

and this beautiful boy.

Help us, Jehovah-Jirah,

to build a sturdy frame

for his future.

I’m so glad

breakfast is my friend again.

I sit at the kitchen table

dividing my attention

between bites of toasted waffle

and the beginning

of Mary, Mary.

Why stop at the end

when you can read it

all over again?

“I loved that book,”

says Mom,

peeking over my shoulder.

“I know. You said.”

A thousand times before.

“It helped me when

I was carrying you.”

Food still in my mouth

(who cares?)

I tell her,

“Me too.”

Our trip to the Laundromat

interrupted.

The pool at my feet says

those dirty sheets

will have to wait awhile.

“Mom!”

“I’m right here, baby.

Let’s get this show

on the road.

My grandchild’s about

to make an appearance.”

My knees buckle,

a single thought threatening

to lay me flat:

You’re almost out of time.

Make up your mind

to keep your baby

or not.

I start to pant.

I can’t! I can’t!

I can’t decide.

Not yet.

I waddle into the ER,

my heartbeat

the only sound I hear.

Is this really happening?

I look around,

see the slow ballet

of nurses, doctors, and orderlies

pushing beds and wheelchairs

with patients pale as ghosts.

Are they as scared as me?

Abruptly, a rude noise breaks in,

some tinny voice

squawking from a loudspeaker,

paging Dr. so and so,

and saying STAT

but flatter than they do on TV.

Palms sweaty, knees wobbling,

I wish this were a show

I was watching.

My thoughts bounce off

the cold white walls:

I’m not ready.

I’m not ready.

I’m not ready.

I tug on Mom’s sleeve.

“Mommy, let’s get out of here. Please.

I don’t want to be-”

OH, GOD!

What was that?

“Looks like labor,”

says a nurse.

“Come this way.”

Not bad,

I thought at first.

A minute of crazy pain,

then several minutes to recover.

I can do this.

I can-

Oh, God!

It’s okay. It’s okay.

Just so long as

it doesn’t get worse.

I lie in a room

with other screaming ladies,

their cries setting

my nerves on edge.

I wish they’d all go away.

Instead, there’s Mom and Seth-

when did she get here?-

plus a parade of nurses

and the social worker

asking every ten seconds,

“Are you okay? Are you okay?”

No! What do you expect me to say?