Connor left, and Keisha had to admit that much of the tension that had been with her disappeared into the wind, worries driving off like the car she could hear leaving the parking lot. That was an awful to think, she knew, of course she did, she wasn't an idiot, but that didn't make it any the less true. She was at least sort of off the hook, at least for now, and that was something she was definitely very grateful for.
She still made sure to wave him goodbye though, just in case he was looking back. No point in managing to make things even more awkward, if that was a possibility. Besides, there was a poem to get to writing, and a friend with which to actually write that poem, and so there was no point just waiting here.
Keisha shook her head at Meka's question, though. "Nah, it all seems good. Time to get to writing?"
There wasn't much else to do besides that, but in any case she'd still do it well.
Hell you Talmbout
Open! (CW: Racist Language)
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Somersault
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Meka spent the next few minutes discussing lines with Keisha. His paper was covered in scribbles, words scratched out, and notes in the margin. He had added stars and lines to the list of motifs and images, noting which ones he had used and which ones he couldn't figure a way in. As he worked, he could feel the sting of Madison's idiocy fading away. He was challenging her racism with his art, and it felt good to see her as a clown who needed to be driven away to save the children.
"Okay, I think I got it," Meka said, finishing his last few lines. "Let's give it a practice slam."
Meka set his pencil down and cleared his throat. He looked down at the paper before him and began to read it aloud, gesticulating with his hands as he read.
They wait beneath us, gazing through the grates
Eyes of yellow, a fake smile painted on their faces,
They wait for an approach, then encroach
That's when they raise their blood-red lips,
And show their teeth with razor tips.
They lure them in with bright hullabaloo
But then comes the sting: "You'll float too!"
I remember Emmett Till, who floated too
All because of one lie from a powder-faced clown.
She wanted to see him float and waited
With lies of balloons, candy, and carnivals
Making the destruction of his body a spectacle
For other monsters without names
Who hide and quietly spread shame
Here, there, up and down the lane
Spurning the way we talk, our added girth.
Our faith they mock, our self worth.
"Her hair is too long, force her to cut it."
"His skin is too dark, we should cut it."
They force us down with placebos
While they drink in their gazebos
Because they look the other way when the
clowns come to play and then they'll say
"Poor thing," when he's had his way.
We try to bike away, try to bend our knees and pray
But the clown still lurks, hungry for children
Like a perverse janitor hungers for his daughter, a virgin.
She's only branching beyond her world,
But the clown's got that word
That they hope makes all of us float, too,
to keep us on the other side of their moat, too.
I refuse to float, because I've made my own boat.
My boat is made of paper, but unlike Georgie's is stronger.
It won't fall into the sewers, armed with strong rowers
Who can carry on through the storm
And can keep rowing for hours
To challenge the clown's monstrous form.
I cut my hand on this page,
An oath for the future, to end the rage
To stay above the sewers and bring a new age
Where the clowns go home when the sewers flood
And that there's no need for any more blood.
Meka let out a long exhale when he finished. He'd definitely have to work on the flow and maybe move a few things around, but he felt good. Of course, this was Keisha's piece as much as his, so he'd need her opinion.
"How was that?"
"Okay, I think I got it," Meka said, finishing his last few lines. "Let's give it a practice slam."
Meka set his pencil down and cleared his throat. He looked down at the paper before him and began to read it aloud, gesticulating with his hands as he read.
They wait beneath us, gazing through the grates
Eyes of yellow, a fake smile painted on their faces,
They wait for an approach, then encroach
That's when they raise their blood-red lips,
And show their teeth with razor tips.
They lure them in with bright hullabaloo
But then comes the sting: "You'll float too!"
I remember Emmett Till, who floated too
All because of one lie from a powder-faced clown.
She wanted to see him float and waited
With lies of balloons, candy, and carnivals
Making the destruction of his body a spectacle
For other monsters without names
Who hide and quietly spread shame
Here, there, up and down the lane
Spurning the way we talk, our added girth.
Our faith they mock, our self worth.
"Her hair is too long, force her to cut it."
"His skin is too dark, we should cut it."
They force us down with placebos
While they drink in their gazebos
Because they look the other way when the
clowns come to play and then they'll say
"Poor thing," when he's had his way.
We try to bike away, try to bend our knees and pray
But the clown still lurks, hungry for children
Like a perverse janitor hungers for his daughter, a virgin.
She's only branching beyond her world,
But the clown's got that word
That they hope makes all of us float, too,
to keep us on the other side of their moat, too.
I refuse to float, because I've made my own boat.
My boat is made of paper, but unlike Georgie's is stronger.
It won't fall into the sewers, armed with strong rowers
Who can carry on through the storm
And can keep rowing for hours
To challenge the clown's monstrous form.
I cut my hand on this page,
An oath for the future, to end the rage
To stay above the sewers and bring a new age
Where the clowns go home when the sewers flood
And that there's no need for any more blood.
Meka let out a long exhale when he finished. He'd definitely have to work on the flow and maybe move a few things around, but he felt good. Of course, this was Keisha's piece as much as his, so he'd need her opinion.
"How was that?"
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Somersault
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The poem was...something, yeah, but Keisha believed that it was something good. She tapped her foot as she listened, face scrunched up in concentration. She was never the greatest with rhyme or rhythm, but it was still pretty enjoyable to see how the ideas they had bounced off of one another coalesce into a tangible work, something that could readily be heard, readily be felt, even. So, okay, maybe that was just a teeny bit of hyperbole or whatever when it came to the actual quality of the poem, but she was still proud of it. They had worked hard on it, managed to get some sort of vindication, and it was turning out peachy keen.
"How was it?" She repeated, a grin forming on her face. "It was amazing! I mean, I don't really know meter and shit, but it seems pretty good." She wasn't lying when she was complimenting the poem, but there was still that small something that nagged at her. There wasn't really a word to describe it, other than something just feeling off, but she tried not to pay any attention to it. Both Madison and Connor were out of their hair, right?
There shouldn't have been a need for the chill, but it still happened. This time, Keisha was fairly sure it wasn't from the cold.
Still, though the poem had a few kinks that had to be worked out, and so steering the conversation back to that would've probably been good.
"So, potential titles? Wanna go with something more direct, or kinda more figurative?"
"How was it?" She repeated, a grin forming on her face. "It was amazing! I mean, I don't really know meter and shit, but it seems pretty good." She wasn't lying when she was complimenting the poem, but there was still that small something that nagged at her. There wasn't really a word to describe it, other than something just feeling off, but she tried not to pay any attention to it. Both Madison and Connor were out of their hair, right?
There shouldn't have been a need for the chill, but it still happened. This time, Keisha was fairly sure it wasn't from the cold.
Still, though the poem had a few kinks that had to be worked out, and so steering the conversation back to that would've probably been good.
"So, potential titles? Wanna go with something more direct, or kinda more figurative?"
Keisha really liked the poem, which was really good to hear. Meka really respected Keisha and hoped that she would be a fan of his work. At the very least, he had made enough of a start that he could try and build off this idea more. He could even try to work on it before he recorded it for the internet.
Keisha then asked about a title, which Meka realized would be helpful if it was to go online.
"Yeah, a title... I don't know if going direct would be better than figurative or vice versa, but I guess we can try to come up with a few and see what works best."
Meka tapped his pencil to the page. He had a lot of ideas fluttering in his head, but which was the best one? He decided to spitball and hope one worked, or at least made sense to Keisha.
"So, I guess there's 'Clowns' if we want to cover a lot of interpretations. Or 'Sewers.' There's also things like 'Figures in the Dark'. I can definitely do better than those."
Keisha then asked about a title, which Meka realized would be helpful if it was to go online.
"Yeah, a title... I don't know if going direct would be better than figurative or vice versa, but I guess we can try to come up with a few and see what works best."
Meka tapped his pencil to the page. He had a lot of ideas fluttering in his head, but which was the best one? He decided to spitball and hope one worked, or at least made sense to Keisha.
"So, I guess there's 'Clowns' if we want to cover a lot of interpretations. Or 'Sewers.' There's also things like 'Figures in the Dark'. I can definitely do better than those."
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Somersault
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Well, Keisha had indeed been the one to bring up potential titles in the first place, so of course it made total sense for Meka to actually start asking her for thoughts on the title, but that didn't really mean she had to actually have ideas, did she? Well, it did, but the point about not really having one still stood.
Still, she made a face as she tried to think of something actually coherent to tell her friend. There had to be something there.
"Well, maybe it should be more figurative, right? Go on the high road and all of that stuff."
Now, that statement was mainly thrown out to buy herself a bit more time to actually think everything out, plan it out perfectly, but she was being honest when she said it, so it wasn't all bad, was it? Just like 40% bullshit. The other two-thirds was all true.
"Out of those, though, Figures In The Dark sounds good," Keisha said, face still scrunched up in concentration, an eyebrow raised. This was still gonna take some work. "Realization/Emancipation or something?"
Still, she made a face as she tried to think of something actually coherent to tell her friend. There had to be something there.
"Well, maybe it should be more figurative, right? Go on the high road and all of that stuff."
Now, that statement was mainly thrown out to buy herself a bit more time to actually think everything out, plan it out perfectly, but she was being honest when she said it, so it wasn't all bad, was it? Just like 40% bullshit. The other two-thirds was all true.
"Out of those, though, Figures In The Dark sounds good," Keisha said, face still scrunched up in concentration, an eyebrow raised. This was still gonna take some work. "Realization/Emancipation or something?"
"Okay, let's be figurative then."
Meka had to agree that being figurative was better for taking the high road. He could just call the poem "Fuck You, Madison," but he wasn't going to stoop to her under-the-bleachers level. He was making something socially-conscious, and he needed to do better.
Of course, being figurative was easier said than done. He reread the poem a few times, and that's when he noticed something.
"Well, now that I'm rereading the poem, I'm starting to see 'float' come up a lot, so I think that might be an important word to use. Like...I dunno... 'Float or Drown,' 'We All Float,' 'Stay Afloat," or um...'Strange Float?"
Meka chuckled to himself.
"Southern trees bear such strange float," he sang to himself. "Naw, that one's terrible."
He was no Billie Holliday, but maybe "float" was the keyword here. Maybe Keisha had better wordplay in mind.
Meka had to agree that being figurative was better for taking the high road. He could just call the poem "Fuck You, Madison," but he wasn't going to stoop to her under-the-bleachers level. He was making something socially-conscious, and he needed to do better.
Of course, being figurative was easier said than done. He reread the poem a few times, and that's when he noticed something.
"Well, now that I'm rereading the poem, I'm starting to see 'float' come up a lot, so I think that might be an important word to use. Like...I dunno... 'Float or Drown,' 'We All Float,' 'Stay Afloat," or um...'Strange Float?"
Meka chuckled to himself.
"Southern trees bear such strange float," he sang to himself. "Naw, that one's terrible."
He was no Billie Holliday, but maybe "float" was the keyword here. Maybe Keisha had better wordplay in mind.
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Somersault
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"Floating Bodies? That's a bit morbid, but I guess it's still a possibility?"
But yeah, float. the bodies drifting off into the ocean, ignored and unloved, never to be seen again. That was definitely a scary-ass thought, but it seemed to be one that was more true than anything about the poem.
Eventually, they'd have to come up with something semi-meaningful anyways, 'cause both Keisha and Meka were smart, so it should've been hella easy, right? Nah, that was a resounding nope, but there had to be something they could come up if they kept on hitting their heads on the brick wall that was making a title. They just had to keep on trying, and then the wall would crack. Or their skulls would, but she tried to be optimistic.
"Maybe Don't Float, Fly? Seems like it'd fit the theme."
But yeah, float. the bodies drifting off into the ocean, ignored and unloved, never to be seen again. That was definitely a scary-ass thought, but it seemed to be one that was more true than anything about the poem.
Eventually, they'd have to come up with something semi-meaningful anyways, 'cause both Keisha and Meka were smart, so it should've been hella easy, right? Nah, that was a resounding nope, but there had to be something they could come up if they kept on hitting their heads on the brick wall that was making a title. They just had to keep on trying, and then the wall would crack. Or their skulls would, but she tried to be optimistic.
"Maybe Don't Float, Fly? Seems like it'd fit the theme."
"Hmmm...."
Keisha was probably right about going morbid. This was supposed to be better than being a body left to decay in a puddle of water. The idea was that they were floating to survive, not to die. And not even to just float, but to float above it all.
That's when Keisha's last suggestion made sense to him.
"Oh shit..." he muttered. "Kei, I think that might be the one."
Meka wrote. "Don't Float. Fly" at the top of the poem. As he did, he suddenly felt something rise up in his system as he looked at the poem.
"Hey, what about this?"
Meka started to write at the end of the poem. He then read it aloud.
An oath for the future, to end the rage
To stay above the sewers and bring a new age
Where the clowns go home when the sewers flood
And that there's no need for any more blood.
Where we don't float away to survive
but float away to be alive
to fly high above the sewer grate
and soar into a brand new state.
Meka brushed his hand through his dreads. He might have really found what he needed.
Keisha was probably right about going morbid. This was supposed to be better than being a body left to decay in a puddle of water. The idea was that they were floating to survive, not to die. And not even to just float, but to float above it all.
That's when Keisha's last suggestion made sense to him.
"Oh shit..." he muttered. "Kei, I think that might be the one."
Meka wrote. "Don't Float. Fly" at the top of the poem. As he did, he suddenly felt something rise up in his system as he looked at the poem.
"Hey, what about this?"
Meka started to write at the end of the poem. He then read it aloud.
An oath for the future, to end the rage
To stay above the sewers and bring a new age
Where the clowns go home when the sewers flood
And that there's no need for any more blood.
Where we don't float away to survive
but float away to be alive
to fly high above the sewer grate
and soar into a brand new state.
Meka brushed his hand through his dreads. He might have really found what he needed.
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Somersault
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Now, Keisha did not like to consider herself an overly excitable person, mind you, but she had just helped finally find a title for this dope-ass poem, all thanks to her keen creative mind, and so a little bit of celebration was in order, wasn't it? The poem was meant to be a rallying cry, a call to fight rather than flee, and if that was how it was, she was like fucking Harriet Tubman shepherding all the slaves on the Underground Railroad.
"Yes, yes! That really helps tie it all up."
She was just KILLING IT. Like, the whole Madison thing still left her a little pissed, but now she was taking the high road and about to just go to town on whoever or whatever wanted to ruin her day, and it felt so extremely vindicating. Like she was finally free of all the shit, like she could just say hell no and be done with it, and it was amazing. No time to waste on sad little hoes who were racist because they wanted attention, nor confused jock boyfriends of the aforementioned hoes. There was no time for that now, because she was not going to make any for them. It was settled, and she felt great about that.
What wasn't great, though, was that she had no freaking clue what to do now. They had titled the poem, made up a great conclusion for it, which was all well and done, all things needed to be done in order to make this shit spic and span, but that still left a number of questions. Like, how the hell they were gonna distribute the poem. Maybe she could go and try to publish it through the newspaper or something, but that'd make it easy for it to be traced back to them, and there was no way that Keisha was going to be going to the principal's office for something she believed in. Like, she may have believed in it, but she didn't nearly believe in anything enough to get in trouble with the authorities here. No need to get in shit this close to graduation, not with her Spelman acceptance.
"Hmm," Keisha said, twirling her hair. The red streaks seemed a bit faded, so she'd have to dye them again soon, which was a pain in the ass, but that was the price of beauty, right? Gah. "Maybe we could go publish it online anonymously or something? There's gotta be a way for us to get this out without it getting out that we made this."
"Yes, yes! That really helps tie it all up."
She was just KILLING IT. Like, the whole Madison thing still left her a little pissed, but now she was taking the high road and about to just go to town on whoever or whatever wanted to ruin her day, and it felt so extremely vindicating. Like she was finally free of all the shit, like she could just say hell no and be done with it, and it was amazing. No time to waste on sad little hoes who were racist because they wanted attention, nor confused jock boyfriends of the aforementioned hoes. There was no time for that now, because she was not going to make any for them. It was settled, and she felt great about that.
What wasn't great, though, was that she had no freaking clue what to do now. They had titled the poem, made up a great conclusion for it, which was all well and done, all things needed to be done in order to make this shit spic and span, but that still left a number of questions. Like, how the hell they were gonna distribute the poem. Maybe she could go and try to publish it through the newspaper or something, but that'd make it easy for it to be traced back to them, and there was no way that Keisha was going to be going to the principal's office for something she believed in. Like, she may have believed in it, but she didn't nearly believe in anything enough to get in trouble with the authorities here. No need to get in shit this close to graduation, not with her Spelman acceptance.
"Hmm," Keisha said, twirling her hair. The red streaks seemed a bit faded, so she'd have to dye them again soon, which was a pain in the ass, but that was the price of beauty, right? Gah. "Maybe we could go publish it online anonymously or something? There's gotta be a way for us to get this out without it getting out that we made this."
Well, it looked like Meka had the Keisha Seal of Approval. He could probably tweak the poem a bit later for flow and better word choice, but he could close his notebook and put this aside for now. He had taken Madison's racist foolishness and turned it into real art. No matter what, he could go to sleep and say he had a good day.
Keisha then asked how he'd distribute it. Meka closed his notebook.
"Well, I'll probably record it for my channel as a slam piece," he said. "I can probably send it to a few socially-conscious literary publications or African-American themed websites and publications. I've got a list back home, so my options are quite broad."
Meka adjusted himself on the bleachers. He was starting to feel a bit numb below the waist considering how long he had been sitting on cold metal.
"I don't think we need to worry about anonymity," he said. "First of all, I refuse to hide what I put out there. I know some people won't like everything I do, but I don't think I need to be afraid of creating backlash. Second, there's no foul language or adult content, so there's not a lot for moral guardians to clutch their pearls at. And lastly, even if you think Madison may find this and raise a stink, there's honestly nothing here to connect her to it. She's not named, the situation is vague and buried under metaphor, and I can also easily deny her involvement. I don't have to explain where this came from in the video description, and even if I did decide to say how it came to be, I can just bring up the references we've been making, like Countee Cullen and Stephen King's IT, and just say that's where it came from."
Meka chuckled to himself.
"Believe me, I've had to think of all of this before. If I get named Poet Laureate, I can just thank Madison then."
Keisha then asked how he'd distribute it. Meka closed his notebook.
"Well, I'll probably record it for my channel as a slam piece," he said. "I can probably send it to a few socially-conscious literary publications or African-American themed websites and publications. I've got a list back home, so my options are quite broad."
Meka adjusted himself on the bleachers. He was starting to feel a bit numb below the waist considering how long he had been sitting on cold metal.
"I don't think we need to worry about anonymity," he said. "First of all, I refuse to hide what I put out there. I know some people won't like everything I do, but I don't think I need to be afraid of creating backlash. Second, there's no foul language or adult content, so there's not a lot for moral guardians to clutch their pearls at. And lastly, even if you think Madison may find this and raise a stink, there's honestly nothing here to connect her to it. She's not named, the situation is vague and buried under metaphor, and I can also easily deny her involvement. I don't have to explain where this came from in the video description, and even if I did decide to say how it came to be, I can just bring up the references we've been making, like Countee Cullen and Stephen King's IT, and just say that's where it came from."
Meka chuckled to himself.
"Believe me, I've had to think of all of this before. If I get named Poet Laureate, I can just thank Madison then."
((I've got places to be, so I'm leaving))
Before Meka could say much else, he heard the bell go off. He let out a short grunt. It always pained him to cut pleasant encounters short, but he couldn't afford to be tardy for next period, so he had to get moving if he wanted to make Math class.
"Well, Kei," he said, standing up from the bleacher. "This was great. I'll let you know when I got 'Don't Float. Fly' on my channel. See ya around."
Meka walked down the bleachers and began to put the notebook in his bag. He began to mutter the first few lines from the piece to himself as he did. He'd need to get the right amount of practice in if he was going to record himself performing it. He was pretty good at memorization, so he was sure it wouldn't take long.
As he walked away, he peeked behind the bleachers to see if Madison decided to bring her racist ass back there. He chuckled and shook his head when he saw no one was there.
"Always gotta look out for clowns," he muttered to himself. "They can bite."
((Meka Gibson continued Black Box Ice Box))
Before Meka could say much else, he heard the bell go off. He let out a short grunt. It always pained him to cut pleasant encounters short, but he couldn't afford to be tardy for next period, so he had to get moving if he wanted to make Math class.
"Well, Kei," he said, standing up from the bleacher. "This was great. I'll let you know when I got 'Don't Float. Fly' on my channel. See ya around."
Meka walked down the bleachers and began to put the notebook in his bag. He began to mutter the first few lines from the piece to himself as he did. He'd need to get the right amount of practice in if he was going to record himself performing it. He was pretty good at memorization, so he was sure it wouldn't take long.
As he walked away, he peeked behind the bleachers to see if Madison decided to bring her racist ass back there. He chuckled and shook his head when he saw no one was there.
"Always gotta look out for clowns," he muttered to himself. "They can bite."
((Meka Gibson continued Black Box Ice Box))
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Somersault
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Keisha waved off Meka with a smile and grin, unable to keep the sheer happiness of having owned a bitch off of her face. It was all good in the hood, and there was no other way for her to feel about the whole situation other than ec-fucking-static. Hail To The Queen, Q.U.E.E.N, Dutchess, whatever, she was all the titles of royalty right now, and she was so on it, it was unreal.
Class was about to start, but it was Lit, so she felt pretty good about it. Standing up from her seat on the benches, she grabbed her bag and began to make her way to the buildings.
The cold didn't feel like hell no more, it really didn't. Nothing like speaking the truth to really warm up one's day, anyways.
((Keisha Higgins-Bell continued in are you having a bad time?))
Class was about to start, but it was Lit, so she felt pretty good about it. Standing up from her seat on the benches, she grabbed her bag and began to make her way to the buildings.
The cold didn't feel like hell no more, it really didn't. Nothing like speaking the truth to really warm up one's day, anyways.
((Keisha Higgins-Bell continued in are you having a bad time?))