When I was little
Mami was my hero.
Because she barely spoke English
and wasn’t born here,
but she didn’t let that stop her
from defending herself
if she got cut in line at the grocery store,
or from fighting to get Twin into a genius school.
Because I’ve never seen her
ask my father for money
or complain about her job.
Because her hands will be scraped raw from work
but she still folds them to pray.
When I was little
Mami was my hero.
But then I grew breasts
and although she was always extra hard on me,
her attention became something else,
like she wanted to turn me
into the nun
she could never be.
Final Draft of Assignment 3 (What I Actually Turn In)
Xiomara Batista
Tuesday, November 6
Ms. Galiano
Describe Someone Misunderstood by Society, Final Draft
I’ve always found Nicki Minaj compelling. Although she gets a bad reputation for being “overly sexual” and making songs like “Anaconda,” I think the persona she portrays in her videos is really different from who she is in real life. So, the question should be, “Does society distinguish between who someone actually is and the alter ego they present to the public?” For example, Ms. Minaj may have lyrics that some people feel are a bad influence, but then she’s always tweeting people to stay in school.
I also think society puts a negative spin on her music by saying she’s allowing men to dictate how she raps, but a lot of her music shows a positive outlook on physical beauty. She is well developed and people always have a lot of negative things to say about her because of her body and how she talks about it and sex, but instead of being ashamed or writing something different, she celebrates her curves and what she wants.
And all that is besides the fact that she also GOT BARS . . . by which I mean to say, she is very artistically talented! She’s not just a great “female rapper,” she’s a great rapper, period. Ms. Minaj has held her own on tracks with some of the best rappers in the world. She is a woman in a male-dominated world making albums that go platinum. I know she’s not considered most women’s role model like Eleanor Roosevelt or Mother Teresa, or even Beyoncé, but I think she stands for girls who don’t fit into society’s cookie-cutter mold. Misunderstood? Perhaps by some. But those of us who can relate, we get her.
Wednesday, November 7
Announcements
At the end of class Ms. Galiano
brings in a student from her poetry club.
He’s a Puerto Rican kid I’ve seen around,
with glasses and a kind smile.
He says his name is Chris,
and he invites us to join the club.
Then he does a short poem
using his hands and his volume to grab our attention.
Ms. Galiano looks on like a proud mama bear,
and the class gives him halfhearted claps, and a dap or two.
Chris hands out flyers for the citywide slam
and personally invites everyone to come to a poetry club meeting.
The slam is three months away.
February 8.
Ms. Galiano says it’s open to the public.
And even if we don’t sign up
we should attend and support Chris, and our peers.
And I feel my face get hot.
I should be there.
I could compete.
Ice-Skating
When I was little, Mami would take Twin and me
ice-skating every year for our birthday, January 8.
She would work the holidays to make sure
she had the afternoon off. I always think of ice-skating as a gift.
And although Twin is super uncoordinated,
and I’ve always been a tank in tights,
we were real good at skating.
It was one thing we both did right.
We took to the ice, falling only a few times
before we streamed easily in the circular rink.
Mami would post up behind the glass,
never rented skates herself.
Just watched us turn in circle after circle.
This was a tradition for years.
Until one day it just wasn’t.
Until Twin and I stopped asking.
Until I forgot what it felt like to slice through the cold,
maybe like a knife, but mostly like a girl,
skating with her arms out, laughing with her brother
while her mother took pictures in the falling snow.
Until
I completely forgot about the skating adventures
we used to go on until Aman asks me to go skating.
I tell him I have to be home straight after school,
and half days won’t give us enough time.
“What about tomorrow, no school since teachers are grading exams.”
And I’m stuck. It is a day off
and one when Mami will be at work
so it’s not like she’ll know I’m not home.
I begin to shake my head,
and then I remember how free I felt on the ice,
how wonderful it was.
And I know I want Aman to see me feeling all that.
Love
Turns out, Aman loves winter sports.
It’s the last thing I would have imagined,
but he names professional snowboarders
and skiers, and figure skaters
in the same tone reserved for his favorite rappers.
“X, I’m serious. Even made Pops pay
for a special TV channel so I could keep up.”
At first I think he’s joking, but the way his eyes light up
I can tell this is really a passion of his.
Maybe like my writing. A secret thing he’s loved
that he never felt he could talk about.
He tells me that in Trinidad he was fascinated by snow.
And watching the Winter Olympics was the closest he could get.
And then that became a bigger love.
“X, I’m letting you know right now, I’m nice with the skates.
Prepare to fall in love tomorrow.”
And my heart stutters over the word.
How could I do anything but agree to the date?
Thursday, November 8
Around and Around We Go
The next day shines perfect. I invite Twin to come along,
but he only turns his back to me and keeps on pretending to sleep.
And I’m trying to give him space.
Aman is near the skate rental when I arrive,
and all around us kids are walking and laughing.
He holds out a pair of skates and after we’re laced up
and have rented a locker we walk awkwardly to the ice.
I take a deep breath at the pang of nostalgia.
So many good memories at Lasker Rink.
I hope to add one more.
I step onto the ice and it all comes back to me.
Aman hasn’t moved and I backward skate,
slowly crooking my finger at him.
I blush immediately. I’m never the one to make the first move.
But he seems to like it and steps onto the ice.
He starts off slow. And we both face forward, skating side by side.
Then it’s like something comes over him.
And I realize he wasn’t lying. He’s. Fucking. Amazing.
Aman gets low and gains speed, then does turns and figure eights.
I wait for him to start flipping and somersaulting,
but he just slows down and grabs my hand.
We skate that way for
a while, then exit the rink to eat nachos.
“Aman. How did you learn all that? You’re so, so good.”
He grins at me and shrugs. “I came here and practiced a lot.
My pops never wanted to put me in classes. Said it was too soft.”
And now his smile is a little sad.
And I think about all the things we could be
if we were never told our bodies were not built for them.
After Skating
When Aman walks me to the train,
he immediately pulls me to him.
We never kiss so publicly but with his lips on mine
I realize I want the same thing.
And I know that it’s stupid,
too easy to run into someone from the block,
or one of Mami’s church friends,
but I just want to keep this moment going.
When he tugs on my hand and pulls me even closer,
I let him make me forget:
Twin’s anger, confirmation class,
the train smell, the people around us
or the “Stand clear of the closing doors, please.”
And I know people are probably staring,
probably thinking: “Horny high school kids
can’t keep their hands to themselves.”
But I don’t care because when our lips meet
for those three stops before I get off,
it’s beautiful and real and what I wanted.
We are probably the only thing
worth watching anyways.
Maybe we’re doing our train audience a favor.
Reminding them of first love.
This Body on Fire
Walking home from the train
I can’t help but think
Aman’s made a junkie out of me:
begging for that hit
eyes wide with hunger
blood on fire
licking the flesh
waiting for the refresh
of his mouth.
Fiend begging for an inhale
whatever the price
just so long as
it’s real nice.
Real, real nice.
Blood on ice, ice
waiting for that warmth
that heat that fire.
He’s turned me into a fiend:
waiting for his next word
hanging on his last breath
always waiting for the next, next time.
The Shit & the Fan
I hear Mami’s yelling
through the apartment door
before I even turn the key.
Which isn’t right
because she shouldn’t be home yet,
it isn’t even four o’clock.
I mean, I did miss my stop because
I didn’t want to quit Aman’s kisses.
“Se lo estaba comiendo.
Had her tongue down his throat.
Some little, dirty boy.
I had to get off the train a stop early.”
And I know then.
Mami’s eyes were a fan
and my make-out session on the train
was the shit hitting it.
Lucky me, she’s yelling from her bedroom
and I let myself into the one I share with Twin,
click the door shut, and slide down to put my head
between my legs.
I don’t know how much time has passed
before Twin pushes open the door,
and even through the wall of his silence
he understands something is wrong.
He crouches next to me
but I can’t warn him of the storm
that’s coming.
I can’t even be grateful
he’s speaking to me again.
I try to make all the big
of me small, small, small.
Miracles
My parents are still yelling in the bedroom,
and because I never yell back at them
I don’t scream at my father
when he calls me a cuero.
I don’t yell how the whole block whispers
when I walk down the street
about all the women
who made a cuero out of him.
But men are never called cueros.
I don’t yell anything
because for the first time in a long time
I’m praying for a miracle.
Pinching myself and hoping
this is all one bad dream.
Trying to unhear
my mother turn my kissing ugly,
my father call me the names
all the kids have called me
since I grew breasts.
God, if you’re a thing with ears:
please, please.
Fear
“Xio, what did you do now?”
I don’t look at Twin.
Because if I look at him
I’ll cry. And if I cry he’ll cry.
And if he cries he’ll get yelled at
by Papi for crying.
He pushes up to standing
then kneels in front of me again
like his body doesn’t know what to do.
“Xio?”
And I want to kick the fear in his voice.
“Xio, do they know you’re home yet?
Maybe you can sneak out through
the fire escape? I won’t tell. I’ll—”
But Mami’s chancletas beat
against the floorboards
and Twin and I both know.
He pushes to his feet.
And I see his hands are balled up
into fists he’ll never use.
When the footsteps stop outside our door
I stand, brace my shoulders.
“I didn’t do anything wrong, Twin.
Go back to your homework.
Or your flirting or whatever.”
I didn’t do anything at all.
Ants
Mami
drags
me
by
my
shirt
to
her
altar
of
the
Virgin.
Pushes
me
down
until
I
kneel.
“Look the Virgin Mary in the eye, girl. Ask for forgiveness.”
I
bow
my
head
hoping
to
find
air
in
the
tiles.
My
big
is
impossible
to
make
tiny
but
I
try
to
make
ant
of
myself.
“Don’t make me get more rice. Mira la Santa María in the eye.”
I’ve
learned
that
ants
hold
ten
times
their
weight—
“Look at her, muchacha, mírala!”
—can
crawl
through
crevices;
have
no
God,
but
crumbs—
“Last chance, Xiomara. ‘Santa María, llena eres de gracias . . . ’”
—they
will
survive
the
apocalypse.
Little
brown
ants,
and
hill-building
ants,
and
fire
ants
all
red
and—
I Am No Ant
My
mother
yanks
my
hair,
pulling
my
face
up
from
the
tiles,
constructing
a
church
arch
of
my
spine
until
Mary’s
face
is
an
inch
from
mine;
I
am
no
ant.
Only
sharply
torn.
Something
broken.
In
my
mother’s
hand.
Diplomas
“This is why
you want to go
away for college
so you can
open your legs
for any boy
with a big
enough smile.
You think I came
to this country for this?
So you can carry
a diploma
in your belly
but never
a degree?
Tu no vas a ser
un maldito cuero.”
Cuero
“Cuero,” she calls me to my face.
The Dominican word for ho.
This is what a cuero looks like:
A regular girl. Pocket-less jeans
that draw grown men’s eyes. Long hair.
A nose ring. A lip ring. A tongue
ring. Extra earrings. Any ring
but a diamond one on her left hand.
Skirts. Shorts. Tank tops. Spaghetti
straps. A cuero lets the world know
she is hot. She can feel the sun.
A spectacular girl. With too much
ass. Too much lip. Too much sass.
Hips that look like water waiting
to be spilled into the hands
of thirsty boys. A plain girl.
With nothing llamativo—nothing
that calls attention. A forgotten girl.
One who parts her hair down the middle.
Who doesn’t have cleavage. Whose mouth
doesn’t look like it is forever waiting.
Un maldito cuero. I am a cuero, and they’re right.
I hope they’re right. I am. I am. I AM.
I’ll be anything that makes sense