Nikki Grimes - A Girl Named Mister

come naturally?

I can only hope to match

my own mother.

But where do I begin?

Then, I remember the story:

how Mother wrestled

with the Lord, in prayer,

pleading for a child,

and how, when I came,

she blessed God for the gift.

So, I will start with prayer.

Jehovah, please prepare me

to be a mother .

And Jehovah, I pray

as you knit this child

inside of me ,

strengthen him

in every way .

We sit in the evening glow

of oil lamps,

plucking names from the night

like figs,

as if we needed to.

But why not?

This is precisely what

expectant mothers do.

So, for a moment,

we pretend God has not

already chosen our sons’ names.

“Eli has a nice sound,” I say.

“Or Ezekiel,” says Elizabeth.

“I like Tobias.”

“Too plain.”

“Uriah?”

“Never!”

“You are right.

Things did not

turn out well for him.”

“Here is one, then: David,”

says Elizabeth.

“Like the king,” I say.

“Like your ancestor.”

“The one through whom-”

“Messiah will come,” we both say,

and something in me quivers.

I excuse myself for the night,

needing to lose myself for a while

in the world of sleep.

I hug my quiet kinsman,

Zechariah,

and wish Elizabeth well,

though I hardly need to.

The blessed birth of her son

is only a few

weeks away at most,

and she is blissful.

I leave her in the able care

of her midwife,

and say my last good-byes.

Lord Jehovah ,

make the months fly

until we are together again ,

until her little John

meets my Jesus .

Entering Nazareth, once again

we come upon a riotous crowd,

closed tight around

someone, or thing.

We cannot tell

till Nathan, our neighbor, yells,

“Harlot!

You thought you could

break God’s law, and live?”

We next hear

stone striking bone.

A girl screams and I,

unblinking,

push into the crowd,

elbowing my way up front

just as limestone brick

splits the girl’s skull,

sending blood rushing

like a wild river,

flooding her eyes, her nose,

splattering her once

rosy cheeks.

I peek, now,

from half-closed lids,

wondering what holds me here,

why I continue to stare

at this poor, crumpled girl,

writhing in pain until death

rescues her, a girl I knew

as Salome, young wife of Hillel,

a girl who so easily

could be-

“Mary!” Joseph’s servant

reaches my side.

“Let us leave this place,” he says

and I let him pull me away.

Wordlessly, we head home.

But I carry this girl’s

wretched screams with me,

like a splinter throbbing

in my ear.

I begged the nurse

not to call my mom,

said I probably just had

food poisoning, or something,

and apologized for crying

like a big baby.

The nurse shook her head,

put the phone down,

looked me in the eye, and said,

“Mary Rudine, my guess is

you’re less than

three months along.

Take my advice:

Tell your mother before

she figures it out

on her own.

You shouldn’t try

handling this alone.”

I dropped my eyes,

grabbed my books,

and ran.

Coach says

I have none

since I’m leaving the team

at the end of the season,

just before the biggest game.

“You looking to play

in the city club off-season?

‘Cause I gotta tell ya,

this ain’t the way

to hold your spot.”

What can I say?

Sorry, Coach, but I can’t play

because I’m pregnant?

Forget it.

So I just shrug and leave Coach

shaking his head.

And when Sethany finds out,

she stares me down

like I stabbed her in the back.

But I’ve got no choice.

I can’t tell them why.

I can’t even

tell myself.

They ache.

This morning

strapping on my bra

causes way too many

decibels of pain.

If anyone so much as

bumps into me,

they’d better plan

their eulogy.

Any day now

my period will start.

Any day now

menstrual cramps will crush

the kernels of fear

quickly greening in me

like saplings.

Any day now

I’ll be plain old fifteen again,

a girl passing silly notes in class,

giggling at the sight

of condoms.

Cake or no cake,

I knew I was too old

for wishing.

I study myself in the shower,

unable to deny

my breasts are bigger,

just like they show you

in those sex-ed movies.

I hold them up,

figure they must be

a 36B now.

It’s almost funny.

I used to wish for this.

Why do I even bother

leaving the bathroom?

Leaving home?

I might as well

hang a sign around my neck:

Warning: Steer clear.

Girl about to barf.

I hope Mom doesn’t make a habit

of coming home early.

“I know the regular season’s over,

but doesn’t your volleyball club

practice today?” she asks.

Here’s where lying

would come in handy.

I try another tack,

pretend not to hear her,

then hurry to my room,

calling over my shoulder,

“Homework!”

What else would you call it?

I know girls

who have sex every day

and walk away.

Me, I break God’s law once,

and look what it gets me.

If this isn’t punishment,

I’m missing the point.

But then I think of Mary,

who God gave a baby

just because he wanted to,

and she didn’t do anything wrong.

So maybe punishment

is not the point

after all.

I don’t know, Lord.

I don’t know anything, right now.

Color me confused,

and scared.

I feel like

one of those ladies

in the commercial

about allergies.

She’s walking around in a fog,

and everything is fuzzy,

especially around the edges,

and no matter

how many times she blinks,

nothing seems clear.

That’s how it is for me.

I don’t want anybody

to notice, though.

So I try to smile

when I catch anyone

looking at me,

and I keep going

through the motions.

I used to love

the full-length mirror

on my bedroom door.

Not anymore.

I wake in the middle of the night,

fingers fluttering over my rising belly.

My mind is split between

worry and wonder.

This inchworm of a life

taking root in me

is suddenly real.

How did I get here?

How could I be so stupid?

What am I going to do now?

I reach for Mary, Mary,

searching for answers,

but the words all blur.

How many tears are left in me