Here and There

By T V Knight

"Please continue writing your Anne Frank essays, class," I say, ignoring Cortez's comment.

He's finally taking off his backpack. Without looking directly at me, he reaches into his bag. What did he just pull out?  A phone?  Ipod? Electronic devices are banned in the classroom. Most, if not all the students, have gone back to the Anne Frank assignment, but not Cortez. His hands are working feverishly, but I can't see what he's doing because his hands and the bag have disappeared under the desk.

"I gotta go to the bathroom," he says suddenly, standing with his hands behind his back.

"Class, please remember to take bathroom breaks in between periods, not during class," I say.

"But I gotta go!" he says, grabbing the front of his pants.

Snickers.

 

Here and There is a small collection of poems and short stories from Jamaica and America. The author immigrated to the U.S. in her early twenties. Her memories of Jamaica are taking the background to the new ones from her adopted country, as she's now spent most of her life in North America. TVKnight resides with her family in Connecticut.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: T V Knight
• Release date: Apr 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223940623

T V Knight

The author, T V Knight immigrated to the U.S. in her early twenties and writes stories about living in both countries. Her memories of Jamaica are taking the background to the new ones from her adopted country. 

Book preview

Crows

11/15/21 

A crowd of crows stopped over in my neighbor’s backyard yesterday.  

I watched them from my window soon after they landed, 

Happy to turn away from writing pages of email 

Each time I looked up from my laptop, expecting them to leave 

But they were there still 

Flitting from tree to tree 

Circling, 

Resting, 

Searching for a meal 

Someone must have sent a memo to the birds about a dress code  

Because they all showed up in bold, black frocks and grey bills. 

They circled the air and milled around on the porch, 

Calling out to each other in a caw-caw chatter  

That only The Maker could master 

Two of them got into a food fight in a tree 

And there was a short wrestling match  

They went beak to beak in the tug o war 

Afterwards, the winner flew up on a branch above 

To enjoy the prize alone. 

A few months ago, 

The tree they fought in was a deep green. 

But Fall forced her into a bright yellow dress.  

And just as she was getting used to the new look, 

Winter called long distance,  

Telling her to try orange instead  

Then, frustrated, she let it all go. 

So now her clothes are on the ground in a heap 

Turning into a brown, crisp carpet. 

I looked up after a long while  

And saw that the crows had taken off without saying goodbye 

Are they vacationing in Florida? 

Black Clay!

by T.V.Knight 

Did sin widen my nose? 

If it did, 

What did God have to say about how I was made? 

When He was knitting me in Mommy’s belly 

Did the Devil nudge His hand and cause 

Too much black ink to drip into my skin? 

Did sin fill out these lips that make me pout without trying? 

Did sin tie His hands? 

When He told Moses that He made the mute, deaf, blind, and the seeing,  

was He mistaken? 

When He told the disciples that the man born blind was born that way, not because of sin but for God’s purpose 

Did God lose His mind? 

Nope, no way He tripped 

When I was in my Mommy’s tummy,  

God said, O, I have a really good plan for this one 

So He chose a dark shade and colored my skin, and it’s just the right hue. 

He coiled my hair and counted each strand, and it’s beautiful  

He curved my nose from bridge to tip, and it’s marvelous  

He padded my lips and gave me my smile, and I think it’s wonderful. 

Take a look. I am beautifully and wonderfully made. 

B is for Dunce

By T.V.Knight 

A Jamaican flag dressed in black, green, and gorgeous gold flapped noisily on the twenty-foot flagpole in the center of the courtyard.  I watched it and became increasingly annoyed. It was free, but there I was standing in a school corridor, caged in by eyes.  

I clung to the metal column behind me, afraid to breathe. It was September 1988, the middle of the hurricane season and the beginning of my quest for a seat at Unity Primary School. I was waiting on Mrs. Cox, the senior sixth-grade teacher, for my results on the sixth-grade placement test. I had met her penetrating gaze for the first time that morning before the test began. If someone had taken a picture of us then, it would have been clear how out of place I'd felt standing next to her: my short, slouched shoulders next to her tall, squared ones. My concave back beside her pencil-straight posture.   

My audience was about two hundred students strong. They occupied rows and rows of desks and benches. The girls wore blue tunics over white shirts and the boys dressed in dark khaki pants and shirts. The section of the audience closest to me were sixth graders. The classroom split into two: 6A and 6B. The number told your grade, and the letter told your smarts. ‘A’ for bright, ‘B’ for dunce. I was to find out from Mrs. Cox that morning whether I was to be a 'bright spark' or a 'dunce