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.
“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.