Push is the instant classic that inspired the major motion picture and Sundance Film Festival winner Precious.

Precious Jones, an illiterate sixteen-year-old, has up until now been invisible to the father who rapes her and the mother who batters her and to the authorities who dismiss her as just one more of Harlem's casualties. But when Precious, pregnant with a second child by her father, meets a determined and radical teacher, we follow her on a journey of education and enlightenment as she learns not only how to write about her life, but how to make it truly her own for the first time.

“A stunningly frank effort that marks the emergence of an immensely promising writer.” —Los Angeles Times Book Review

“The beauty (and the risk) of this book is in its vivid, imperfect harnessing of issues and acts of huge social and moral consequences. . . . A horrific, hope-filled story [that is] brilliant, blunt, merciless.” —Newsday

“[Precious’s] voice is blunt and unadorned, sorrowful as a foghorn and so wholly engulfing that despite its broken words it generates single-handedly the moving power of this novel. . . . Sapphire has created in Push an affecting and impassioned work that sails on the strength of pure, stirring feeling.” —The New York Times Book Review

“Precious’s story, told through her own unique style and spelling, is a major achievement. It documents a remarkable resilience of spirit.” —The Boston Globe

“The miracle of Push is that, even at its most devastating, it is also a story about faith and possibility.”—Chicago Tribune

“To read the story [is] magic. . . . [It is] paint-peelingly profane and thoroughly real.” —The Washington Post
 
“Brutal, redemptive . . . you just can’t take your eyes off Precious Jones.” —Newsweek

“Thrilling. . . . [Push’s] affecting combination of childlike tenderness and adult rage leaves little doubt that Sapphire’s talents as a poet translate artfully into her fiction.” —Entertainment Weekly

“[Sapphire] writes with a poet’s ear for rhythms, in a voice that pushes her story relentlessly into your mind.” —Interview

“Sapphire is aptly named, for this powerful, poetic work is a small gem.” Mademoiselle

Push
 . . . develops so richly and fearlessly that one cannot resist its power.” —Elle

Sapphire is the author of American Dreams, a collection of poetry that was cited by Publishers Weekly as "one of the strongest debut collections of the nineties." Push, her novel, won the Book-of-the-Month Club's Stephen Crane award for First Fiction, the Black Caucus of the American Library Association's First Novelist Award, and, in Great Britain, the Mind Book of the Year Award. Push was named by the Village Voice and Time Out New York as one of the top ten books of 1996. Push was nominated for an NAACP Image Award in the category of Outstanding Literary Work of Fiction. Push was adapted into the Oscar-nominated film, Precious.  Sapphire's work has appeared in The New YorkerThe New York Times MagazineThe New York Times Book ReviewThe Black ScholarSpin, and Bomb. In February of 2007 Arizona State University presented PUSHing Boundaries, PUSHing Art: A Symposium on the Works of Sapphire. Sapphire's work has been translated into 11 languages and has been adapted for stage in the United States and Europe. Precious, the film adaption of her novel, won the Grand Jury Prize and the Audience Awards in the U.S. dramatic competition at Sundance (2009). View titles by Sapphire
Chapter I

I was left back when I was twelve because I had a baby for my fahver. That was in 1983. I was out of school for a year. This gonna be my second baby. My daughter got Down Sinder. She’s retarded. I had got left back in the second grade too, when I was seven, ’cause I couldn’t read (and I still peed on myself). I should be in the eleventh grade, getting ready to go into the twelf’ grade so I can gone ’n graduate. But I’m not. I’m in the ninfe grade.

I got suspended from school ’cause I’m pregnant which I don’t think is fair. I ain’ did nothin’!

My name is Claireece Precious Jones. I don’t know why I’m telling you that. Guess ’cause I don’t know how far I’m gonna go with this story, or whether it’s even a story or why I’m talkin’; whether I’m gonna start from the beginning or right from here or two weeks from now. Two weeks from now? Sure you can do anything when you talking or writing, it’s not like living when you can only do what you doing. Some people tell a story ’n it don’t make no sense or be true. But I’m gonna try to make sense and tell the truth, else what’s the fucking use? Ain’ enough lies and shit out there already?

So, OK, it’s Thursday, September twenty-four 1987 and I’m walking down the hall. I look good, smell good—fresh, clean. It’s hot but I do not take off my leather jacket even though it’s hot, it might get stolen or lost. Indian summer, Mr Wicher say. I don’t know why he call it that. What he mean is, it’s hot, 90 degrees, like summer days. And there is no, none, I mean none, air conditioning in this mutherfucking building. The building I’m talking about is, of course, I.S. 146 on 134th Street between Lenox Avenue and Adam Clayton Powell Jr Blvd. I am walking down the hall from homeroom to first period maff. Why they put some shit like maff first period I do not know. Maybe to gone ’n git it over with. I actually don’t mind maff as much as I had thought I would. I jus’ fall in Mr Wicher’s class sit down. We don’t have assigned seats in Mr Wicher’s class, we can sit anywhere we want. I sit in the same seat everyday, in the back, last row, next to the door. Even though I know that back door be locked. I don’t say nuffin’ to him. He don’t say nuffin’ to me, now. First day he say, “Class turn the book pages to page 122 please.” I don’t move. He say, “Miss Jones, I said turn the book pages to page 122.” I say, “Mutherfucker I ain’t deaf!” The whole class laugh. He turn red. He slam his han’ down on the book and say, “Try to have some discipline.” He a skinny little white man about five feets four inches. A peckerwood as my mother would say. I look at him ’n say, “I can slam too. You wanna slam?” ’N I pick up my book ’n slam it down on the desk hard. The class laugh some more. He say, “Miss Jones I would appreciate it if you would leave the room right NOW.” I say, “I ain’ going nowhere mutherfucker till the bell ring. I came here to learn maff and you gon’ teach me.” He look like a bitch just got a train pult on her. He don’t know what to do. He try to recoup, be cool, say, “Well, if you want to learn, calm down—” “I’m calm,” I tell him. He say, “If you want to learn, shut up and open your book.” His face is red, he is shaking. I back off. I have won. I guess.

I didn’t want to hurt him or embarrass him like that you know. But I couldn’t let him, anybody, know, page 122 look like page 152, 22, 3, 6, 5—all the pages look alike to me. ’N I really do want to learn. Everyday I tell myself something gonna happen, some shit like on TV. I’m gonna break through or somebody gonna break through to me—I’m gonna learn, catch up, be normal, change my seat to the front of the class. But again, it has not been that day.

But thas the first day I’m telling you about. Today is not the first day and like I said I was on my way to maff class when Mrs Lichenstein snatch me out the hall to her office. I’m really mad ’cause actually I like maff even though I don’t do nuffin’, don’t open my book even. I jus’ sit there for fifty minutes. I don’t cause trouble. In fac’ some of the other natives get restless I break on ’em. I say, “Shut up mutherfuckers I’m tryin’ to learn something.” First they laugh like trying to pull me into fuckin’ with Mr Wicher and disrupting the class. Then I get up ’n say, “Shut up mutherfuckers I’m tryin’ to learn something.” The coons clowning look confuse, Mr Wicher look confuse. But I’m big, five feet nine-ten, I weigh over two hundred pounds. Kids is scared of me. “Coon fool,” I tell one kid done jumped up. “Sit down, stop ackin’ silly.” Mr Wicher look at me confuse but grateful. I’m like the polices for Mr Wicher. I keep law and order. I like him, I pretend he is my husband and we live together in Weschesser, wherever that is.

I can see by his eyes Mr Wicher like me too. I wish I could tell him about all the pages being the same but I can’t. I’m getting pretty good grades. I usually do. I just wanna gone get the fuck out of I.S. 146 and go to high school and get my diploma.

Anyway I’m in Mrs Lichenstein’s office. She’s looking at me, I’m looking at her. I don’t say nuffin’. Finally she say, “So Claireece, I see we’re expecting a little visitor.” But it’s not like a question, she’s telling me. I still don’t say nuffin’. She staring at me, from behind her big wooden desk, she got her white bitch hands folded together on top her desk.

“Claireece.”

Everybody call me Precious. I got three names—Claireece Precious Jones. Only mutherfuckers I hate call me Claireece.

“How old are you Claireece?”

White cunt box got my file on her desk. I see it. I ain’t that late to lunch. Bitch know how old I am.

“Sixteen is ahh rather ahh”—she clear her throat— “old to still be in junior high school.”

I still don’t say nuffin’. She know so much let her ass do the talking.

“Come now, you are pregnant, aren’t you Claireece?”

She asking now, a few seconds ago the hoe just knew what I was.

“Claireece?”

She tryin’ to talk all gentle now and shit.

“Claireece, I’m talking to you.”

I still don’t say nuffin’. This hoe is keeping me from maff class. I like maff class. Mr Wicher like me in there, need me to keep those rowdy niggers in line. He nice, wear a dope suit every day. He do not come to school looking like some of these other nasty ass teachers.

“I don’t want to miss no more of maff class,” I tell stupid ass Mrs Lichenstein.

She look at me like I said I wanna suck a dog’s dick or some shit. What’s with this cunt bucket? (That’s what my muver call women she don’t like, cunt buckets. I kinda get it and I kinda don’t get it, but I like the way it sounds so I say it too.)

I get up to go, Mrs Lichenstein ax me to please sit down, she not through with me yet. But I’m through with her, thas what she don’t get.

“This is your second baby?” she says. I wonder what else it say in that file with my name on it. I hate her.

“I think we should have a parent-teacher conference Claireece—me, you, and your mom.”

“For what?” I say. “I ain’ done nuffin’. I doose my work. I ain’ in no trouble. My grades is good.”

Mrs Lichenstein look at me like I got three arms or a bad odor out my pussy or something.

What my muver gon’ do I want to say. What is she gonna do? But I don’t say that. I jus’ say, “My muver is busy.”

“Well maybe I could arrange to come to your house—” The look on my face musta hit her, which is what I was gonna do if she said one more word. Come to my house! Nosy ass white bitch! I don’t think so! We don’t be coming to your house in Weschesser or wherever the fuck you freaks live. Well I be damned, I done heard everything, white bitch wanna visit.

“Well then Claireece, I’m afraid I’m going to have to suspend you—”

“For what!”

“You’re pregnant and—”

“You can’t suspend me for being pregnant, I got rights!”

“Your attitude Claireece is one of total uncooperation—”

I reached over the desk. I was gonna yank her fat ass out that chair. She fell backwards trying to get away from me ’n started screaming, “SECURITY SECURITY!”

I was out the door and on the street and I could still hear her stupid ass screaming, “SECURITY SECURITY!”

“Precious!” That’s my mother calling me.

I don’t say nothin’. She been staring at my stomach. I know what’s coming. I keep washing dishes. We had fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, and Wonder bread for dinner. I don’t know how many months pregnant I am. I don’t wanna stand here ’n hear Mama call me slut. Holler ’n shout on me all day like she did the last time. Slut! Nasty ass tramp! What you been doin’! Who! Who! WHOoooo like owl in Walt Disney movie I seen one time. Whooo? Ya wanna know who—

“Claireece Precious Jones I’m talkin’ to you!”

I still don’t answer her. I was standing at this sink the last time I was pregnant when them pains hit, wump! Ahh wump! I never felt no shit like that before. Sweat was breaking out on my forehead, pain like fire was eating me up. I jus’ standing there ’n pain hit me, then pain go sit down, then pain git up ’n hit me harder! ’N she standing there screaming at me, “Slut! Goddam slut! You fuckin’ cow! I don’t believe this, right under my nose. You been high tailing it round here.” Pain hit me again, then she hit me. I’m on the floor groaning, “Mommy please, Mommy please, please Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! MOMMY!” Then she KICK me side of my face! “Whore! Whore!” she screamin’. Then Miz West live down the hall pounding on the door, hollering “Mary! Mary! What you doin’! You gonna kill that chile! She need help not no beating, is you crazy!”

Mama say, “She shoulda tole me she was pregnant!”

“Jezus Mary, you didn’t know. I knew, the whole building knew. Are you crazy—”

“Don’t tell me nothin’ about my own chile—”

“Nine-one-one! Nine-one-one! Nine-one-one!” Miz West screamin’ now. She call Mama a fool.

Pain walking on me now. Jus’ stomping on me. I can’t see hear, I jus’ screamin’, “Mommy! Mommy!”

Some mens, these ambulance mens, I don’t see ’em or hear ’em come in. But I look up from the pain and he dere. This Spanish guy in EMS uniform. He push me back on a cushion. I’m like in a ball from the pain. He say, “RELAX!” The pain stabbing me wif a knife and this spic talking ’bout relax.

He touch my forehead put his other hand on the side of my belly. “What’s your name?” he say. “Huh?” I say. “Your name?” “Precious,” I say. He say, “Precious, it’s almost here. I want you to push, you hear me momi, when that shit hit you again, go with it and push, Preshecita. Push.”

And I did.

And always after that I look for someone with his face and eyes in Spanish peoples. He coffee-cream color, good hair. I remember that. God. I think he was god. No man was never nice like that to me before. I ask at the hospital behind him, “Where that guy help me?” They say, “Hush girl you jus’ had a baby.”

But I can’t hush ’cause they keep asking me questions. My name? Precious Jones. Claireece Precious Jones to be exact. Birth date? November 4, 1970. Where? “Here,” I say, “right chere in Harlem Hospital.” “Nineteen seventy?” the nurse say confuse quiet. Then she say, “How old are you?” I say, “Twelve.” I was heavy at twelve too, nobody get I’m twelve ’less I tell them. I’m tall. I jus’ know I’m over two hundred ’cause the needle on the scale in the bathroom stop there it don’t can go no further. Last time they want to weigh me at school I say no. Why for, I know I’m fat. So what. Next topic for the day.

But this not school nurse now, this Harlem Hospital where I was borned, where me and my baby got tooked after it was borned on the kitchen floor at 444 Lenox Avenue. This nurse slim butter-color woman. She lighter than some Spanish womens but I know she black. I can tell. It’s something about being a nigger ain’t color. This nurse same as me. A lot of black people with nurse cap or big car or light skin same as me but don’t know it. I’m so tired I jus’ want to disappear. I wish Miss Butter would leave me alone but she jus’ staring at me, her eyes getting bigger and bigger. She say she need to get some more information for the birth certificate.

It still tripping me out that I had a baby. I mean I knew I was pregnant, knew how I got pregnant. I been knowing a man put his dick in you, gush white stuff in your booty you could get pregnant. I’m twelve now, I been knowing about that since I was five or six, maybe I always known about pussy and dick. I can’t remember not knowing. No, I can’t remember a time I did not know. But thas all I knowed. I didn’t know how long it take, what’s happening inside, nothing, I didn’t know nothing.

The nurse is saying something I don’t hear. I hear kids at school. Boy say I’m laffing ugly. He say, “Claireece is so ugly she laffing ugly.” His fren’ say, “No, that fat bitch is crying ugly.” Laff laff. Why I’m thinking about those stupid boys now I don’t know.

“Mother,” she say. “What’s your mother’s name?” I say, “Mary L Johnston” (L for Lee but my mother don’t like Lee, soun’ too country). “Where your mother born,” she say. I say, “Greenwood, Mississippi.” Nurse say, “You ever been there?” I say, “Naw, I never been nowhere.” She say, “Reason I ask is I’m from Greenwood, Mississippi, myself.” I say, “Oh,” ’cause I know I’m spozed to say something.

“Father,” she say. “What’s your daddy’s name?”

“Carl Kenwood Jones, born in the Bronx.”

She say, “What’s the baby’s father’s name?”

I say, “Carl Kenwood Jones, born in the same Bronx.”
  • WINNER
    New York Public Library Books for the Teen Age
“Affecting and impassioned . . . sails on the strength of pure, stirring feeling.”
The New York Times Book Review

“A horrific, hope-filled story [that is] brilliant, blunt, merciless.”
Newsday
 
“Brutal, redemptive . . . you just can’t take your eyes off Precious Jones.”
Newsweek

About

Push is the instant classic that inspired the major motion picture and Sundance Film Festival winner Precious.

Precious Jones, an illiterate sixteen-year-old, has up until now been invisible to the father who rapes her and the mother who batters her and to the authorities who dismiss her as just one more of Harlem's casualties. But when Precious, pregnant with a second child by her father, meets a determined and radical teacher, we follow her on a journey of education and enlightenment as she learns not only how to write about her life, but how to make it truly her own for the first time.

“A stunningly frank effort that marks the emergence of an immensely promising writer.” —Los Angeles Times Book Review

“The beauty (and the risk) of this book is in its vivid, imperfect harnessing of issues and acts of huge social and moral consequences. . . . A horrific, hope-filled story [that is] brilliant, blunt, merciless.” —Newsday

“[Precious’s] voice is blunt and unadorned, sorrowful as a foghorn and so wholly engulfing that despite its broken words it generates single-handedly the moving power of this novel. . . . Sapphire has created in Push an affecting and impassioned work that sails on the strength of pure, stirring feeling.” —The New York Times Book Review

“Precious’s story, told through her own unique style and spelling, is a major achievement. It documents a remarkable resilience of spirit.” —The Boston Globe

“The miracle of Push is that, even at its most devastating, it is also a story about faith and possibility.”—Chicago Tribune

“To read the story [is] magic. . . . [It is] paint-peelingly profane and thoroughly real.” —The Washington Post
 
“Brutal, redemptive . . . you just can’t take your eyes off Precious Jones.” —Newsweek

“Thrilling. . . . [Push’s] affecting combination of childlike tenderness and adult rage leaves little doubt that Sapphire’s talents as a poet translate artfully into her fiction.” —Entertainment Weekly

“[Sapphire] writes with a poet’s ear for rhythms, in a voice that pushes her story relentlessly into your mind.” —Interview

“Sapphire is aptly named, for this powerful, poetic work is a small gem.” Mademoiselle

Push
 . . . develops so richly and fearlessly that one cannot resist its power.” —Elle

Author

Sapphire is the author of American Dreams, a collection of poetry that was cited by Publishers Weekly as "one of the strongest debut collections of the nineties." Push, her novel, won the Book-of-the-Month Club's Stephen Crane award for First Fiction, the Black Caucus of the American Library Association's First Novelist Award, and, in Great Britain, the Mind Book of the Year Award. Push was named by the Village Voice and Time Out New York as one of the top ten books of 1996. Push was nominated for an NAACP Image Award in the category of Outstanding Literary Work of Fiction. Push was adapted into the Oscar-nominated film, Precious.  Sapphire's work has appeared in The New YorkerThe New York Times MagazineThe New York Times Book ReviewThe Black ScholarSpin, and Bomb. In February of 2007 Arizona State University presented PUSHing Boundaries, PUSHing Art: A Symposium on the Works of Sapphire. Sapphire's work has been translated into 11 languages and has been adapted for stage in the United States and Europe. Precious, the film adaption of her novel, won the Grand Jury Prize and the Audience Awards in the U.S. dramatic competition at Sundance (2009). View titles by Sapphire

Excerpt

Chapter I

I was left back when I was twelve because I had a baby for my fahver. That was in 1983. I was out of school for a year. This gonna be my second baby. My daughter got Down Sinder. She’s retarded. I had got left back in the second grade too, when I was seven, ’cause I couldn’t read (and I still peed on myself). I should be in the eleventh grade, getting ready to go into the twelf’ grade so I can gone ’n graduate. But I’m not. I’m in the ninfe grade.

I got suspended from school ’cause I’m pregnant which I don’t think is fair. I ain’ did nothin’!

My name is Claireece Precious Jones. I don’t know why I’m telling you that. Guess ’cause I don’t know how far I’m gonna go with this story, or whether it’s even a story or why I’m talkin’; whether I’m gonna start from the beginning or right from here or two weeks from now. Two weeks from now? Sure you can do anything when you talking or writing, it’s not like living when you can only do what you doing. Some people tell a story ’n it don’t make no sense or be true. But I’m gonna try to make sense and tell the truth, else what’s the fucking use? Ain’ enough lies and shit out there already?

So, OK, it’s Thursday, September twenty-four 1987 and I’m walking down the hall. I look good, smell good—fresh, clean. It’s hot but I do not take off my leather jacket even though it’s hot, it might get stolen or lost. Indian summer, Mr Wicher say. I don’t know why he call it that. What he mean is, it’s hot, 90 degrees, like summer days. And there is no, none, I mean none, air conditioning in this mutherfucking building. The building I’m talking about is, of course, I.S. 146 on 134th Street between Lenox Avenue and Adam Clayton Powell Jr Blvd. I am walking down the hall from homeroom to first period maff. Why they put some shit like maff first period I do not know. Maybe to gone ’n git it over with. I actually don’t mind maff as much as I had thought I would. I jus’ fall in Mr Wicher’s class sit down. We don’t have assigned seats in Mr Wicher’s class, we can sit anywhere we want. I sit in the same seat everyday, in the back, last row, next to the door. Even though I know that back door be locked. I don’t say nuffin’ to him. He don’t say nuffin’ to me, now. First day he say, “Class turn the book pages to page 122 please.” I don’t move. He say, “Miss Jones, I said turn the book pages to page 122.” I say, “Mutherfucker I ain’t deaf!” The whole class laugh. He turn red. He slam his han’ down on the book and say, “Try to have some discipline.” He a skinny little white man about five feets four inches. A peckerwood as my mother would say. I look at him ’n say, “I can slam too. You wanna slam?” ’N I pick up my book ’n slam it down on the desk hard. The class laugh some more. He say, “Miss Jones I would appreciate it if you would leave the room right NOW.” I say, “I ain’ going nowhere mutherfucker till the bell ring. I came here to learn maff and you gon’ teach me.” He look like a bitch just got a train pult on her. He don’t know what to do. He try to recoup, be cool, say, “Well, if you want to learn, calm down—” “I’m calm,” I tell him. He say, “If you want to learn, shut up and open your book.” His face is red, he is shaking. I back off. I have won. I guess.

I didn’t want to hurt him or embarrass him like that you know. But I couldn’t let him, anybody, know, page 122 look like page 152, 22, 3, 6, 5—all the pages look alike to me. ’N I really do want to learn. Everyday I tell myself something gonna happen, some shit like on TV. I’m gonna break through or somebody gonna break through to me—I’m gonna learn, catch up, be normal, change my seat to the front of the class. But again, it has not been that day.

But thas the first day I’m telling you about. Today is not the first day and like I said I was on my way to maff class when Mrs Lichenstein snatch me out the hall to her office. I’m really mad ’cause actually I like maff even though I don’t do nuffin’, don’t open my book even. I jus’ sit there for fifty minutes. I don’t cause trouble. In fac’ some of the other natives get restless I break on ’em. I say, “Shut up mutherfuckers I’m tryin’ to learn something.” First they laugh like trying to pull me into fuckin’ with Mr Wicher and disrupting the class. Then I get up ’n say, “Shut up mutherfuckers I’m tryin’ to learn something.” The coons clowning look confuse, Mr Wicher look confuse. But I’m big, five feet nine-ten, I weigh over two hundred pounds. Kids is scared of me. “Coon fool,” I tell one kid done jumped up. “Sit down, stop ackin’ silly.” Mr Wicher look at me confuse but grateful. I’m like the polices for Mr Wicher. I keep law and order. I like him, I pretend he is my husband and we live together in Weschesser, wherever that is.

I can see by his eyes Mr Wicher like me too. I wish I could tell him about all the pages being the same but I can’t. I’m getting pretty good grades. I usually do. I just wanna gone get the fuck out of I.S. 146 and go to high school and get my diploma.

Anyway I’m in Mrs Lichenstein’s office. She’s looking at me, I’m looking at her. I don’t say nuffin’. Finally she say, “So Claireece, I see we’re expecting a little visitor.” But it’s not like a question, she’s telling me. I still don’t say nuffin’. She staring at me, from behind her big wooden desk, she got her white bitch hands folded together on top her desk.

“Claireece.”

Everybody call me Precious. I got three names—Claireece Precious Jones. Only mutherfuckers I hate call me Claireece.

“How old are you Claireece?”

White cunt box got my file on her desk. I see it. I ain’t that late to lunch. Bitch know how old I am.

“Sixteen is ahh rather ahh”—she clear her throat— “old to still be in junior high school.”

I still don’t say nuffin’. She know so much let her ass do the talking.

“Come now, you are pregnant, aren’t you Claireece?”

She asking now, a few seconds ago the hoe just knew what I was.

“Claireece?”

She tryin’ to talk all gentle now and shit.

“Claireece, I’m talking to you.”

I still don’t say nuffin’. This hoe is keeping me from maff class. I like maff class. Mr Wicher like me in there, need me to keep those rowdy niggers in line. He nice, wear a dope suit every day. He do not come to school looking like some of these other nasty ass teachers.

“I don’t want to miss no more of maff class,” I tell stupid ass Mrs Lichenstein.

She look at me like I said I wanna suck a dog’s dick or some shit. What’s with this cunt bucket? (That’s what my muver call women she don’t like, cunt buckets. I kinda get it and I kinda don’t get it, but I like the way it sounds so I say it too.)

I get up to go, Mrs Lichenstein ax me to please sit down, she not through with me yet. But I’m through with her, thas what she don’t get.

“This is your second baby?” she says. I wonder what else it say in that file with my name on it. I hate her.

“I think we should have a parent-teacher conference Claireece—me, you, and your mom.”

“For what?” I say. “I ain’ done nuffin’. I doose my work. I ain’ in no trouble. My grades is good.”

Mrs Lichenstein look at me like I got three arms or a bad odor out my pussy or something.

What my muver gon’ do I want to say. What is she gonna do? But I don’t say that. I jus’ say, “My muver is busy.”

“Well maybe I could arrange to come to your house—” The look on my face musta hit her, which is what I was gonna do if she said one more word. Come to my house! Nosy ass white bitch! I don’t think so! We don’t be coming to your house in Weschesser or wherever the fuck you freaks live. Well I be damned, I done heard everything, white bitch wanna visit.

“Well then Claireece, I’m afraid I’m going to have to suspend you—”

“For what!”

“You’re pregnant and—”

“You can’t suspend me for being pregnant, I got rights!”

“Your attitude Claireece is one of total uncooperation—”

I reached over the desk. I was gonna yank her fat ass out that chair. She fell backwards trying to get away from me ’n started screaming, “SECURITY SECURITY!”

I was out the door and on the street and I could still hear her stupid ass screaming, “SECURITY SECURITY!”

“Precious!” That’s my mother calling me.

I don’t say nothin’. She been staring at my stomach. I know what’s coming. I keep washing dishes. We had fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, and Wonder bread for dinner. I don’t know how many months pregnant I am. I don’t wanna stand here ’n hear Mama call me slut. Holler ’n shout on me all day like she did the last time. Slut! Nasty ass tramp! What you been doin’! Who! Who! WHOoooo like owl in Walt Disney movie I seen one time. Whooo? Ya wanna know who—

“Claireece Precious Jones I’m talkin’ to you!”

I still don’t answer her. I was standing at this sink the last time I was pregnant when them pains hit, wump! Ahh wump! I never felt no shit like that before. Sweat was breaking out on my forehead, pain like fire was eating me up. I jus’ standing there ’n pain hit me, then pain go sit down, then pain git up ’n hit me harder! ’N she standing there screaming at me, “Slut! Goddam slut! You fuckin’ cow! I don’t believe this, right under my nose. You been high tailing it round here.” Pain hit me again, then she hit me. I’m on the floor groaning, “Mommy please, Mommy please, please Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! MOMMY!” Then she KICK me side of my face! “Whore! Whore!” she screamin’. Then Miz West live down the hall pounding on the door, hollering “Mary! Mary! What you doin’! You gonna kill that chile! She need help not no beating, is you crazy!”

Mama say, “She shoulda tole me she was pregnant!”

“Jezus Mary, you didn’t know. I knew, the whole building knew. Are you crazy—”

“Don’t tell me nothin’ about my own chile—”

“Nine-one-one! Nine-one-one! Nine-one-one!” Miz West screamin’ now. She call Mama a fool.

Pain walking on me now. Jus’ stomping on me. I can’t see hear, I jus’ screamin’, “Mommy! Mommy!”

Some mens, these ambulance mens, I don’t see ’em or hear ’em come in. But I look up from the pain and he dere. This Spanish guy in EMS uniform. He push me back on a cushion. I’m like in a ball from the pain. He say, “RELAX!” The pain stabbing me wif a knife and this spic talking ’bout relax.

He touch my forehead put his other hand on the side of my belly. “What’s your name?” he say. “Huh?” I say. “Your name?” “Precious,” I say. He say, “Precious, it’s almost here. I want you to push, you hear me momi, when that shit hit you again, go with it and push, Preshecita. Push.”

And I did.

And always after that I look for someone with his face and eyes in Spanish peoples. He coffee-cream color, good hair. I remember that. God. I think he was god. No man was never nice like that to me before. I ask at the hospital behind him, “Where that guy help me?” They say, “Hush girl you jus’ had a baby.”

But I can’t hush ’cause they keep asking me questions. My name? Precious Jones. Claireece Precious Jones to be exact. Birth date? November 4, 1970. Where? “Here,” I say, “right chere in Harlem Hospital.” “Nineteen seventy?” the nurse say confuse quiet. Then she say, “How old are you?” I say, “Twelve.” I was heavy at twelve too, nobody get I’m twelve ’less I tell them. I’m tall. I jus’ know I’m over two hundred ’cause the needle on the scale in the bathroom stop there it don’t can go no further. Last time they want to weigh me at school I say no. Why for, I know I’m fat. So what. Next topic for the day.

But this not school nurse now, this Harlem Hospital where I was borned, where me and my baby got tooked after it was borned on the kitchen floor at 444 Lenox Avenue. This nurse slim butter-color woman. She lighter than some Spanish womens but I know she black. I can tell. It’s something about being a nigger ain’t color. This nurse same as me. A lot of black people with nurse cap or big car or light skin same as me but don’t know it. I’m so tired I jus’ want to disappear. I wish Miss Butter would leave me alone but she jus’ staring at me, her eyes getting bigger and bigger. She say she need to get some more information for the birth certificate.

It still tripping me out that I had a baby. I mean I knew I was pregnant, knew how I got pregnant. I been knowing a man put his dick in you, gush white stuff in your booty you could get pregnant. I’m twelve now, I been knowing about that since I was five or six, maybe I always known about pussy and dick. I can’t remember not knowing. No, I can’t remember a time I did not know. But thas all I knowed. I didn’t know how long it take, what’s happening inside, nothing, I didn’t know nothing.

The nurse is saying something I don’t hear. I hear kids at school. Boy say I’m laffing ugly. He say, “Claireece is so ugly she laffing ugly.” His fren’ say, “No, that fat bitch is crying ugly.” Laff laff. Why I’m thinking about those stupid boys now I don’t know.

“Mother,” she say. “What’s your mother’s name?” I say, “Mary L Johnston” (L for Lee but my mother don’t like Lee, soun’ too country). “Where your mother born,” she say. I say, “Greenwood, Mississippi.” Nurse say, “You ever been there?” I say, “Naw, I never been nowhere.” She say, “Reason I ask is I’m from Greenwood, Mississippi, myself.” I say, “Oh,” ’cause I know I’m spozed to say something.

“Father,” she say. “What’s your daddy’s name?”

“Carl Kenwood Jones, born in the Bronx.”

She say, “What’s the baby’s father’s name?”

I say, “Carl Kenwood Jones, born in the same Bronx.”

Awards

  • WINNER
    New York Public Library Books for the Teen Age

Praise

“Affecting and impassioned . . . sails on the strength of pure, stirring feeling.”
The New York Times Book Review

“A horrific, hope-filled story [that is] brilliant, blunt, merciless.”
Newsday
 
“Brutal, redemptive . . . you just can’t take your eyes off Precious Jones.”
Newsweek

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Translanguaging is a communicative practice of bilinguals and multilinguals, that is, it is a practice whereby bilinguals and multilinguals use their entire linguistic repertoire to communicate and make meaning (García, 2009; García, Ibarra Johnson, & Seltzer, 2017)   It is through that lens that we have partnered with teacher educators and bilingual education experts, Drs.

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