The Poet X
by Elizabeth Acevedo

Wednesday, January 9

When I walk into first-period English

Ms. Galiano takes one look at me

and stands up from her desk, gestures me outside.

Aman offered me one of his T-shirts,

but my boobs pulled it too tight across my chest

and so I’m wearing the same outfit as yesterday.

And by the way she looks at me

I know that Ms. Galiano knows it.

But she doesn’t mention clothes;

she says she called my house.

That when I ran out of poetry club she got concerned,

got the number from the school directory,

that she spoke to my father, who sounded frantic,

that my whole family was wondering where I was.

She asks me if I’ve called them.

She asks me what’s going on.

And my chest is heaving.

Because I don’t know what to tell her.

She puts a soft hand on my arm

and I look into the face of a woman

not much older than me,

a woman with a Spanish last name,

who loves books and poetry,

who I notice for the first time is pretty,

who has a soft voice and called my house

because she was worried

and the words are out before I know it:

confirmation, lying about poetry, the rice,

the book burning, leaving the house, sleeping at Aman’s.

My face burns hot, and the words are too fast,

and I wonder again and again why I’m saying them,

and if people are looking; but I can’t seem to stop

all the words that I’ve held clenched tight,

and then I say words I’ve never even known I’ve thought:

“I hate her. I hate her. I hate her.”

And I’m saying them against Ms. Galiano’s small frame,

her slim arms around me as she hugs me tight.

As she tells me over and over:

“Just breathe. Just breathe.

It’s going to be okay. Just breathe.”

And so I take a breath

I didn’t realize I needed to take.

When has anyone ever said those words to me?

Maybe only Aman, who’s never forced me

to smoke, or kiss, or anything.

But everyone else just wants me to do:

Mami wants me to be her proper young lady.

Papi wants me to be ignorable and silent.

Twin and Caridad want me to be good so I don’t attract

attention.

God just wants me to behave so I can earn being alive.

And what about me? What about Xiomara?

When has anyone ever told me

I had the right to stop it all

without my knuckles, or my anger,

with just some simple words.

“But you do have to talk to your mom.

Really talk to her. And you do need to figure out

how to make a relationship with her work.”

Okay.

Is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

All day I’ve been unfocused. Unsure of what I need to do.

Of how to do it. Hands trembling at the thought

of what will happen when I walk through the front door.

Because my mother’s ears are soundproof when it comes to me.

The only one she ever listens to is God.

During lunch, Isabelle doesn’t ask what happened,

she just hands me her bag of Doritos.

After bio, Aman rubs my shaking hands as we walk out the door.

His gentle hold warms me up.

During last period, Ms. Galiano comes to my math classroom

and gives me a note with her personal cell number in case I need to talk to her later.

When I step out of school, Aman’s hand in mine,

both Caridad and Twin are standing at the front gate.

And although none of them can face Mami for me,

I know I’m not alone.            And I finally know who might help.

I introduce Aman to Twin and Caridad

before we all walk to the train station.

I want to ask Twin what happened

after I left last night.

But I don’t want to know.

I can tell by how tired he looks

that whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

No one says anything for a long time.

Caridad squeezes my hand and tells me to call her.

Aman kisses my forehead and tells me “we gon’ be all right.”

When Twin catches me looking at him

he gives me a soft smile.

And then his eyes begin to water.

On that rocking train, we hug and rock, too.

I make a stop

before going home.

Because I know

assistance comes

in mysterious ways

and I’m going to need

all the help I can get.

At the apartment door, I slide the key in,

but don’t unlock.

I can hear both people behind me breathing.

Mami might not be home yet.

I still have time to gather my thoughts.

To get my life together.

But when I open the door

she is there. Standing in the kitchen,

wringing a dishrag. Her eyes are red.

And she looks small, so small.

Twin gives my shoulder a squeeze

and moves behind me.

I take a deep breath and square my shoulders.

“Mami, we need to talk.

And I think we need help to do it.”

I step aside and let Father Sean cram into the kitchen.

He reaches out a hand to my mother: “Altagracia.”

And this woman I’ve feared,

this woman who has been both mother and monster,

the biggest sun in my sky—

bright, blinding, burning me to the wick—

she hunches her shoulders and begins to sob.

Silent, silent crying that shakes her whole body.

And I am stuck, and still.

Before I go to her.

Might never be friends.

Will never shop for a prom dress together

and paint designs on each other’s nails.

My mother and I

might never learn

how to give and accept

an apology from the other.

We might be too much

the same mirror.

But our arms can do

what our words can’t just now.

Our arms can reach.

Can hug tight.

Can teach us

to remember each other.

That love can be a band:

tears if you pull it too hard,

but also flexible enough

to stretch around the most chaotic mass.

My mother does not say she is sorry.

That she loves me.

And I hope one day for the words,

but for now, her strong pat on my back,

her hand through my hair,

this small moment of soft.

Is enough.

Thursday, January 24

In bio we learn about erosion.

About how over time a small stream of water

falling down the same rock face for centuries

can break an entire mountain apart

little bit by little bit.

For the next couple of weeks,

my mother and I work to break down

some of the things that have built up between us.

We meet with Father Sean once a week

and talk. Sometimes about each other.

Sometimes just about our days.

My mother starts teaching Communion classes,

and she seems happier than I’ve ever seen her.

The little kids make her smile, she gets excited

over teaching certain passages, and I remember

it used to be like that with me once.

It’s a sweet memory made sweeter when

at the third session with Father Sean,

she gives me my name bracelet back,

the gold melded where it’d been broken, but still whole.

Sometimes Twin and Papi come to the sessions

with Father Sean. Twin wiggles uncomfortably

in his chair. I know there’s a lot he doesn’t say.

But I hope, one day, he will be able to say it.

Papi, surprisingly, loves to talk. And once he gets going

he makes all of us laugh, and when we are talking about him

and the things he’s done that have hurt us, he doesn’t leave.

He listens.

One day, as we’re all leaving Father Sean turns to me

and I brace myself, afraid he is going to ask about confirmation,

and that’s still a can of worms I ain’t fishing with,

but instead he says:

“Xavier told us you’re performing in a poetry competition.

Your very own boxing ring, eh?

I assume we’re all invited?”

Ms. Galiano wouldn’t let me back out.

Even with everything going on,

she said I needed to give it a chance.

So, I practiced in front of my mirror

and at poetry club.

Although I lost so many poems,

and I feel a pang every time I think about them burning,

I’m also so proud of all I remember.

I’m trying to convince myself rewriting means

the words really mattered in the first place.

I need one really strong poem and although I hate

the idea of being judged and scored . . .

I love the idea of people listening.

(And, of course, winning.)

But, the thing is, all my poems are personal.

Some of the other slammers,

I know they write about politics and school.

But my poems? They’re about me.

About Twin and Papi, about Aman.

About Mami.

How can I say things like that in front of strangers?

In house stays in house, right?

“Wrong,” Ms. Galiano tells me.

She tells me words give people permission

to be their fullest self. And aren’t these the poems

I’ve most needed to hear?

1. All poems must be under three minutes

2. All work must be the poet’s original work

3. You are not allowed to use props or costumes

4. You are not allowed to perform with someone onstage

5. You are not allowed to use a musical instrument

1. Do not faint onstage

2. Do not forget your poem onstage

3. Do not stumble over words or visibly mess up onstage

4. Do not give a disclaimer or introduction to your poem

5. Do not walk offstage without finishing the poem

1. Perform with heart

2. Remember why you wrote the poem

3. Go in with all your emotions

4. Tell the audience all of the things

5. Don’t suck

Friday, February 1

One week before the slam

Twin, Mami, and Papi sit on the couch.

I take a deep breath and try not to fidget.

I open my mouth

and silence.

I can’t do this. I can’t perform

in front of them.

The living room feels too small;

they’re too close to me.

The words shrivel up and hide under my tongue.

Twin gives me an encouraging nod,

but I can tell that even he’s nervous

about how my parents might react.

I close my eyes

and feel the first words of the poem

unwrinkle themselves,

expand in my mouth,

and I let them loose

and the other words just follow.

The room feels too small,

the eyes all on me,

and I take a step back

but continue staring at the wall,

at the family portrait

hanging over Papi’s head.

When I’m done Twin is smiling.

When I’m done Papi claps.

When I’m done Mami cocks her head

and says:

“Use your hand gestures a little less

and next time, en voz alta.

Speak up, Xiomara.”

Friday, February 8

Aman and I go to the smoke park.

I don’t tell him I’m nervous

but he still holds my hand in his,

slips an earbud into my ear,

and plays Nicki Minaj.

When the album is done,

I get up to leave

but he tugs my hand

and pulls me onto his lap.

“I’m going to crush you!”

He smiles at me.

“Never, X. I have a present for you.”

And I see his phone

has gone from

the iTunes app to the Notes app.

I’m stunned when he begins

reading a poem to me.

It’s short and not very good

but I still blink away tears.

Because after all the poems

I’ve written for him and others

this is the first poem ever written for me.

“I’ll never be as good of a poet as you, Poet X,

and I believe you’re strong enough

to defend yourself and me at the same time,

but I’ll always have your back,

and I’ll always protect your heart.”

And I’ve never heard something

more deserving of a perfect ten.

Friday, February 8


With Ms. Galiano’s assistance:

I let the poem rise from my heart,

With Twin helping me practice:

I hand it over like a present I’ve had gift wrapped,

With a brand-new notebook:

I perform like I deserve to be there;

With Aman’s (and J. Cole’s) inspiration:

I don’t see the standing ovation,

With YouTube and English class:

I don’t see Caridad and Isabelle cheering, or

With Caridad holding my hand:

Aman and Twin dapping each other up,

With Mami and Papi in the front row:

I don’t see Father Sean in his collar smiling,

With Father Sean in the audience:

I don’t see Papi telling people “Esa es mi hija.”

With Isabelle and the club cheering:

I look at Mami and I give her a nod:

I stand on a stage and say a poem.

There is power in the word.

After the slam,

Mami and Papi

invite my friends over

and Ms. Galiano and Father Sean, too.

Mami makes rice and beans

and orders pizza,

a strange mix

but I don’t complain.

Mami and Papi

won’t call Aman

my boyfriend

but they let him sit on the couch.

At one point,

Isabelle starts playing

bachata on her phone

and pulls Caridad to dance with her.

Next to me,

I see Twin tap his feet

and pretend not to look at Stephan.

Aman starts Spotify DJing.

Ms. Galiano and Father Sean

begin a heated convo about Floyd Mayweather,

and then there’s a tap

on my shoulder

and I turn to see Papi,

holding his hand out to me,

reaching for my arm,

asking me to dance.

“I should have taught you

a long time ago.

Dancing is a good way

to tell someone you love them.”

I catch Mami’s eyes in the doorway

of the living room; she smiles at me and says:

“Pa’lante, Xiomara.

Que para atrás ni para coger impulso.”

And she’s absolutely right,

there will be no more backward steps.

And so I smile at them both

and step forward.

Xiomara Batista

Monday, March 4

Ms. Galiano

Explain Your Favorite Quote

“The unfolding of your words gives light;

it gives understanding to the simple.”—Psalm 119:130

I was raised in a home of prayers and silence and although Jesus preaches love, I didn’t always feel loved. The weird thing about the Bible is that almost everything in it is a metaphor. So it seems to me that when the Bible describes church as a place where two or more people discuss God, they don’t mean just the cathedral-like churches. I don’t know what, who, or where God is. But if everything is a metaphor, I think he or she is a comparison to us. I think we are all like or as God.
I think when we get together and talk about ourselves, about being human, about what hurts us, we’re also talking about God. So that’s also church, right? (I know this might seem blasphemous, but my priest tells me it’s OKAY to ask questions . . . even if they seem bizarre.) And so, I love this quote because even though it’s not about poetry, it IS about poetry. It’s about any of the words that bring us together and how we can form a home in them. I don’t know if I’ll ever be as religious as my mother, as devout as my brother and best friend. I only know that learning to believe in the power of my own words has been the most freeing experience of my life. It has brought me the most light. And isn’t that what a poem is? A lantern glowing in the dark.

 

<<<      Contents      >>>