At entrance of a West Philadelphia high school,
an officer with a gun perched on each waist,
asks me if I have any weapons.
I hold up my book.
He doesn't find that funny.
Tells me to empty pockets,
walk through metal detector.
8:03am.
I wait for 2 students to pass through first.
Already I wonder what they have learned.
I am escorted to an auditorium,
where there are 130 Black and Latino students.
We talk about hip-hop,
they think poetry is what old white people do.
I tell them my favorite poem is "Ms. Fat Booty"
because I like the storytelling.
They giggle as if they are still kids.
One girl shouts her favorite song is, "Rack City, bitch!"
And the whole room explodes in unison,
their bodies bouncing
as if they were dancing on trampolines.
I ask them if they have dreams.
11 students raise their hands,
barely above their shoulders
as if they were sitting in History class
unsure of the right answer.
One student in the first row named Luciano
is waiting for me to tell him what page to turn to.
One student in the first row named Luciano
is waiting for me to tell him what page to turn to.
Another student, in the 8th row
studies my face, trying to decide if this
is a trick question.
There is no right answer, I say
but they are far too comfortable
with the right to remain silent.
So I ask them do you have a family member in
prison, 122 students mechanically raise both
of their hands,
as if a string, tied around their wrists,
was yanked for them.
Their hands remain up this time.
And I can see all of them, perfectly.
I heard the newly built prison a few miles
away
bought their test scores as wallpaper.
The principal is now staring at me
in anticipation of what I have to say next.
He is afraid they will leave with weapons.
I am afraid
they will not know the ones
that already exist.
