When I was five years old

By Kimberly Chiamaka Okeke

I was five years old as I first barreled through the wooden doors of Kindergarten,

My short, nappy hair, knotted into twists,

The  places where my two front teeth once stood, leaving a huge space that tasted like blood and salt,

My thick, full lips glossed up with a slather of vaseline,

My mind a whirlwind of imaginations as I didn’t know what exactly to expect.

I was still five years old when Mrs. Packard first laid down a sheet of dark vanilla paper on my table,

Making us pull out pencils from our toolboxes as she told us to write about what our favorite thing to do as a hobby was

As I picked up my pencil which felt as if it  was drifting off the palms of my perspired hands,

I gulped anxiously, knowing damn well I didn’t have the intellectual mind of a speller

But I still managed to push through.

I still managed to push through using my imaginative and intrinsic mind to sound words out

And spell them even though sometimes they weren’t close to correct

Words soon transformed into sentences,

Sentences soon transitioned into paragraphs,

Paragraphs soon metamorphosed into stories,

And it was like dinner as I couldn’t stop myself at that time from keeping my hungry and ravenous  hands from grabbing more paper

I was six years old when I walked across a wooden platform,

My hair dolled up into four jumbo twists,

My face glistened in olive oil,

My twirly red and blue skirt fluttering as I walked fast to receive my award for the young authors and writers ceremony

I was seven years old,

As Mrs. Rau click-clacked her ebony red heels among the emerald green tiled floor in the classroom,

Picked up a thick piece of golden chalk which lingered puffs of powdered chalk behind it

And began to tell us about a different form of writing called “poetry”

My mind became alerted and I instantly became amazed as I discovered Haiku, found poetry, spoken word, and many more

Poetry was like a new and flourished universe to me, drifting  me in a world that spoke the thoughts of others through a different, unspoken language.

I was eleven years old when Mr. Boyd asked,

“Raise your hand if you like poetry”

My sweat glands almost tried  to drown me in a pond of perspiration

As my bony hand lingered weakly in the air

Knowing my hand would be the only hand up in the air of the silent classroom of kids

“Raise your hand if you like Rap”

At that statement,

Hands shot up quickly in the air almost like the fire crackers you see on the fourth of July,

Hands exploding into a diverse array of unison as the kids in class stretched out grins on their faces,

“Rap is poetry” Mr. Boyd said as he caused a murmur of hushed tones to spread throughout the classroom

The rest of the day was particularly beautiful day to me as I learned another form of poetry that started because of my black culture

Poetry is the twisted tongues and unique thoughts of the open minded when there is no other way to express the images laid back in your head

Poetry is the unsung song of the Canary,

The unscented aroma of vivacious words and intelligence

Poetry are words that fill up a paper when your voice is too empty and hollowed out to speak

Because it all started  when I was five years old.