The Poet X
by Elizabeth Acevedo

Wednesday, November 21

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.”

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

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.

Returned my cell.

Until I remember I’ve

got no one to text.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.”

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

“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.”

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.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

Although I doubt it,

hope flies quick into

my body’s corners.

Thursday, December 13

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.

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.

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.”

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.”

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.”

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.

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.

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

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.

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—

—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.

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

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

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.

 

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