I've Always Done My Best Work Out of Spite

The Hope and Resistance Series: Stories from the Global Writers' Group Showcase

Over this next week, we will be sharing pieces from our annual Global Writers’ Group Showcase with you all.

I’ve always done my best work out of spite.
Four years old, Bed-Stuy.
Preschool teacher as I recall
Wouldn’t let me use the bathroom 
So her desk is where I found relief.
Six years old, still Bed-Stuy.
Said perfecto when teacher wanted
A choir of voices to chant 
“Practice makes perfect!” 
But practice doesn’t make perfect,
It makes experience.
She didn’t know mockery was a love language.
Ten year old, still Bed-Stuy.
Passing through prep tests
Final hurdle never crossed, I never get in.
Suspect it’s my teacher who loathed smart kids.
Aunt failed to understand why I washed her board
But I thought we were supposed to love our enemies?
Eleven now, in Brooklyn Heights.
Asked questions like was I in Beverly Hills Polo Club.
Cooly replied that it was just a t-shirt.
Librarian asked where I’m from
I reply Bedford-Stuyvesant
Innately knowing I needed to pretty it up
Innately knowing that no variation would be enough
For her not to flinch.
Age 12, former valedictorian 
In private school’s answer to special ed 
Teacher tells me she’s from South Africa
But I’m not impressed
“Were you happy or sad when Mandela got out?”
I make it to 9th grade.
13 now, in physics class
Frustrated white boy complains about affinity groups
“How many do they need?!” He wails.
Teacher, formerly cool, shushes as if 
To say, “Not while he’s here.”
Age 14, I’m coronated
King of the Blacks. 
Age 15, I’m scaring my math teacher
By asking why I got a C
When my grades were all A’s.
“You just seem like a C Student!”
But I’m not satisfied.
16, ready to graduate
But not without a parting gift
From teacher who writes 
“I hope you find a semblance of a work ethic in college.”
I wonder how many notes he wrote?
20 years old when professor cries and leaves the class 
Same age when classmate tells my line brother and I
That she was “counting on us in that discussion on race!”
23 when I talk to the headmaster 
About the boy they want expelled.
Echoing parable of lost sheep, lost coin, Black boy lost.
24 when in ICU
Supervisor has enough sense to ask for my lesson plan.
“Not die!” I respond.
Few months, still recovering,
Performance review chewout, called a disappointment.
Lost appetite. Left job.
Finish school and friendships.
Never knew Ferguson curdled ice cream.
Teach kids, so many more kids.
Want the best for them, proud of their success
Praying for their recoveries. 
But above all feelings, O God,
I’d give anything to prove those people wrong. 

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This poem is a spoken-word piece that is part of Chris' album Be Attentive to What They Take from You

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Watch the entire evening here:

For more information or to join the Global Writers’ Group, click here. We’d love for you to join us!

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The Narrative Gap, as coined by Lisa Sharon Harper, is the distance between the stories that we tell ourselves about ourselves, including how we got here and what it will take to make things right. In our world today, competing narratives vie for our loyalty, dividing society and the church, therefore making justice impossible. Our mission is help communities shrink the narrative gap, by identifying core issues and building community capacity so they might work toward common solutions for a just world. Here on the Freedom Road Substack, we can converse together on ways to shrink that narrative gap and help ensure everyones’ stories are told.

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