I felt safe
at East Hills High School for the Arts
Nobody was trying to mess
with some art kids
carrying around portfolios
Kids with piercings and tats
boys wearing nail polish
and girls wearing bow ties
Black kids who listen to metal
and white kids who listen to trap
We were weird and free—
a bubble in the world
that would burst open
at the end of the school
when we all walked out of its doors
But still
Ms. Rinaldi gave me hell
because I didn’t fit
into her definition of weird
I was a different kind of weird
my hair too wild
my skin too dark
my voice too deep
my paintings too colorful
my art too free
Amal is disruptive
she wrote on my report card
Amal needs to focus
Amal is not prepared for an
advanced-level class
She failed me
over and over again
until—
She thought she could
save me