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.
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
&
nbsp; 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,