Fifth Grade. 10 years old.
I chose Harriet Tubman.
My mom made my dress
measured and cut to size.
I was Harriet Tubman,
but I was unlike her,
a skinny shy kid,
the tallest fifth-grader,
slouching in my chair,
a white girl trying
to hide in the crowd.
My dress was made from
maroon fabric with
little white specs all over,
measured and cut to size.
Fifth Grade. 10 years old.
I chose Harriet Tubman.
I carried a walking stick.
I wore a long-sleeve,
floor-length dress,
and a head covering.
I was an abolitionist.
Deathly afraid, yet falsely afraid,
to stand in a room full of fifth graders
in a dress made for me, it was
measured and cut to size.
To tell the story. To give
my speech. My research.
It wasn’t my story, but I told it,
standing in front of a room
full of fifth graders
in a long-sleeve dress that was
measured and cut to size.
Fifth Grade. 10 years old.
I chose Harriet Tubman,
saying, FREEDOM,
saying, FOLLOW ME—
THIS WAY, saying, whispering,
hiding, showing the road
to owning one’s own life.
