Chapter 5 We had a sub in ELA on Friday, but luckily, Mrs. Morrow was back by Monday. She’s the only teacher who really gets me. Sure, Miss Rooney helps me with my work in class, but she only does it because it’s what she gets paid to do. Mrs.Morrow does it because she actually cares about me. Don’t tell anyone else, but she’s personally told me before that I’m her favorite student! Today, after a class about pronouns and how there aren’t just she/her and he/him, but also they/them, and the importance of knowing which ones to use in which situation, she called me up to her desk as the rest of the class filed out. “Hey, Charlotte. I know you’ve said you would rather read books than write them, but I thought about maybe trying poems?” She speaks softly, which only amplifies the fact that I’m the only other person in the room, which means no one to hide behind. I shake my head vigorously, but then she mentions something that makes my head swivel. “You wouldn’t be the only person of color, Charlotte, if that’s what you’re worried about.” It was, and I immediately perked up. “I wouldn’t?” I replied, without remembering I’m supposed to show no interest in writing of any kind. “No, you wouldn’t. The youngest poet laureate was Black, like you. Look, Amanda Gorman.” She showed me a picture of a girl, who was Black, like me, and underneath her photo, the website said, “Youngest Poet Laureate: Amanda Gorman” and a description of who she is. “Would you like to read one of her poems? I have one right here.” She says to me, after I’ve stopped trying to nonchalantly glance at the screen out of the corner of my eye and instead am actually reading it. Somewhere deep down, I knew she didn’t just happen to have one of her poems printed out right then and there, that she actually planned out this entire thing, same with the website she was actively showing me, but I think I decided not to care. “Sure!” I replied enthusiastically. “Here’s ‘The Hill We Climb’”. It’s one of her poems.” She shows me the poem as she speaks. Author’s Note: To find a copy of poet laureate Amanda Gorman’s poem, The Hill We Climb, search on the web, Amanda Gorman The Hill We Climb, and the results will most likely give you what you are looking for. As I read through the poem, I slowly begin to fall into a trance. Mrs. Morrow says my eyes glazed over, and I was unaware of anything except for myself and the poem. I finished and sat back in my chair, frozen in awe. “Good, huh?”Mrs. Morrow says to me, smiling. I nod, unaware of my slack jaw and wide eyes. That poem was one of the best things I’ve read in the world, and don’t forget, I’ve read quite a lot of books in my time. “Can I try? Writing one, I mean? I think it could be really meaningful.” I ask her, hope glimmering behind my deep brown eyes. “Of course!” she cries, “I’d be happy to help you, if you’d like, and I’m sure the library has some books with her poems in them if you need inspiration.” She adds hastily. “Thanks, but I think I’ve found all the inspiration I need right here. Do you think I could stay here for lunch and start writing? I’m not hungry.” I ask Mrs. Morrow, eager to begin. “Of course! Go ahead back to your seat, though, dear. I don’t want to get in your way, do I?” She says, smiling a smile that actually seems real, genuine. I go back to my seat and start to write. Sleepless Nights Moonlight streaming through the open window, Thrashing about through the night. Darkness envelopes the room like A blanket. Keeping warm, But Keeping hidden Just as well. Who knows What lurks in dusty corners? Who knows What frights lie in the darkness? Who knows What it takes To get just one night With sleep? When I showed it to Mrs. Morrow, she looked up at me with wide eyes and said, “Child, you have more skill than you will ever know,” and then asked if she could keep the poem. I let her, obviously, and then headed into the hallway - or, as I like to call it, The Salmon River - to get to my next class.
