THEY CALL ME
GÜERO
THEY CALL ME
GÜERO
A BORDER KID’S POEMS
by DAVID BOWLES
They Call me Güero: A Border Kid’s Poems. Copyright © 2018 by David Bowles. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written consent from the publisher, except for brief quotations for reviews. For further information, write Cinco Puntos Press, 701 Texas Avenue, El Paso, TX 79901; or call 1-915-838-1625.
“Border Kid” first appeared in Here We Go: A Poetry Friday Power Book (Princeton, NJ: Pomelo Books, 2017), edited by Sylvia Vardell and Janet Wong. It was then reprinted in the Journal of Children’s Literature, 43(1), p. 16, 2017.
FIRST EDITION
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Bowles, David (David O.), author.
Title: They call me Guero : a border kid’s poems / David Bowles.
Description: First edition. | El Paso, Texas : Cinco Puntos Press, [2018] | Summary: Twelve-year-old Guero, a red-headed, freckled Mexican American border kid, discovers the joy of writing poetry, thanks to his seventh grade English teacher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018027137| ISBN 978-1-947627-06-2 (cloth : alk. cloth)
ISBN 978-1-947627-07-9 (paper)
Subjects: | CYAC: Novels in verse. | Mexican Americans—Fiction. | Poetry—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.5.B69 Th 2018 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018027137
Designed by Michelle Lange, Whack Publications
Front and back cover illustrations by Zeke Peña, zpvisual.com | @zpvisual
Moving up with the big boys in Boston now. Don’t forget home.
CONTENTS
Border Kid
Borderlands
Checkpoint
Our House
Pulga Pantoum
Fingers & Keys
Lullaby
Learning to Read
Nagual
Bottle Rocket Battle
First Day of Seventh Grade
Los Bobbys, or the Bookworm Squad
They Call Me Güero
Ms. Wong & the Rabbit
Trickster
Birthday Medley
Sundays
Records
Variedad Musical
La Mano Pachona
Mischief
Confession
Thoughts at Mass
The Newcomer
Christmas Concrete
Uncle Joe’s History Lessons
Tamalada
Food for Each Season
The Gift
Answering the Bully
Joanna la Fregona
Neighborhoods
Valentine Texts
Movies
Remedios y Rarezas
Cascarón War
La Lechuza Outside My Window
Ballad of the Mighty Tlacuach
Playoff Game
Spanish Birds
Mis otros abuelos
Wedding in Monterrey
Losing Puchi
Wheels
Carne Asada
Father’s Day
Teresa’s Quinceañera Waltz
A Sonnet for Joanna
The Refuge on the Ranch
Glossary
To my family, friends, teachers, and community—without you, I am nothing.
BORDER KID
It’s fun to be a border kid, to wake up early Saturdays
and cross the bridge to Mexico with my dad.
The town’s like a mirror twin of our own,
with Spanish spoken everywhere just the same
but English mostly missing till it pops up
like grains of sugar on a chili pepper.
We have breakfast in our favorite restorán.
Dad sips café de olla while I drink chocolate—
then we walk down uneven sidewalks, chatting
with strangers and friends in both languages.
Later we load our car with Mexican cokes and Joya,
avocados and cheese, tasty reminders of our roots.
Waiting in line at the bridge, though, my smile fades.
The border fence stands tall and ugly, invading
the carrizo at the river’s edge. Dad sees me staring,
puts his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, m’ijo:
“You’re a border kid, a foot on either bank.
Your ancestors crossed this river a thousand times.
No wall, no matter how tall, can stop your heritage
from flowing forever, like the Río Grande itself.”
BORDERLANDS
Sixty miles wide
on either side
of the river,
my people’s home
stretches from gulf
to mountain pass.
These borderlands,
home of hardy plants.
The thorn forest
with its black willows,
Texas ebony, mesquite,
huisache and brasil.
Transplanted fields
of corn and onion,
sorghum and sugarcane.
Foreign orchards
of ruby red grapefruit
white with flowers.
Native brush
rainbow bright
with purple sage,
rock rose, manzanilla
and hackberry fruit.
Beyond its edges spreads
the wild desert,
harsh and lovely
like a barrel cactus
in sunny bloom.
CHECKPOINT
On our road trip to San Antonio
for shopping and Six Flags,
Dad slows the car as we approach
the checkpoint, all those border patrol
in their green uniforms, guns on their belts.
Mom clutches los papeles—our passports,
her green card. She’s from Mexico. A resident,
not a citizen, by her own choice. At the checkpoint
a giant German Shepherd sniffs the tires
as the agents ask questions, inspect our trunk.
My little brother squeezes my hand, afraid.
My rebel sister nods and says her yessirs,
but I can tell she’s mad, the way her eyes get.
We’re innocent, sure, but our hearts beat fast.
We’ve heard stories.
Bad stories.
A cold nod and we’re waved along,
allowed to leave the borderlands—
made a limbo by the uncaring laws
of people a long way away who don’t know us,
a quarantine zone between white and brown.
I feel angry, just like my sister,
but I hold it tight inside.
We just don’t understand
why we have to prove every time
that we belong in our own country
where our mother gave birth to us.
Dad, like he can feel the bad vibes
coming from the back seat, tells us to chill.
“It won’t always be like this,” he says,
“but it’s up to us to make the change,
especially los jóvenes, you and your friends.
Eyes peeled. Stay frosty. Learn and teach the truth.
Right now? What matters is San Antonio.
We’ll take your mom shopping,
go swimming in the Texas-shaped pool,
and eat a big dinner at Tito’s.
Order anything you want.”
And he slides his favorite CD
into the battered radio. Los Tigres del Norte
start belting out “La Puerta Negra”—
“Pero ni la puerta ni cien candados
van a poder detenerme.”
Not the door. Not one hundred locks.
Ah, my dad. He always knows the right song.
OUR HOUSE
Our house wasn’t ready all at once.
Our house took years to grow,
like a Monterrey oak gone from acorn
to tall and broad and shady tree.
My parents saved for years,
bought a nice lot on the edge of town,
drew up the plans with Tío Mike.
One year the family poured the foundation,
then the next these concrete walls went up.
At last my father built a sturdy roof,
and in we moved,
finishing it room by room,
everyone lending a hand,
every spare penny spent
para hacernos un hogar—
a home that glows warm with love.
Now it’s like a bit of our souls
has fused with the block and wood.
I can’t imagine life without this place—
on these tiles I learned to walk.
Here are my height marks,
with fading dates,
higher and higher.
Oh, all the laughs and tears
we’ve shared at that table!
All the cool movies we’ve watched
sitting on that couch!
And here’s my room,
filled with all my favorite stuff,
sitting in the shade of the anacua tree
I once helped to plant.
A modest home, sure,
but inside its cozy walls we celebrate
all the riches that matter.
Mom and I love to go to the pulga,
to get lost in the crowd that flows
between all the busy stalls,
drawn to colors, sounds, and smells.
To get lost in the crowd. That flows
from our instincts, I bet. Humans are
drawn to colors, sounds, and smells
like a swarm of bees to blooming flowers.
From our instincts, I bet humans are
happiest together. Bulging bags in hand,
like a swarm of bees to blooming flowers,
people meet for friendly haggling.
Happiest together, bulging bags in hand—
Mom and I love to go to the pulga!
People meet for friendly haggling
between all the busy stalls.
FINGERS & KEYS
My mom’s the organist
for our parish—
One of the last, she says.
When I was little, she taught me to play
on a worn-out old upright
that stands in a corner
of our dining room,
holding up family photos.
Even though I’m twelve now,
when I sit down to practice,
laying my hands
upon the keys,
I sometimes feel her fingers on mine
light as feathers
but guiding me
all the same.
LULLABY
Like lots of border kids,
my first song was a lullaby
that my abuela sang
to warn me and to mystify.
My mom says when I got home,
smiling without teeth,
she took me in her arms
and serenaded me—
Duérmete mi niño
duérmeteme ya
porque viene el Cucu
y te comerá.
Y si no te come,
él te llevará
hasta su casita
que en el monte está.
Go to sleep, my baby
sleep for me right now
to keep Cucu from coming
and swallowing you down.
And if he doesn’t eat you
he’ll take you far from me
to his little cabin
that sits amid the trees.
So I learned the dangers
of this crazy, mixed-up place—
there are monsters lurking,
but family lore can keep you safe.
LEARNING TO READ
When I was a little kid,
my abuela Mimi would ease down
into her old, creaky rocking chair
to tell my cousins and me
such spine-tingling tales
as ever a pingo fronterizo,
crazy for cucuys, could hope to hear.
I always had questions
at the end of Mimi’s stories.
What was the little boy’s name?
What did his parents do
when they found him missing
from his room?
Is there a special police squad
that tracks down monster hands
and witch owls and sobbing spirits
in order to save the boys and girls
that they’ve stolen?
“No sé, m’ijo. The story just ends.
Happened once upon a time.
Nobody knows.”
But I didn’t get it. I was so literal.
I believed every story she told was true.
So I kept asking my questions,
guessing at answers
till she broke down at last
and told me the greatest truth:
“You have to learn to read, Güerito.
You will only find what you seek
in the pages of books.”
So I began to bug my mom
to teach me to read till she did.
I was barely five at the time.
First day of kinder arrived, and I was so excited
at all the books my sister said were waiting
on the shelves for me.
But then the teacher started drawing
the letter “A” on the board, and I soon got it—
none of the other kids could read.
She was going to teach us the alphabet
one letter per day! Not me! No way!
I dropped out of kindergarten,
little rebel that I was.
Instead, my mom took me
to the public library
every day, all year long.
I read book after book after book
delighting in the new tales,
the strange and mysterious places.
And when first grade rolled around
(not optional like kinder),
the school was so amazed at my skill
they put me in a third-grade reading class!
I got picked on, sure, but I was pretty proud
and didn’t care when kids called me nerd.
The school counselor told my folks
I can already read at college level!
And I’ve found lots of answers,
but also many new questions.
Of course I pass all the state tests
with super high scores.
Learning in class is easy for me.
Dad says all those books
rewired my brain,
got me ready
for study.
Just think—
I owe it all to those stories
my abuelita used to tell us
sitting in her rocking chair
as we shivered and thrilled.
Even then, words were burrowing
into my brain and waiting,
like larvae in a chrysalis,
to unfold their paper wings
and take me flying into the future.
NAGUAL
Late one summer night
at the ranch,
we all gather ‘round the fire
as the dark wraps around us,
Uncle Joe tells us of the nagual—
magical trickster shaman
who shakes off his human form
to reveal the beast within—
coyote, wolf or dog—
and raids ranches
to feast on cows and sheep.
Wow!
I wish I knew that magic,
could say some spell
or perform some ritual
so I could slip my skin
like that fabled shapeshifter
and feel the freedom,
running beneath the stars,
night wind in my fur,
eyes bright with glints
of moonlight
and wild animal joy!
BOTTLE ROCKET BATTLE
Like every other Fourth of July,
we gather to celebrate out on the ranch.
My father and uncles light the mesquite
as they sip on cervezas and talk about sports.
While our mothers prepare the feast,
my cousins and brother shoot BBs at birds.
But Teresa and me, we just huddle inside
and enjoy a new video, laughing at jokes.
Our abuela’s invited the new parish priest:
He flies back and forth like a black Chachalaca.
I guess it gets boring hearing confession,
so now he’s all busy, sharing the gossip!
When the carne asada is ready, we eat.
I stuff quesadillas with fajitas and beans,
guacamole as well. Then I grab a coke
from the ice. It’s apple, my favorite flavor.
The music is loud, lots of cumbias and salsa
streamed from our Tía Isabel’s phone,
mixing with laughter and shouts and singing
as the sleepy red sun slips its way from the sky.
Soon it gets dark. Since our bellies are full,
all us kids group together and open the fireworks.
The little huerquitos get bags of snapdragons.
Others light strings of black cats and laugh.
Now Grandpa Manuel, a Vietnam vet,
gives a moving speech about the U.S.,
the country he loves, the friends he lost,
and his dreams for us all. A moment of silence.
Then Isabel pulls up Grandpa’s favorite playlist,
and to the beat of patriotic songs,
Uncle Joe and Tío Mike
set off the bigger, brighter bangs!
The national anthem fades. Then sparklers slash
the dark in the hands of pingos, like Jedi
who face a horde of deadly Sith.
My cousin René gives a sinful grin.
“Are you ready for bottle rocket battle?”
he asks us older boys with a wave.
We all nod and follow as he leads us behind