Bronx masquerade / by Nikki Grimes.

Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

When Wesley Boone writes a poem for his high school English class, some of his classmates clamor to read their poems aloud too. Soon they're having weekly poetry sessions and, one by one, the eighteen students are opening up and taking on the risky challenge of self-revelation. There's Lupe Alvarin, desperate to have a baby so she will feel loved. Raynard Patterson, hiding a secret behind his silence. Porscha Johnson, needing an outlet for her anger after her mother OD's. Through the poetry they share and narratives in which they reveal their most intimate thoughts about themselves and one another, their words and lives show what lies beneath the skin, behind the eyes, beyond the masquerade.

Excerpt provided by Syndetics

Wesley "Bad Boy" Boone I ain't particular about doing homework, you understand. My teachers practically faint whenever I turn something in. Matter of fact, I probably got the longest list of excuses for missing homework of anyone alive. Except for my homey Tyrone. He tries to act like he's not even interested in school, like there's no point in studying hard, or dreaming about tomorrow, or bothering to graduate. He's got his reasons. I keep on him about going to school, though, saying I need the company. Besides, I tell him, if he drops out and gets a J.O.B., he won't have any time to work on his songs. That always gets to him. Tyrone might convince everybody else that he's all through with dreaming, but I know he wants to be a big hip-hop star. He's just afraid he won't live long enough to do it. Me, I hardly ever think about checking out. I'm more worried about figuring what I want to do if I live. Anyway, I haven't had to drag Tyrone off to school lately, or make excuses for not having my homework done, because I've been doing it. It's the Harlem Renaissance stuff that's got us both going. We spent a month reading poetry from the Harlem Renaissance in our English class. Then Mr. Ward--that's our teacher--asked us to write an essay about it. Make sense to you? Me neither. I mean, what's the point of studying poetry and then writing essays? So I wrote a bunch of poems instead. They weren't too shabby, considering I'd only done a few rap pieces before. My favorite was about Langston Hughes. How was I to know Teach would ask me to read it out loud? But I did. Knees knocking like a skeleton on Halloween, embarrassment bleaching my black cheeks red, eyes stapled to the page in front of me. But I did it, I read my poem. Guess what. Nobody laughed. In fact, everybody thought it was cool. By the time I got back to my seat, other kids were shouting: "Mr. Ward, I got a poem too. Can I bring it in to read?" Teach cocked his head to the side, like he was hearing something nobody else did. "How many people here have poems they'd like to read?" he asked. Three hands shot up. Mr. Ward rubbed his chin for a minute. "Okay," he said. "Bring them with you tomorrow." After class Teach came over to my desk. "Great poem," said Mr. Ward. "But I still expect to see an essay from you. I'll give you another week." So much for creative expression. Long Live Langston by Wesley Boone Trumpeter of Lenox and 7th through Jesse B. Semple, you simply celebrated Blues and Be-bop and being Black before it was considered hip. You dipped into the muddy waters of the Harlem River and shouted "taste and see" that we Black folk be good at fanning hope and stoking the fires of dreams deferred. You made sure the world heard about the beauty of maple sugar children, and the artfully tattooed backs of Black sailors venturing out to foreign places. Your "Sweet Flypaper of Life" led us past the Apollo and on through 125th and all the other Harlem streets you knew like the black of your hand. You were a pied-piper, brother man with poetry as your flute. It's my honor and pleasure to salute You, a true Renaissance man of Harlem. Tyrone Bittings School ain't nothin' but a joke. My moms don't want to hear that, but if it weren't for Wesley and my other homeys, I wouldn't even be here, aiight? These white folk talking 'bout some future, telling me I need to be planning for some future--like I got one! And Raynard agreeing, like he's smart enough to know. From what I hear, that boy can't hardly read! Anyway, it's them white folk that get me with all this future mess. Like Steve, all hopped up about working on Broadway and telling me I should think about getting with it too. Asked me if I ever thought about writing plays. "Fool! What kinda question is that?" I said. He threw his hands up and backed off a few steps. "All I'm saying is, you're a walking drama, man. You got that down pat, so maybe you should think about putting it on paper." When that boy dyed his hair, I b'lieve some of that bleach must've seeped right into his brain. I grind my teeth and lower my voice. "Boy, get out my face," I tell him. He finally gets the message and splits. I'm ticked off that he even got me thinking about such nonsense as Broadway. White folk! Who they think they kidding? They might as well go blow smoke up somebody else's you-know-what, 'cause a Black man's got no chance in this country. I be lucky if I make it to twenty-one with all these fools running round with AK-47s. Here I am one of the few kids I know whose daddy didn't skip out on him, and he didn't even make it to thirty. He was doing okay 'til he got blown away on a Saturday. Blam! Another statistic in a long line of drive-bys. Life is cold. Future? What I got is right now, right here, spending time with my homeys. Wish there was some future to talk about. I could use me some future. I'm just about ready to sleep off the whole year when this teacher starts talking about poetry. And he rattles off a poem by some white guy named Dylan Thomas that sounds an awful lot like rap. Now I know me some rap, and I start to thinking I should show Mr. Ward what rap is really all about. So I tell him I've got a poem I'd like to read. "Bring it on Friday," he says. "As a matter of fact, from now on, I'll leave time for poetry readings at the end of every month. We'll call them Open Mike Fridays." Next thing I know, I'm digging my old rap poems out of my dresser drawer and bringing them to school. I'm thinking it can't hurt to share them, even if there's no chance I'll ever get to be a songwriter. After all, it's the one thing I could see myself doing if there really was a future. And I'm thinking that maybe there could be if I wanted it bad enough. And all of a sudden, I realize I do. OPEN MIKE Attendance by Tyrone Bittings We are all here Leslie and Bad Boy, Lupe and Raul, Here, here and here. Dear Mr. Ward with his wards and wardettes. Let's have a show of hands today. Is Porscha here? Is Diondra here? Where oh where is Sheila? It's me, Tyrone, up here all alone rapping into a microphone 'cause I've got something to say: MTV is here, Mir and morning space-walks are here, Terrorism is here lurking at the bus stop can't hop on the subway without thinkin' of Tokyo-- we all know poison gas does not discriminate. It's too late to worry about my innocence since fear is here. Why is it a weekend visit to your local Mickey D's may be deadly? Why hasn't somebody censored death? Don't hold your breath waiting. Still you can chill and celebrate all that's great about life, like music and the tick-tick-tick of time which is equal parts yours and mine to make of the world what we will. But first, say no to coke, and smoke. Say no to police brutality and causing fatality. Say no to race hate. Don't underestimate the power of love. But most of all take two poems and call me in the morning. Excerpted from Bronx Masquerade by Nikki Grimes All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Publishers Weekly Review

A high school teacher in the Bronx hosts open-mike poetry in his classroom, and his students forge unexpected connections with one another. "The creative, contemporary premise will hook teens, and the poems may even inspire readers to try a few of their own," wrote PW. Ages 12-up. (Dec.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

School Library Journal Review

Gr 8 Up-Nikki Grimes's novel (Dial, 2001), a multifaceted look at life in a New York high school, is powerfully narrated by a talented cast. It presents an array of authentic inner-city teens inspired by one student's poetic response to the Harlem Renaissance. Soon everyone in class is volunteering to share their poetry during weekly Open Mike sessions. Characters first express their thoughts and then present their raps and rhymes as the story peels away the masks students often hide behind. Though the teens range from a basketball player who hides his intelligence to an Italian girl who changes her name in an attempt at racial solidarity, these unique characters also have a universal voice that will be recognizable to listeners. By using a cast of ten veteran narrators, the recording enhances the personality of each student. This Coretta Scott King award-winning novel offers numerous avenues to encourage young poets and may even promote more honest communication among teens. In the words of one teen in the novel, You can say anything, as long as it's a poem. An important addition to audio collections in middle school, high school, and public libraries.-Barbara Wysocki, Cora J. Belden Library, Rocky Hill, CT (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted. All rights reserved.

Booklist Review

Gr. 7-12. Tyrone Bittings doesn't believe in a future: "Life is cold . . . What I've got is right here, right now, with my homeys." But an English-class open mike changes everything. Grimes' first novel since Jazmin's Notebook (1998) comprises brief monologues in the voices of students and their poems. Funny and painful, awkward and abstract, the poems talk about race, abuse, parental love, neglect, death, and body image ("Don't any of these girls like the way they look?" asks Tyrone). Most of all, they try to reveal the individuals beyond the stereotypes. With such short vignettes, the characters are never fully realized, and the message about poetry's ability to move beyond color and cultural boundaries is anything but subtle. Even so, readers will enjoy the lively, smart voices that talk bravely about real issues and secret fears. A fantastic choice for readers' theater. --Gillian Engberg

Horn Book Review

(High School) When Wesley writes a poem for English class instead of the assigned essay on the poetry of the Harlem Renaissance, he jump-starts what become known as Open Mike Fridays in his Bronx high school. Soon he and seventeen other students are getting in touch with themselves and their classmates through these readings. A poet herself, author Grimes creates a montage of voices whose commonality rests in their sense of isolation and yearning to belong. Whether their poems-one of which concludes each brief first-person prose piece-are in rap, free verse, or conscious rhyme, these kids surprise one another in part with how much they are alike. In shared pain and need, they all become poets; as readers, we want to believe their individual poetic gifts, even as we hear Grimes's considerable talent behind theirs. Wesley's "homey" Tyrone, whose voice acts as binding commentary for them all, asserts, "The world ain't but one big surprise after another." The title of the book comes from basketball star Devon Hope's poem "Bronx Masquerade" in which he challenges his classmates "to peep / behind these eyes, discover the poet / in tough-guy disguise. / Don't call me Jump Shot. / My name is Surprise." Grimes reinforces her theme of discovery with white outsider Leslie Lucas, who felt banished to the Bronx after the death of her mom from cancer and who now feels part of a community: "I hardly knew anybody in this school at all. Big surprise." Latina Lupe Algarin, who sees a dead end to her life unless she gets pregnant like her sister, opens up in her poem to "a pale-skinned surprise / a friend" and ends the year knowing she will go to college. Grimes asks a lot of poetry in this short, fast-paced novel: within a year these eighteen kids have allowed poetry to turn them into a family and to turn them around. Perhaps unduly optimistic, the book nevertheless succeeds because it makes us want the best for these voices so clearly heard. From HORN BOOK, (c) Copyright 2010. The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Kirkus Book Review

This is almost like a play for 18 voices, as Grimes (Stepping Out with Grandma Mac, not reviewed, etc.) moves her narration among a group of high school students in the Bronx. The English teacher, Mr. Ward, accepts a set of poems from Wesley, his response to a month of reading poetry from the Harlem Renaissance. Soon there's an open-mike poetry reading, sponsored by Mr. Ward, every month, and then later, every week. The chapters in the students' voices alternate with the poems read by that student, defiant, shy, terrified. All of them, black, Latino, white, male, and female, talk about the unease and alienation endemic to their ages, and they do it in fresh and appealing voices. Among them: Janelle, who is tired of being called fat; Leslie, who finds friendship in another who has lost her mom; Diondra, who hides her art from her father; Tyrone, who has faith in words and in his "moms"; Devon, whose love for books and jazz gets jeers. Beyond those capsules are rich and complex teens, and their tentative reaching out to each other increases as through the poems they also find more of themselves. Steve writes: "But hey! Joy / is not a crime, though / some people / make it seem so." At the end of the term, a new student who is black and Vietnamese finds a morsel of hope that she too will find a place in the poetry. (Fiction. 12-15)