The Making of Me

Words spoken suddenly switched on lights

that blazed

in a universe bright now where night once ruled before

verbs and nouns

pronounced sky and sea as separate then announced a new

world as “good,”

an adjective repeated to affirm all the “fearful symmetry.”

In our red house on the hill above the green sugarcane fields

a big book

with black cover said so. It said that I Am spoke words to make

an ocean

blue then stooped and scooped dirt to shape me then

made me breathe.

In our small church there was an old Black woman regal in

               a flowery dress.

She smiled at me always. “She’s your godmother,” my mother whispered

  as she gestured.

 Once my godmother said, “Child, someday you’ll make worlds with your

  big words. Mark my words.”

I believed her and borrowed books my mother couldn’t buy because

she bought bread instead.

In our school there was a library built in boxes,

a largesse of books someone sent from overseas to feed

minds like mine. I feasted each Friday when teachers opened

the boxed library.

I read while walking uphill, while sweeping the floor,

while sitting outdoor.

I read breathless to become me, restless to take

my place

to speak syllables selected and placed side by side

to make sentences that shine lights in minds

to make pictures appear clear as the water

running in our river.

In Grade 3, Miss Ritchie made me

read to the class

 and the words like keys opened doors to more

                 rooms with clues

to find new words to render the wonder of

what made my brothers and me live and laugh,

what made the fireflies dance in dizzy circles

            fearless

in the warm darkness around the house that sat still

 on the hill.

In that house sat a certain child who often imagined the beginning

of a world made by a word

followed by a word.

Text: Vilma Blenman
Photography: Toronto Public Library Archives.