African American Monologue

I hate being on the bus alone, it makes me have to think of the past. Normally Pat or Ski is here with me but Pat’s sick and Ski’s dad picked her up today. We all are the school’s Math Club. I am the President, Pat is my Vice, and Ski is our PR Manager. Usually the bus takes us to school, we would compete, and the bus will drive us all back. I asked Mom to pick me up today, but she is working today. I stare out the window, watching the scenery outside pass by. There is a din growing inside of the bus, normally I would be a part of it, if I had a friend with me. The girls in front of me are talking about all the vacations they took when they were little. Lucky, them, all I’ve got is a few deteriorating memories of Mother, Father, what we did together, the crash, and the orphanage. The orphanage is where it truly hit me that they were dead and I would never see them again. I was there for a year, that’s when my strongest and fondest memory occurred. An African American woman with kind brown eyes, a stark contrast to my blond hair, blue eyes, and white skin walked into my room and we talked for hours. I never would have thought I would have called her Mom then. Don’t get me when I say that I wonder what would

I realize that I would be a shell of who I am today if it weren’t for Mom and all of my friends that I have now. I would be a shell off who I am now without Mom, she introduced me to math and Pat. I would rather die a thousand deaths then not know her. I pull out a notebook sheet of paper, I’m going to write a poem, maybe I’ll read it during Open Mike Friday. The reading teacher has had this going for a while now, but I have always been a little too nervous to actually do it. Even though the teacher has been encouraging everyone to participate in it. I might not be good; it definitely won’t have fancy poem structuring like Quinn. I don’t think I could possibly be as great as she is at all. But I am going to give it my