Brown Girl Dreaming Read Online Free Page A

brother
who only speaks
    when asked, has little to say to any of us, except
    when he’s talking about science or comic books, now
    has a voice that is circling the air,
    landing clear and sweet around us:
    “Tingalayo, come little donkey come.
    Tingalayo, come little donkey come.
    My donkey walks, my donkey talks
    my donkey eats with a knife and fork.
    Oh Tingalayo, come little donkey come.”
    Hope can sing . . .
my sister says in wonder
as my mother
    and the rest of the audience start to clap.
    Maybe, I am thinking, there is something hidden
    like this, in all of us. A small gift from the universe
    waiting to be discovered.
    My big brother raises his arms, calling his donkey home.
    He is smiling as he sings, the music getting louder
    behind him.
    “Tingalayo . . .”
    And in the darkened auditorium, the light
    is only on Hope
    and it’s hard to believe he has such a magic
singing voice
    and even harder to believe his donkey
    is going to come running.

daddy this time
    Greenville is different this summer,
    Roman is well and out back, swinging hard. Somewhere
    between last summer and now, our daddy
    cemented the swing set down.
    Roman doesn’t know the shaky days—just this moment,
    his dark blue Keds pointing toward the sky,
his laughter and screams, like wind
    through the screen door.
    Now my grandmother shushes him,
    Daddy resting in the bedroom, the covers pulled up
to his chin,
    his thin body so much smaller than I remember it.
    Just a little tired,
Daddy says to me, when I tiptoe
    in with chicken soup,
    sit on the edge of the bed and try to get him
    to take small sips.
    He struggles into sitting, lets me feed him
    small mouthfuls but only a few
    are enough.
Too tired to eat anymore.
    Then he closes his eyes.
    Outside, Roman laughs again and the swing set
    whines with the weight of him.
    Maybe Hope is there, pushing him
    into the air. Or maybe it’s Dell.
    The three of them would rather be outside.
    His room smells,
my sister says.
    But I don’t smell anything except the lotion
    I rub into my grandfather’s hands.
    When the others aren’t around, he whispers,
    You’re my favorite,
    smiles and winks at me.
You’re going to be fine,
you know that.
    Then he coughs hard and closes his eyes, his breath
    struggling to get
    into and out of his body.
    Most days, I am in here with my grandfather,
holding his hand
    while he sleeps
    fluffing pillows and telling him stories
    about my friends back home.
    When he asks, I speak to him in Spanish,
    the language that rolls off my tongue
    like I was born knowing it.
    Sometimes, my grandfather says,
    Sing me something pretty.
    And when I sing to him, I’m not
    just left of the key or right of the tune
    He says I sing beautifully.
    He says I am perfect.

what everybody knows now
    Even though the laws have changed
    my grandmother still takes us
    to the back of the bus when we go downtown
    in the rain.
It’s easier,
my grandmother says,
    than having white folks look at me like I’m dirt.
    But we aren’t dirt. We are people
    paying the same fare as other people.
    When I say this to my grandmother,
    she nods, says,
Easier to stay where you belong.
    I look around and see the ones
    who walk straight to the back. See
    the ones who take a seat up front, daring
    anyone to make them move. And know
    this is who I want to be. Not scared
    like that. Brave
    like that.
    Still, my grandmother takes my hand downtown
    pulls me right past the restaurants that have to let us sit
    wherever we want now.
No need in making trouble,
    she says.
You all go back to New York City but
    I have to live here.
    We walk straight past Woolworth’s
    without even looking in the windows
    because the one time my grandmother went inside
    they made her wait and wait.
Acted like
    I wasn’t even there.
It’s hard
not
to see the moment—
    my grandmother in her Sunday clothes, a hat
    with a flower pinned to it
    neatly on her head, her patent-leather purse,
    perfectly clasped
    between her gloved hands—waiting