[4 of 5] The Poet X: A Novel by Elizabeth Acevedo (2018)

Author: Elizabeth Acevedo

Acevedo, Elizabeth. The Poet X, part 4 of 5. [S.l.]: HarperCollins, 2018.

Contents

Part III: The Voice of One Crying in the Wilderness
Silent World
Heavy
My Confession
Father Sean Says,
Prayers
How I Can Tell
Before We Walk in the House
My Heart Is a Hand
A Poem Mami Will Never Read
In Translation
Heartbreak
Reminders
Writing
What I’d Like to Tell Aman When He Sends Another Apology Message:
Favors
Pulled Back
On Thanksgiving
Haiku: The Best Part About Thanksgiving Was When Mami:
Rough Draft of Assignment 4—When was the last time you felt free?
Rough Draft of Assignment 4—When was the last time you felt free?
Rough Draft of Assignment 4—When was the last time you felt free?
Final Draft of Assignment 4 (What I Actually Turn In)
Gone
Zeros
Possibilities
Can’t Tell Me Nothing
Isabelle
First Poetry Club Meeting
Nerves
When I’m Done
Compliments
Caridad Is Standing Outside the Church
Hope Is a Thing with Wings
Here
Haikus
Offering
Holding Twin
Cody
Problems
Dominican Spanish Lesson:
Permission
Open Mic Night
Signed Up
The Mic Is Open
Invitation
All the Way Hype
At Lunch on Monday
At Poetry Club
Every Day after English Class
Christmas Eve
It’s a Rosary
Longest Week
The Waiting Game

Part III
The Voice of One Crying in the Wilderness

Silent World

All of Friday and the weekend
the world I’ve lived in
wears masking tape
over its mouth.
I wear invisible
Beats headphones
that muffle sound.
I don’t hear teachers,
or Father Sean,
Twin, or Caridad.
Aman tries to speak to me
but even in bio
I pretend my ears are cotton filled.
I speak to no one.
The world is almost peaceful
when you stop trying
to understand it.

Sunday, November 11

Heavy

After Mass on Sunday,
under Mami’s knowing eyes, I step to Father Sean.
He’s kissing babies and talking to old people,
but he gives me his full attention.
I ask to meet him for confession.
And I can’t tell if I imagine it,
but his eyes almost seem to get soft.
He glances behind me,
where Mami is standing.
Instead of the confessional, he tells me
to meet him in the rectory,
the well-lit meeting space behind the church.
And I don’t know how much truth
my tongue will stumble through.
I walk through the side door and
avoid looking at pictures of the saints.
I’m always avoiding something
and it seems as heavy as any cross.

My Confession

How do you admit a thing like this?
You would think I was pregnant
the way my parents act
like I let them down.
And by my parents, I mean Mami.
Papi mostly huffs around
telling me I better do what Mami says.
And Mami huffs around
saying I better read Proverbs 31 more closely.
And I just want to tell them,
it’s NOT THAT DEEP.
I don’t got an STD, or a baby.
It was just a tongue. In my mouth.
So I’m not quite sure what to tell
Father Sean when I meet him in the rectory.
Maybe I don’t remember my Bible right,
but I don’t think this is one of the seven sins.
He sits across from me and crosses his ankles.
“Whenever you’re ready we can talk.
I’m guessing you don’t need anonymity and I thought
this would be cozier than the confessional. Do you want tea?”
I look at my clasped hands. Because I can’t look him in the face.
“I think I committed lust. And disobeyed my parents . . .
although they never actually said I couldn’t kiss a boy
on the train, so I’m not sure if that’s the right sin.”
I wait for Father Sean to speak,
but he just stares at the picture of the pope above me.
“Are you actually sorry, Xiomara?”
I wait a moment. Then I shake my head, no. Say:
“I’m sorry I got in trouble.
I’m sorry I have to be here.
That I have to pretend to you and her
that I care about confirmation at all.
But I’m not sorry I kissed a boy.
I’m only sorry I was caught.
Or that I had to hide it at all.”

Father Sean Says,

“Our God is a forgiving God.
Even when we do things we shouldn’t
our God understands the weakness of the flesh.
But forgiveness is only granted
if the person is actually remorseful.
I think this goes much deeper
than kissing a boy on the train.”

Prayers

Father Sean is Jamaican.
His Spanish has a funky accent
and when he gives the gospel for the Latino Mass
half of the words be sounding made up.
It makes the younger kids laugh;
it makes our older folks smile.
His Spanish, when he talks to my mother,
does neither. His hazel eyes are sure
and gentle when he looks at Mami
and tells her:
“Altagracia, I don’t think Xiomara
is quite ready to be confirmed.
I think she has some questions
we should let her answer first.”
He explains it’s not what I confessed.
But several questions I’ve asked
and comments I’ve made
make him think I should keep
coming to classes
but not take the leap of confirmation this year.
My mother’s face scrunches tight
like someone has vacuumed all her joy.
I avoid her eyes
but something must flash in them
because Father Sean raises a hand.
“Altagracia, please be calm.
Remember anger is as much a sin
as any Xiomara may have committed.
We all need time to come to terms
with certain things, don’t we?”
And I don’t know
if Father Sean just granted me a blessing
or nailed my coffin shut.

How I Can Tell

I can tell when Mami is really angry
because her Spanish becomes faster than usual.
The words bumping into one another like go-karts.
“Mira, muchacha . . . You will not embarrass me in church again.
From now on, you’re going to fix yourself.
Do you hear me, Xiomara?
No te lo voy a decir otra vez.”
(But I know she will in fact tell me again. And again.)
“There are going to be some big changes.”

Before We Walk in the House

“You cannot turn your back on God.
I was on my journey to the convent,
prepared to be his bride,
when I married your father.
I think it was punishment.
God allowed me America
but shackled me with a man addicted to women.
It was punishment,
to withhold children from me for so long
until I questioned if anyone in this world would ever love me.
But even business deals are promises.
And we still married in a church.
And so I never walked away from him
although I tried my best to get back
to my first love.
And confirmation is the last step I can give you.
But the child sins just like the parent.
Because look at you, choosing this over the sacred.
I don’t know if you’re more like your father
or more like me.”

My Heart Is a Hand

That tightens
into a fist.
It is a shrinking thing,
like a raisin,
like a too-tight tee,
like fingers that curl
but have no other hand
to hold them
so they just end up
biting into themselves.

Wednesday, November 14

A Poem Mami Will Never Read

Mi boca no puede escribir una bandera blanca,
nunca será un verso de la Biblia.
Mi boca no puede formarse el lamento
que tú dices tú y Dios merecen.
Tú dices que todo esto
es culpa de mi boca.
Porque tenía hambre,
porque era callada.
pero ¿y la boca tuya?
Cómo tus labios son grapas
que me perforan rápido y fuerte.
Y las palabras que nunca dije
quedan mejor muertas en mi lengua
porque solamente hubieran chocado
contra la puerta cerrada de tu espalda.
Tu silencio amuebla una casa oscura.
Pero aun a riesgo de quemarse,
la mariposa nocturna siempre busca la luz.

In Translation

My mouth cannot write you a white flag,
it will never be a Bible verse.
My mouth cannot be shaped into the apology
you say both you and God deserve.
And you want to make it seem
it’s my mouth’s entire fault.
Because it was hungry,
and silent, but what about your mouth?
How your lips are staples
that pierce me quick and hard.
And the words I never say
are better left on my tongue
since they would only have slammed
against the closed door of your back.
Your silence furnishes a dark house.
But even at the risk of burning,
the moth always seeks the light.

Heartbreak

I never meant to hurt anyone.
I didn’t see how I could
by stealing kisses
as I whispered promises into ears
that I know now weren’t listening.
I pretend not to see him in the hallway.
I pretend not to see them at home.
The ultimate actress because I’m always pretending,
pretending I’m blind, pretending I’m fine;
I should win an Oscar I do it so well.
Is this remorse? Is this worthy of forgiveness?

Reminders

I lie in bed doing homework
while Twin watches anime on YouTube.
He’s stopped wearing his headphones,
so that I can listen in.
(It’s technically breaking Mami’s rules,
but she would never punish Twin.)
Halfway through an episode a commercial
endorsed by one of last year’s Winter Olympians comes on.
And I must make a noise,
because Twin looks over his shoulder at me.
He quiets his laptop. “Are you okay?”
But I just bury my head in my pillow.
And remind myself to breathe.

Writing

The next day and the one after that,
I spend every class writing in my journal.
Ms. Galiano sends me to the guidance counselor
but I refuse to talk to her either
until she threatens to call home,
so I make up an excuse about cramps and stress.
Hiding in my journal
is the only way I know not to cry.
My house is a tomb.
Even Twin has stopped speaking to me
as if he’s afraid a single word
will cause my facade to crack.
I hear Mami on the phone
making plans to send me to D.R. for the summer;
the ultimate consequence:
let that good ol’ island living fix me.
Every time I think about being away from home,
from English, from Twin and Caridad, I feel like a ship at sea:
all the possibilities to end up anywhere I want,
all the possibilities to be lost.

What I’d Like to Tell Aman When He Sends Another Apology Message:

Your hands on mine were cold
Your lips near my ear were warm
Your “I’m sorry” fervent
But you have no need to apologize
I know silence well
None of this was ever about you
You were just a failed rebellion
(Of course I’m lying
You were everything
But I can’t have you
Without entering a fight I won’t win)
I know none of these were battles
That I wanted in the first place

Wednesday, November 21

Favors

The night before Thanksgiving,
Twin pulls my headphones out,
offers me a sliced-up apple
and a soft smile.
“You haven’t been eating much.”
I take the plate and stare at the fruit,
surprised he’s even noticed.
“I’m just not hungry.”
I eat everything but the seeds.
Because I know that Twin is worried.
And I really can’t resist apples.
“Xiomara, can I ask you a favor?
Will you write a poem about love?
One about being thankful
that a person is in your life?”
I look at my brother blankly.
I wonder if he knows
how close he is
to having his face pierced
by apple seeds.
Something in my gut
rebels against the apple
and I feel it wanting to come
all the way back up my throat.
For a second I think of all the poems
that I wrote for Aman,
but I push the thought away.
I shove the plate at Twin.
“You want me to write a love poem
for your . . . for White Boy?
Was that what this apple was all about?”
Twin stares at me, baffled,
and then something clears on his face.
He pulls my empty plate against his chest, like armor.
“His name is Cody.
And the poem was actually for you.
I thought it would be cathartic
to write something beautiful for yourself.”

Pulled Back

I’m helping Mami dice potatoes and beets
for her ensalada rusa when the phone rings.
She answers and passes it to me.
And I can’t imagine who it is.
Caridad’s voice screeches in my ear:
“Listen, woman, I know you’re upset.
I know you got a lot going on.
But don’t you dare ignore me for two weeks straight.
Just because you got your cell taken you can’t call nobody?”
And instead of getting angry, I actually tear up.
It’s such a small thing. But also so normal.
Caridad never takes my shit
and she lets me know this time is no different.
She sighs and her voice softens.
“I’m worried about you, Xio. Don’t shut us out.”
And she can’t see me nodding through the phone.
But I murmur an apology. And tell her I have to go.
And I know she knows I’m really saying “thank you.”

Thursday, November 22

On Thanksgiving

El Día de Acción de Gracias,
Twin and I join Mami at church
and help spoon mashed potatoes
and peas and other American things
we never eat at home
onto homeless people’s plates.
I feel sick the whole day.
Like everyone can see
that the only thing I’m thankful for
is Mami’s silence.
Even Twin, who looks at me
with his puppy dog face,
makes me want to overturn the table,
and crush all these mushy peas beneath my heel.

Haiku: The Best Part About Thanksgiving Was When Mami:

Returned my cell.
Until I remember I’ve
got no one to text.

Rough Draft of Assignment 4—When was the last time you felt free?

I must have been five or six,
because the memory is fuzzy.
But my father had been watching
a karate movie on TV,
and my mother was at church,
so there was no one to bother us.
Twin and I tied long-sleeved T-shirts
around our heads
and used the bows from my church dresses
to tie like karate sashes around our waists.
We thought this made us look like ninjas
and we hopped from couch to couch,
sliding off the plastic sofa covers
but never landing in the “lava.”
(Why were we ninjas in volcanoes? Who knows.)
I remember at one point looking up
and seeing my mother in the living room doorway—
I flung myself at her. There was freedom there,
in flying. In believing I’d be caught.
I can’t remember if she did catch me.
But she must have, or wouldn’t I remember falling?

Rough Draft of Assignment 4—When was the last time you felt free?

Maybe the last time I was happy saying a poem?
With Aman listening to me, eyes half closed—
that moment right before I opened my mouth,
when I was nervous and my heart thumped fast,
but I knew I could do it anyway, that I could
say something, anything, in this moment
and someone was going to listen.

Rough Draft of Assignment 4—When was the last time you felt free?

Can a stoop be a place of freedom?
I feel like any time I sat on a stoop
I could just watch the world
without it watching me too closely.
Over the summer, it feels like years ago,
the downstairs stoop was a playground.
It was a moment when I could breathe
without anyone asking me to do or be
anything other than what I was:
a girl, an almost woman, sitting
in the sunshine and enjoying the warmth.
Dudes don’t bother you too much
when you’re sitting on your own apartment stoop.
When I sat on the stoop with the boy
I thought really cared for me there was freedom then, too.
In the ways our bodies leaned toward each other,
in the fact that I finally let myself be reckless.
There is freedom in coming and going
for no other reason than because you can.
There is freedom in choosing to sit and be still
when everything is always telling you to move, move fast.

Final Draft of Assignment 4 (What I Actually Turn In)

Xiomara Batista
Tuesday, December 4
Ms. Galiano
Last Time You Felt Free, Final Draft

Freedom is a complicated word. I’ve never been imprisoned like Nelson Mandela or some people I grew up with. I’ve never been encaged like a Rottweiler used for dogfights, or like the roosters my parents grew up tending. Freedom seems like such a big word. Something too big; maybe like a skyscraper I’ve glimpsed from the foot of the building but never been invited to climb.

Gone

Even lunch
has now become
another place
I absolutely hate.
A group of boys
has started stopping
by our quiet table
trying to squeeze in
next to us
or look at what
the girls are drawing.
Or trying to sneak peeks
at my notebook.
These are boys
from some of my classes,
some even smoke with Aman.
Sometimes the teacher
on duty notices.
If it’s Ms. Galiano, I’m safe.
If it’s not, I have to hope
it’s another teacher
who gives a damn
about the quiet girls
in the corner.
I can’t afford
any more trouble.
So I keep my hands
in my lap.
I keep my mouth
zippered shut.
And every day
I wish I could
just become
a disappearing act.

Monday, December 10

Zeros

When Ms. Galiano returns Assignment 4
I’m expecting a red zero by my name.
But instead, there’s a note:

Xiomara,
Is everything okay? Let’s talk after class. I’ve noticed your workmanship seems less thoughtful than usual
and you failed another quiz. See me.

I try to think of the ways
I can sneak out unnoticed.
I have nothing to say
to Ms. Galiano, or anyone else.
I fold the assignment sheet
into small, small squares
until I can squeeze it like a fortune
tightly held in the center of my palm.

Possibilities

Ms. Galiano is sneaky.
Before the bell rings
she calls me to her desk
and asks me to stand with her
while she dismisses the other students,
and she doesn’t even try to ease
into the conversation neither:
“What’s going on?
You aren’t submitting assignments,
and you’re even quieter than usual.”
But I don’t have anything to tell her.
If nothing else, my family believes
in keeping las cosas de la casa en la casa—
what happens in house, stays in house.
So I just shrug.
“What about poetry club?
I keep expecting you to show up.
Your writing is so good.
You wouldn’t even have to read.
Maybe you just come and listen, see how you feel?”
I almost tell her I have a confirmation class,
that the times overlap.
But then I remember, Father Sean
isn’t expecting me to show up anymore . . .
and well, Mami is. Who would know I’m skipping
as long as I’m there when she picks me up?
Plus, I have so much bursting to be said,
and I think I’m ready to be listened to.
I swallow back the smile that tries to creep
onto my face but tell Ms. Galiano:
“I’ll redo the assignment, if I can.
And I’ll see you at the club tomorrow.”

Can’t Tell Me Nothing

I don’t know the last time I looked forward to something.
The afternoons with Aman seem so long ago.
We’re in a new unit now and Mr. Bildner
has changed our lab partners.
I’m with a girl named Marcy who doodles hearts
over and over in her notebook.
Sometimes I catch Aman looking at me from across the room.
Long looks that stretch the physical space between us,
and although I’m still angry that he didn’t stand up for me
a part of me feels like maybe I messed up, too.
But even if I wanted to fix it, there’s really no reason why.
He and I can’t have anything to do with each other.
Looking back, maybe we had a parasitic relationship?
One of us taking and the other only trying to stay afloat.
Maybe it’s better we ended. Because what can I give him?
Nothing but infrequent kisses. Nothing but half-done poems.
Nothing but sneaking around and regret at all my lying.
Nothing. But at least there’s tomorrow. At least there’s poetry.

Tuesday, December 11

Isabelle

“Ain’t you the big-body freshman
all the boys always talking about?”
I look at the only other person
in Ms. Galiano’s room,
a girl in a pink tutu and Jordans
who must be some kind of mixed.
Despite my sweaty hands and racing heart
I almost laugh.
I don’t know why I thought poetry club
would be any different than the rest of the world.
I shrug. “I’m actually a sophomore.”
She cocks her head at me, and pats the seat next to her.
“I’m Isabelle, who woulda thought you was a poet? Dope.”

First Poetry Club Meeting

It’s funny how the smallest moments
are like dominoes lining up,
being stacked with the purpose
of knocking you on your ass.
In a good way.
I should be tight over Isabelle’s comment;
instead, I like how straight-up she is.
Most people talk about me behind my back,
but she says whatever is on her mind.
I don’t want to get excited,
because who knows if I’ll even come back,
but it seems Ms. Galiano’s small stack of posters
called a cute little mix of people.
We are four in total, a small club,
two boys—Chris, who did a poem in my class
before handing out flyers, and Stephan,
who’s super quiet. Then Isabelle from the Bronx.
Ms. Galiano welcomes me to the club
and asks everyone to read a poem
as a way for them
to introduce themselves to me.
Chris and Isabelle have theirs memorized,
but Stephan reads from his notebook.
My hands are shaking even before
it’s my turn and I just keep hoping
somehow I’ll be skipped.
Stephan’s poetry is filled with the most colorful images.
Each line a fired visual, landing on target.
(I don’t always understand every line
but love the pictures being painted behind my eyelids.)
Chris Hodges is loud, a mile-a-minute talker,
a comment for every poem, everything is “Deep” and “Wow,”
his own poem using words like abyss and effervescent
(I think he’s studying for the SAT).
And then there’s Isabelle Pedemonte-Riley.
Her piece rhymes and she sounds
like a straight-up rapper. You can tell she loves
Nicki Minaj, too. That girl’s a storyteller
writing a world you’re invited to walk into.
I sit wondering how writing can bring
such strange strangers into the same room.
And then it’s my turn to read.

Nerves

I open my mouth but can’t push the words out.
It’s not like when I read to Aman.
Although I wanted him to like it,
I didn’t feel like I had to impress him.
But right now I’m nervous
and the poem doesn’t feel done yet,
or like a poem at all, just a journal entry.
A fist tightens in my stomach
and I take a breath trying to unclench it.
I’ve never imagined an audience for my work.
If anything my poems were meant to be seen and not heard.
The room is so quiet, and I clear my throat—
even my pause sounds too loud.
Isabelle speaks up.
“You got this, girl. Just let us hear every word.”
Ms. Galiano nods,
and Stephan gives a soft “mhmm.”
And so I grip my notebook tight and launch into the piece.

When I’m Done

Isabelle snaps, and Ms. Galiano smiles,
and of course, Chris has a comment
about my poem’s complex narrative structure,
or something like that.
I can’t remember
the last time people were silent
while I spoke, actually listening.
Not since Aman.
But it’s nice to know I don’t need him
in order to feel listened to.
My little words
feel important, for just a moment.
This is a feeling I could get addicted to.

Compliments

“You did a great job today, Xiomara.
I know it isn’t always easy
to put yourself out there like that,” Ms. Galiano says.
And although I’m used to compliments
they’re rarely ever about my thoughts,
so I can’t stop the smile that springs onto my face.
I make sure to swallow it before it blooms too big.
But it feels like an adult has finally really heard me.
And for the first time since the “incident”
I feel something close to happiness.
And I want to stay and talk to the other kids,
or to Ms. Galiano, but when I look up at the clock
I know I have to rush to church or Mami will know
that I skipped out. So instead, I just say “Thank you”
and leave without looking back.

Caridad Is Standing Outside the Church

C: Confirmation let out early.
Your mother’s inside saying a prayer.
I told her you were using the bathroom.
X: Shit. I’m sorry. I know you hate lying to her.
C: It’s okay, Xiomara. But listen,
you were mad lucky
Father Sean went straight
to the rectory after class.
X: I know, I know.
He would have blown up my whole spot.
C: Are you dealing with that boy again?
X: Actually, I was with two boys. And a girl.
Oh my God, you look like you might pass out!
I was at a poetry club meeting. There were other kids there.
Relax.
C: You almost gave me a heart attack.
Speaking of poetry, I heard about an open mic
happening this Friday. We haven’t had a social activity in a
while.
Down to go with me?
X: I can’t go, Caridad.
You know Mami won’t let me.
I’m still in trouble.
C: She’ll let you go
as long as it’s with me and Xavier.

Hope Is a Thing with Wings

Although I doubt it,
hope flies quick into
my body’s corners.

Thursday, December 13

Here

Although Mami still huffs
like a dragon at home
and Aman has stopped
trying to say I’m sorry
and Twin seems sadder
and sadder every day
and my silence feels like a leash
being yanked in all directions
I actually raise my hand
in English class
and answer Ms. Galiano’s question.
Because at least here with her,
I know my words are okay.

Haikus

Cafeterias
do not seem like safe places.
Better to chill, hide.
*
I skipped the lunchroom.
Instead I sit, write haikus
inside bathroom stalls.
*
Haikus are poems.
They have three lines, follow rules
of five-seven-five.
*
Traditionally
contrasting ideas are
tied together neat.
*
I’m like a haiku,
with different sides,
except no clean tie.
*
I count syllables,
using my fingers to help
until the bell rings.

Offering

I gather my thoughts and things
when the bathroom door flings opens.
Head down, I begin rushing out
when I hear the high-pitched voice:
“Hey, X.”
I look up to see Isabelle,
in a denim shirt and another frilly-ass skirt,
her curly blond fro
with a mind of its own frames her stare.
“Tell me you ain’t eat lunch in the bathroom?”
I clear my half-eaten lunch off the tray
and into the trash. Without a word reach for the door.
“Just because I saw you at poetry club
doesn’t mean we’re homies”
is what I don’t say but want to.
Isabelle puts a gentle hand on my shoulder;
that hand stops me in my tracks.
“X, I go into the photography room during lunch,
to eat and work on writing.
It’s quiet on this end of the floor
and the art teacher lets me chill.
Come through if you’d like.”

Holding Twin

I click the front door closed
and reach for the house phone
to call Mami so she knows I’m in on time,
but I feel Twin’s loud sob shake me to my bones.
I drop my bag at the door
and rush to the bedroom,
where Twin is curled
on my bed, crying
into a stuffed elephant.
And for once,
I’m glad we don’t need words.
I brush his curls and sit beside him.
And I know something has happened
with the red-haired boy.
“Did you get in another fight?”
I ask, and shake him hard.
“Was it Cody? Was he the one that hit you before?”
But even through his tears
Twin looks at me like I’m crazy.
“No, he didn’t hit me. Cody would never.
That black eye was just some idiot in gym.
This, this is so much worse.”

Cody

Twin’s story comes out in pieces:
He met Cody’s family last week,
when his parents dropped him off at school.
Apparently they loved Twin (who wouldn’t)
and wanted him to come over for dinner.
(Parents being accepting of sexuality
seems all kinds of bizarre to me
because the thought of what my parents would do
if they knew makes every bone in my body hurt.)
It seemed perfect, Twin says,
finally a person and place and family
that accept him for who he is.
But it turns out Cody’s father
is being relocated for his job
after winter break and Cody
thinks long distance will be too hard.
So he broke it off with Twin.
And seems to have cracked
something inside him in the process.
I hold Twin close to me,
and rock him back and forth.
“Us Batista twins have no luck with love.
You would have thought we’d be smarter
guarding our hearts.”

Problems

Twin can’t stop shaking,
his whole skinny body trembling,
and he’s breathing so hard
his glasses keep fogging up.
I take them off his face and pat his back,
tell him we’ll figure this out together.
That with a bit more time and space
it’ll all feel clearer.
I glance at the clock.
“You need to calm down a bit;
Mami will be home soon. . . . Shit.”
Mami! I forgot to call her.

Dominican Spanish Lesson:

Brava (feminine ending), adj. meaning fierce, ferocious, mad
tempered.
As in: Mami was mad brava when she came home because I hadn’t called her. And even more so when she saw Twin crying and thought I had done something to him.
As in: I became brava Twin didn’t correct her. (I think he was too busy biting back sobs. And the last thing I’m going to do right now is correct Mami on anything.)
As in: We’re both brava; she’s already threatening to send me to D.R. after winter break instead of during the summer. (The last thing I need to do is get on her bad side.)
As in: She was so brava her whole face shook and she began praying underneath her breath then she just pointed to the bathroom and I knew she meant for me to clean it.

Permission

When Caridad calls later that night
Mami listens to her talk on the phone.
And although Mami sounds all nice
she keeps shooting me the shadiest looks.
Finally, she says, “Está bien.” Fine.
I can go with Caridad to a poetry event.
But only if Twin comes along, too.
I am sure convincing him will be tough.
His eyes are so swollen from crying
he’s had to lie to my parents and tell them
he rubbed his eyes after a chemistry lab gone wrong.
But when I mention the open mic night
he must want any excuse not to think of Cody
because he quickly agrees to come along.

Friday, December 14

Open Mic Night

The legendary Nuyorican Poets Cafe
is not close to Harlem.
It takes us two trains and a walk in the
brick-ass cold to get there, and when we do,
the line to get in is halfway down the block.
Not even nightclubs around the way
look half as packed as this.
The cafe is dimly lit, with paintings on the wall.
The host is a statuesque black woman
with a bright red flower in her hair.
When she calls out the names on her list,
I’m surprised to hear my own.

Signed Up

Caridad tells me she signed me up to perform
and immediately my hands start shaking.
I’ve got to get out of here right-right now.
But Caridad is having none of it.
She just grabs my arm and Twin pulls me
along with the other.
“You got this, Xio.”
But every time someone gets onstage
I compare myself to them.
Is my poem going to make
people say mmmm or snap?
What if nobody claps?
Some of the poets are so, so good.
They make the audience laugh,
they make me almost cry,
they use their bodies and faces
and know just how to talk into the mic.
The host keeps the show moving
and as another person gets offstage I know
my name is creeping up her list until
her clear, crisp voice calls out, “Xiomara.”
And I’m frozen stiff.
“I think she’s shy, y’all.
Someone told me she’s an open mic newbie.
Keep clapping, keep clapping, keep clapping
until she gets to the stage.”
And so now not only am I frozen stiff,
I’m also blushing and breaking into a sweat.
But somehow, I’m on my feet
and then the lights bright on my face
make me double blink hard and the cafe
that seemed so small before feels like it has
a Madison Square Garden–sized audience now.
I have never experienced a silence like this.
A hundred people waiting.
Waiting for me to speak.
And I don’t think I can do it.
My hands are shaking too much,
and I can’t remember the first line of the poem.
Just a big-ass blank yawning in my memory.
My heart dribbles hard in my chest
and I look at the nearest exit,
at the stairs leading to the stage—

The Mic Is Open

—and the first line clicks.
I say it, my voice trembling.
I clear my throat.
I take a breath.
I begin the poem all over again.
I forget the comparisons.
I forget the nerves.
I let the words fill the room.
I let the words carry me away.
People watch. They listen,
and when I’m done
saying a poem I’ve practiced
in my mirror, they clap.
And it sounds so loud
that I want to cover my ears,
cover my face. Two poets
perform after me but I don’t hear
a word with my heart in my ears.
Caridad squeezes my hand,
and Twin, looking happy for a moment,
whispers, “You killed that shit.”
But it’s not until we’re leaving
when the host grabs me by the arm
and says, “You did that.
You should come to this youth slam
I’m hosting in February.
I think it’d be really powerful.”
That’s when I know,
I can’t wait to do this again.

Invitation

The slam the host tells me about
is the same one that Ms. Galiano
has mentioned at poetry club.
And I’m not the type to believe
“everything is a sign” or whatever,
but when so many parts of my life
all point in one direction . . .
it’s hard not to follow the arrows.
Even when I’m home,
my hands are still shaking.
And I try not to appear
as overwhelmed as I feel.
For the first time in a long time,
Twin doesn’t look sad or distracted.
He just keeps turning to me in our room,
his face glowing. “Xiomara. That. Was. Amazing.”
Although I’ve never been drunk or high
I think it must feel like this:
off balance, giggly, unreal.
I know exactly what Twin means.
Because so many of the poems tonight
felt a little like our own stories.
Like we saw and were seen.
And how crazy would it be
if I did that for someone else?
Sunday, December 16
All the Way Hype
The whole weekend I relive the open mic.
Saturday and Sunday I have to bite back my excitement.
I write between cleaning.
I write instead of doing homework.
I write before and after church on Sunday.
I can’t wait for poetry club.
Going there was like being tested in fire;
it helped me to be brave,
so I can’t wait to tell them about the Nuyo.
Late into the night I write and
the pages of my notebook swell
from all the words I’ve pressed onto them.
It almost feels like
the more I bruise the page
the quicker something inside me heals.
Tuesday has become my equivalent
to Mami’s Sunday. A prayer circle.

Monday, December 17

At Lunch on Monday

I go to the art room
and Isabelle is there with headphones
and a journal and a bag of spicy Doritos.
I sit across the long table from her
and open my notebook.
Suddenly she looks up and slides
the huge headphones off.
“Tell me what you think.”
She starts reading,
her hands fluttering in the air.
I put my apple down to focus,
because this feels like an important moment.
When she’s done, she doesn’t look at me.
And Isabelle isn’t the type not to look at someone.
I don’t tell her it’s good, even though it is.
I don’t tell her it’s beautiful, although it’s that, too.
“That gave me chills,” I say.
“I felt it here,” I say.
“You should finish it,” I say.
And when she smiles at me
I smile back.

Tuesday, December 18

At Poetry Club

I let everyone know I went to an open mic.
They seem amazed.
Ask me for details.
Tell me they want to go along
the next time I perform.
And I feel such a rush
at the way Isabelle grabs my hand and squeals.
The way Ms. Galiano smiles
like I did something to make her proud.
“How did you do?” Chris asks.
I shrug. “I didn’t suck.”
And everyone smiles,
because they know that means I killed it.

Every Day after English Class

Ms. Galiano asks me to read her something new.
With five minutes between classes,
I know I need to pick the best and shortest pieces in advance.
But every day I pick a new poem and I have learned:
to slow down, to breathe, to pace myself, to show emotion.
The last day before winter break
Ms. Galiano tells me I’m really blossoming.
And I think about what it means
to be a closed bud, to become open.
And even though it’s cliché, it’s also perfect.
When I see Stephan in the hallway,
he reads me his latest haiku.
When I see Chris on my way to the train,
he always has a smile for me
and a “Wassup, X! Write anything new?”
And I know that I’m ready to slam.
That my poetry has become something I’m proud of.
The way the words say what I mean,
how they twist and turn language,
how they connect with people.
How they build community.
I finally know that all of those
“I’ll never, ever, ever”
stemmed from being afraid but not even they
can stop me. Not anymore.

Monday, December 24

Christmas Eve

My mother doesn’t buy a Christmas tree.
Instead she buys three big poinsettias
and sets them on a red tablecloth
on the living room windowsill.
Noche Buena, the Good Night,
has always been one of my favorite holidays.
On TV white families
always open gifts on Christmas Day,
but most Latinos celebrate the night before.
During the day Caridad comes over,
bringing her mother’s famous coquito
that’s laced with a little bit of rum.
We play video games with Twin
and exchange cards we made for each other.
Mami has always made Twin and me
go to the Midnight Mass to celebrate Baby Jesus
and when we get back we’ve been allowed to open gifts.
This year when we get home from church
I go straight to my room.
I know better than to expect anything.
I lie in bed, with Chance the Rapper in my ear,
when there’s a knock on the door.
I look, imagining it’s Twin trying to be respectful.
Except it’s not. Mami stands there.
With a small wrapped box in her hand.
She shuffles into the room, sets the gift on the desk,
and like she doesn’t know what to do with her hands
she picks up Twin’s sweater from the computer chair
and neatly refolds it.
When she sits, I sit up in bed, unsure of what to do.
But just as fast as she sits down she stands,
gestures to the gift, and walks to the door.
“I had it resized for you.
I know how much you like jewelry.”

It’s a Rosary

I think before I open the box.
My mother doesn’t believe
in any other kind of jewelry.
But when I lift the lid,
I see a small gold plaque
with my name etched on it,
a thin gold chain making
the bracelet complete.
And I know I’ve seen
this plaque before.
When I turn it over
I remember where.
Inscribed on the inside
are two Spanish words:
Mi Hija.
This was my baby bracelet.
Mami must have kept it
all these years.
But why she resized it now
makes absolutely no sense.
I lay it across my wrist
and cinch the clasps closed.
Her daughter on one side,
myself on the other.
And I feel so many things
but mostly relief that it wasn’t a rosary.

Wednesday, December 26–Tuesday, January 1

Longest Week

The week after Christmas is the longest week of my life.
I write and I write and I read poems to Twin,
who is still in his feelings and refusing
to talk to me about Cody, but I see him texting Caridad,
who’s the most sympathetic of us all,
so probably a good decision.
I read the poems so often and edit so much
that I begin memorizing them by accident
until my head is full of words and stories,
until I’m practicing the poems in my dreams.
And the more I write the braver I become.
I write about Mami, about feeling like an ant,
about boys trying to always holler at me,
about Aman, about Twin. Sometimes I’m still awake
writing when Mami gets up at the ass crack of dawn
to go to work. So many words fill my notebook
and I can’t wait to share them all.
But still another week to go until poetry club.

Wednesday, January 2

The Waiting Game

Because of New Year’s,
we don’t start school again until Wednesday.
So I miss poetry club by just one day.
Although I’m disappointed,
the extra week gives me more time to write.
Isabelle and I share some poems during lunch.
And if I catch Stephan or Chris in the hallways,
we’ll joke or talk about a new piece.
With my birthday in a week,
I realize that this new year hasn’t started off so bad.

DMU Timestamp: November 05, 2023 10:54