Locomotion Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  POEM BOOK

  ROOF

  LINE BREAK POEM

  MEMORY

  MAMA

  LILI

  FIRST

  COMMERCIAL BREAK

  HAIKU

  GROUP HOME BEFORE MISS EDNA’S HOUSE

  HALLOWEEN POEM

  PARENTS POEM

  SONNET POEM

  HOW I GOT MY NAME

  DESCRIBE SOMEBODY

  EPISTLE POEM

  ROOF POEM II

  ME, ERIC, LAMONT & ANGEL

  FAILING

  NEW BOY

  DECEMBER 9

  LIST POEM

  LATE SATURDAY AFTERNOON IN HALSEY STREET PARK

  PIGEON

  SOMETIMES POEM

  WAR POEM

  GEORGIA

  NEW BOY POEM II

  TUESDAY

  VISITING

  JUST NOTHING POEM

  GOD POEM

  ALL OF A SUDDEN, THE POEM

  HEY DOG

  OCCASIONAL POEM

  HAIKU POEM

  LATENYA

  POETRY POEM

  ERIC POEM

  LAMONT

  HIP HOP RULES THE WORLD

  PHOTOGRAPHS

  NEW BOY POEM III

  HAPPINESS POEM

  BIRTH

  LILI’S NEW MAMA’S HOUSE

  CHURCH

  NEW BOY POEM IV

  TEACHER OF THE YEAR

  EASTER SUNDAY

  RODNEY

  EPITAPH POEM

  FIREFLY

  THE FIRE

  ALMOST SUMMER SKY

  CLYDE POEM I: DOWN SOUTH

  FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL

  DEAR GOD

  LATENYA II

  JUNE

  Acknowledgements

  MAMA

  Some days, like today

  and yesterday and probably

  tomorrow—all my missing gets jumbled up inside of me.

  You know honeysuckle talc powder?

  Mama used to smell like that. She told me

  honeysuckle’s really a flower but all I know

  is the powder that smells like Mama.

  Sometimes when the missing gets real bad

  I go to the drugstore and before the guard starts

  following me around like I’m gonna steal something

  I go to the cosmetics lady and ask her if she has it....

  BOOKS BY JACQUELINE WOODSON

  THE MAIZON BOOKS

  Last Summer with Maizon

  Maizon at Blue Hill

  Between Madison and Palmetto

  FOR OLDER READERS

  Behind You

  The Dear One

  The House You Pass On the Way

  Hush

  If You Come Softly

  Locomotion

  Miracle’s Boys

  PICTURE BOOKS

  The Other Side

  SPEAK

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland

  (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124,

  Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,

  New Delhi - 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland,

  New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank,

  Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in the United States of America by G. P. Putnam’s Sons,

  a division of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 2003

  Published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2004

  Copyright © Jacqueline Woodson, 2003

  All rights reserved

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE PUTNAM EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

  Woodson, Jacqueline.

  Locomotion / Jacqueline Woodson.

  p. cm.

  Summary: In a series of poems, eleven-year-old Lonnie writes about his

  life after the death of his parents, separated from his younger sister,

  living in a foster home, and finding his poetic voice at school.

  eISBN : 978-1-440-69588-9

  1. African American boys—Juvenile poetry. 2. Brothers and sisters—Juvenile poetry.

  3. Foster home care—Juvenile poetry. 4. Orphans—Juvenile poetry. 5. Schools—Juvenile

  poetry. 6. Children’s poetry, American. [1. Brothers and sisters—Poetry.

  2. African Americans—Poetry. 3. Foster home care—Poetry. 4. Orphans—Poetry.

  5. Schools—Poetry. 6. American Poetry.] I. Title.

  PS3573.O64524 L’.54—dc21 2002069779

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  FOR TOSHI GEORGIANNA AND JUNA FRANKLIN

  Name all the people

  You’re always thinking about

  People are poems.

  —Lonnie C. Motion

  POEM BOOK

  This whole book’s a poem ’cause every time I try to

  tell the whole story my mind goes Be quiet!

  Only it’s not my mind’s voice,

  it’s Miss Edna’s over and over and over

  Be quiet!

  I’m not a really loud kid, I swear. I’m just me and

  sometimes I maybe make a little bit of noise.

  If I was a grown-up maybe Miss Edna

  wouldn’t always be telling me to be quiet

  but I’m eleven and maybe eleven’s just noisy.

  Maybe twelve’s quieter.

  But when Miss Edna’s voice comes on, the ideas in my

  head go out like a candle and all you see left is this little

  string of smoke that disappears real quick

  before I even have a chance to find out

  what it’s trying to say.

  So this whole book’s a poem because poetry’s short and

  this whole book’s a poem ’cause Ms. Marcus says

  write it down before it leaves your brain.

  I tell her about the smoke and she says

  Good, Lonnie, write that.

  Not a whole lot of people be saying Good, Lonnie to me

  so I write the string-of-smoke thing down real fast.

  Ms. Marcus says We’ll worry about line breaks later.

  Write fast, Lonnie, Ms. Marcus says.

  And I’m thinking Yeah, I better write fast before Miss

  Edna’s voice comes on and blows my candle idea out.

  ROOF

  At night sometimes after Miss Edna goes to bed I go

  up on the roof

  Sometimes I sit counting the stars

  Maybe one is my mama and

  another one is my daddy And maybe that’s why

  sometimes they flicker a bit

  I mean the stars flicker

  LINE BREAK POEM

  Ms. Marcus

  says

  line breaks help

  us figure out

  what matters

  to the poet

  Don’t jumble your ideas

  Ms. Marcus says


  Every line

  should count.

  MEMORY

  Once when we was real

  little

  I was sitting at the window holding my baby sister, Lili

  on my lap.

  Mama was in the kitchen and Daddy must’ve

  been at work.

  Mama kept saying

  Honey, don’t you drop my baby.

  A pigeon came flying over to the ledge

  and was looking at us.

  Lili put her hand on the glass and the pigeon tried

  to peck at it.

  Lili snatched her hand away and screamed.

  Not a scared scream,

  just one of those laughing screams

  that babies who can’t talk yet like to do.

  Mama came running out the kitchen

  drying her hands on her jeans.

  When she saw us just sitting there, she let out a breath.

  Oh, my Lord, she said,

  I thought you’d dropped my baby.

  I asked

  Was I ever your baby, Mama?

  and Mama looked at me all warm and smiley.

  You still are, she said.

  Then she went back in the kitchen.

  I felt safe then.

  I held Lili tighter.

  Maybe if I was eleven then

  and if one of my friends had been around,

  I would have been embarrassed, I guess.

  But I was just a little kid

  and nobody else was around.

  Just me and Lili and Mama and the pigeons.

  And outside the sun

  getting bright and warm suddenly

  like it’d been listening in.

  MAMA

  Some days, like today

  and yesterday and probably

  tomorrow—all my missing gets jumbled up inside of me.

  You know honeysuckle talc powder?

  Mama used to smell like that. She told me

  honeysuckle’s really a flower but all I know

  is the powder that smells like Mama.

  Sometimes when the missing gets real bad

  I go to the drugstore and before the guard starts

  following me around like I’m gonna steal something

  I go to the cosmetics lady and ask her if she has it.

  When she says yeah, I say

  Can I smell it to see if it’s the right one?

  Even though the cosmetics ladies roll their eyes at me

  they let me smell it.

  And for those few seconds, Mama’s alive

  again.

  And I’m remembering

  all kinds of good things about her like

  the way she laughed at my jokes

  even when they were dumb

  and the way she sometimes just grabbed me

  and hugged me before

  I had a chance to get away.

  And the way her voice always sounded good

  and bad at the same time when she was singing

  in the shower.

  And her red pocketbook that always had some

  tangerine Life Savers inside it for me and Lili

  No, I say to the cosmetics lady. It’s not the right one.

  And then I leave fast.

  Before somebody asks to check my pockets

  which are always empty ’cause I don’t steal.

  LILI

  And sometimes I combed Lili’s hair

  braids mostly but sometimes a ponytail.

  Lili would cry sometimes

  the kind of crying where no tears came out.

  Big faker.

  I wouldn’t’ve hurt her head for a million dollars.

  Some days

  like today and yesterday and probably tomorrow

  that’s all that’s on my mind

  Mama and Lili.

  Hair and honeysuckle talc powder.

  FIRST

  First Miss Edna turned the key and

  opened her door for me

  and said This ain’t much, but it’s all I have.

  A living room, a kitchen with a table and three chairs,

  a room with just a bed in it and a poster of Dr. J

  when he still played for the Sixers and had an Afro.

  You’ll sleep in here, she said.

  Another room down the hall.

  No need for you to ever go in there, she said.

  I never did.

  All along the living room walls there’s pictures

  of her sons. Grown-up and gone now.

  I used to fill up Miss Edna’s house with noise.

  I used to talk all the time.

  I used to laugh real loud and holler especially

  when the Knicks won a game ’cause

  that don’t happen too much.

  Be quiet! Miss Edna said.

  Hush, Lonnie, Miss Edna said.

  Shhhh, Lonnie, Miss Edna said.

  Children should be seen but not heard, Miss Edna said.

  And my voice got quieter

  and quieter

  and quiet.

  Now some days Miss Edna looks at me and says

  You need to smile more, Lonnie.

  You need to laugh sometimes

  maybe make a little noise.

  Where’s that boy I used to know,

  the one who couldn’t be quiet?

  COMMERCIAL BREAK

  Last night this commercial came on TV. It was this white lady making a nice dinner for her husband. She made him some baked chicken with potatoes and gravy and some kind of greens—not collards, but they still looked real good. Everything looked so delicious, I just wanted to reach into that television and snatch a plate for myself. He gave her a kiss and then a voice came on saying He’ll love you for it and then the commercial went off.

  I sat on Miss Edna’s scratchy couch wondering if that man and woman really ate that food or just threw it all away.

  Now Ms. Marcus wants to know why I wrote that the lady is white and I say because it’s true. And Ms. Marcus says Lonnie, what does race have to do with it, forgetting that she asked us to use lots of details when we wrote. Forgetting that whole long talk she gave yesterday about the importance of description! I don’t say anything back to her, just look down at my arm. It’s dark brown and there’s a scab by my wrist that I don’t pick at if I remember not to. I look at my knuckles. They’re real dark too.

  Outside it’s starting to rain and the way the rain comes down—tap, tapping against the window—gets me to thinking. Ms. Marcus don’t understand some things even though she’s my favorite teacher in the world. Things like my brown, brown arm. And the white lady and man with all that good food to throw away. How if you turn on your TV, that’s what you see—people with lots and lots of stuff not having to sit on scratchy couches in Miss Edna’s house. And the true fact is alotta those people are white. Maybe it’s that if you’re white you can’t see all the whiteness around you.

  HAIKU

  Today’s a bad day

  Is that haiku? Do I look

  like I even care?

  GROUP HOME BEFORE MISS EDNA’S HOUSE

  The monsters that come at night don’t

  breathe fire, have two heads or long claws.

  The monsters that come at night don’t

  come bloody and half-dead and calling your name.

  They come looking like regular boys

  going through your drawers and pockets saying

  You better not tell Counselor else I’ll beat you down.

  The monsters that come at night snatch

  the covers off your bed, take your

  pillow and in the morning

  steal your bacon when the cook’s back is turned

  call themselves The Throwaway Boys, say

  You one of us now.

  When the relatives stop coming

  When you don’t know where your sister is anymore

  When every sign around you says

  Gr
oup Home Rules: Don’t

  do this and don’t do that

  until it sinks in one rainy Saturday afternoon

  while you’re sitting at the Group Home window

  reading a beat-up Group Home book,

  wearing a Group Home hand-me-down shirt

  hearing all the Group Home loudness, that

  you are a Throwaway Boy.

  And the news just sits in your stomach

  hard and heavy as Group Home food.

  HALLOWEEN POEM

  It’s Halloween

  The first-graders put pumpkin pictures and ghost

  drawings all up and down the hallways.

  We don’t do none of that in fifth grade.

  We don’t want to.

  I mean, we’re not supposed to want to.

  But sometimes

  I do.

  There’s these two guys I know who sometimes snatch

  little kids’ trick-or-treat bags. That ain’t right.

  Once when I was a little kid

  this big teenager guy snatched mine.

  If I’d a had a big brother,

  he would’ve beat the guy down.

  But I

  don’t.