Bronx Masquerade Coming of Age Quotes

I was stupid to think I could do this on my own. Even with Mami's help, I hardly have time to study or do my homework. Last week, Lupe asked if I could hang out with her after school and I just about laughed in her face. "Chica," I wanted to say, "them days are over for me." I go straight home now, except for maybe stopping at the grocery. It's no more Gloria Loca, party girl. Fun ain't even in my vocabulary anymore.

Once you have a kid, everything changes.

If I could go back, do things over... but I can't. No sense dreaming about it. (20.4-6)

You never think other folks got feelings. Like Janelle. I must've cracked wise a hundred times about her weight. Never even thought about it. It was just something I did for a laugh. Listening to her now, it don't seem all that funny. (25.1)

Now I know why the sista hisses every time I call her "caramel cutie." That'd be the last thing she wants to hear! She's proud of her African self, and I'm down with that. That's why I be wearing my kufi every chance I get.

I wonder if the sista's into African music. I gotta ask her about that sometime. Maybe I could hook up some African drum music to go with her poetry for the assembly Teach told us about. She could read her stuff, and I could play DJ. Yeah! I could get into that. (40.1-2)

I stared down at my shoes, counting. One. Two. Three. Four. By the time I reached ten, I realized counting was not going to suffice.

I need you, Lord. Hold back the Samson in me. I may not have his strength, but you know I have his temper.
I counted backward from ten, felt my breath slowly evening out. A still, small voice reminded me to return good for evil, reminded me that my plans for the future do not include fisticuffs or expulsion. (44.8)

The brotha took me to a whole other place. I'm not sure I got all of it, but I got that he don't call himself no angel. 'Course, if Mr. Goody Two-shoes ain't no angel, what does that make me? Never mind. (46.1)

Wesley studied Steve a minute. "The question is, do you flow?" I figured that would be the end of it, 'cause I was sure Steve wouldn't even know what the brotha was talking about. How could he?

"Yeah," said Steve. "I flow."

"Guys?" said Mr. Ward. "Today?"

I shook my head. "Yeah, okay, Teach." I cut my eyes at Steve, betting this boy had never done a cipher in his life.

"Just try to keep up," I told him. "Y'all ready?"

Preacher set up the beat, and we took off.

And guess what? That white boy can flow. Makes you kinda wonder 'bout his family tree, now don't it?

What else can that boy do that I don't know about? (61.8-15)

Mr. Ward brought the paper to school and held it up for the class to see. "Look at this headline," he said. "'Student Poets Bloom in the Bronx.' That's you guys!"

I don't know who was prouder, us or Mr. Ward.

He brought a few extra copies of the paper for the class, and passed them around for anyone who hadn't seen it. I'd already bought my own, though. I had to, 'specially since they quoted what I said about how our poetry gives us a release, how it helps us relate to one another. They said our stuff was "energetic" and "rich in positive social messages." My moms will frame this puppy, for sure.

I called the reporter this afternoon and thanked him for writing such a nice piece. I told him about our assembly. "We'll be jamming," I told him. "Why don't you come check us out?" He said he'd try to make it. (68.2-5)

I'm sorry he feels so bad, but there's nothing I can do about it. I've made up my mind. If I can get into an art school, I'm going. Mr. Ward thinks I have a good chance of getting a scholarship. We'll see. Mom says my dad will come around. Eventually. I'm not so sure. Before I left home today, I slipped a poem and a drawing of Michael Jordan in my father's easy chair, under the remote. That way, he wouldn't miss them. I was planning to give him the drawing for his birthday, but after seeing those brochures, he looked like he needed a transfusion, so why wait? Maybe a drawing of his hero will make him feel better. Besides, doing basketball portraits is the closest I'll ever get to my father's dreams for me, so I might as well let him enjoy one now.

I hope Mom's right, though. I hope he does come around. I'm just not holding my breath. (72.2-3)

So I find ways to keep her in check. When anger rips a hole in me now, I punch a wall, or run 'til the wind cuts my breath off. Once, I sat on a curb running a piece of broken bottle across my fingertips. Lucky for me the shard had a dull edge that left a jigsaw of scratches on me, but not a whole lot of blood. I know it was a stupid thing to do, but anything's better than allowing those fingers to hurt somebody else. I couldn't live with that. Not again. Not ever.

No, these kids have nothing to fear from me. They just don't know it. (75.10-11)

"Okay. I just wanted to say I'm really glad I got to do this poetry thing because I feel like, even though the people in our class are all different colors and some of you speak a different language and everything, I feel like we connected. I feel like I know you now. You know what I'm saying? I feel like we're not as different as I thought." (77.17)