Elizabeth Acevedo - The Poet X – WINNER OF THE CILIP CARNEGIE MEDAL 2019

Mami Works Mami Works Cleaning an office building in Queens. Rides two trains in the early morning so she can arrive at the office by eight. She works at sweeping, and mopping, emptying trash bins, and being invisible. Her hands never stop moving, she says. Her fingers rubbing the material of plastic gloves like the pages of her well-worn Bible. Mami rides the train in the afternoon, another hour and some change to get to Harlem. She says she spends her time reading verses, getting ready for the evening Mass, and I know she ain’t lying, but if it were me I’d prop my head against the metal train wall, hold my purse tight in my lap, close my eyes against the rocking, and try my best to dream.

Confirmation Class Confirmation Class Mami has wanted me to take the sacrament of confirmation for three years now. The first year, in eighth grade, the class got full before we could sign up, and even with all her heavenly pull Mami couldn’t get a spot for Twin and me. Father Sean told her it’d be fine if we waited. Last year, Caridad, my best friend, extended her trip in D.R. right when we were supposed to begin the classes, so I asked if I could wait another year. Mami didn’t like it, but since she’s friends with Caridad’s mother Twin went ahead and did the class without me. This year, Mami has filled out the forms, signed me up, and marched me to church before I can tell her that Jesus feels like a friend I’ve had my whole childhood who has suddenly become brand-new; who invites himself over too often, who texts me too much. A friend I just don’t think I need anymore. (I know, I know . . . even writing that is blasphemous.) But I don’t know how to tell Mami that this year, it’s not about feeling unready, it’s about knowing that this doubt has already been confirmed.

God God It’s not any one thing that makes me wonder about the capital G.O.D. About a holy trinity that don’t include the mother. It’s all the things. Just seems as I got older I began to really see the way that church treats a girl like me differently. Sometimes it feels all I’m worth is under my skirt and not between my ears. Sometimes I feel that turning the other cheek could get someone like my brother killed. Sometimes I feel my life would be easier if I didn’t feel like such a debt to a God that don’t really seem to be out here checking for me.

“Mami,” I Say to Her on the Walk Home “Mami,” I Say to Her on the Walk Home The words sit in my belly, and I use my nerves like a pulley to lift them out of my mouth. “Mami, what if I don’t do confirmation? What if I waited a bit for—” But she cuts me off, her index finger a hard exclamation point in front of my face. “Mira, muchacha,” she starts, “I will feed and clothe no heathens.” She tells me I owe it to God and myself to devote. She tells me this country is too soft and gives kids too many choices. She tells me if I don’t confirm here she will send me to D.R., where the priests and nuns know how to elicit true piety. I look at her scarred knuckles. I know exactly how she was taught faith.

When You’re Born to Old Parents When You’re Born to Old Parents Who’d given up hope for children and then are suddenly gifted with twins, you will be hailed a miracle. An answered prayer. A symbol of God’s love. The neighbors will make the sign of the cross when they see you, thankful you were not a tumor in your mother’s belly like the whole barrio feared.

When You’re Born to Old Parents, Continued When You’re Born to Old Parents, Continued Your father will never touch rum again. He will stop hanging out at the bodega where the old men go to flirt. He will no longer play music that inspires swishing or thrusting. You will not grow up listening to the slow pull of an accordion or rake of the güira. Your father will become “un hombre serio.” Merengue might be your people’s music but Papi will reject anything that might sing him toward temptation.

When You’re Born to Old Parents, Continued Again When You’re Born to Old Parents, Continued Again Your mother will engrave your name on a bracelet, the words Mi Hija on the other side. This will be your favorite gift. This will become a despised shackle. Your mother will take to church like a dove thrust into the sky. She was faithful before, but now she will go to Mass every single day. You will be forced to go with her until your knees learn the splinters of pews, the mustiness of incense, the way a priest’s robe tries to shush silent all the echoing doubts ringing in your heart.

The Last Word on Being Born to Old Parents The Last Word on Being Born to Old Parents You will learn to hate it. No one, not even your twin brother, will understand the burden you feel because of your birth; your mother has sight for nothing but you two and God; your father seems to be serving a penance, an oath of solitary silence. Their gazes and words are heavy with all the things they want you to be. It is ungrateful to feel like a burden. It is ungrateful to resent my own birth. I know that Twin and I are miracles. Aren’t we reminded every single day?

Rumor Has It, Rumor Has It, Mami was a comparona: stuck-up, they said, head high in the air, hair that flipped so hard that shit was doing somersaults. Mami was born en La Capital, in a barrio of thirst buckets who wrote odes to her legs, but the only man Mami wanted was nailed to a cross. Since she was a little girl Mami wanted to wear a habit, wanted prayer and the closest thing to an automatic heaven admission she could get. Rumor has it, Mami was forced to marry Papi; nominated by her family so she could travel to the States. It was supposed to be a business deal, but thirty years later, here they still are. And I don’t think Mami’s ever forgiven Papi for making her cheat on Jesus. Or all the other things he did.

First Confirmation Class First Confirmation Class And I already want to pop the other kids right in the face. They stare at me like they don’t got the good sense— or manners—I’m sure their moms gave them. I clip my tongue between my teeth and don’t say nothing, don’t curse them out. But my back is stiff and I’m unable to shake them off. And sure, Caridad and I are older but we know most of the kids from around the way, or from last year’s youth Bible study. So I don’t know why they seem so surprised to see us here. Maybe they thought we’d already been confirmed, with the way our mothers are always up in the church. Maybe because I can’t keep the billboard frown off my face, the one that announces I’d rather be anywhere but here.

Father Sean Father Sean Leads the confirmation class. He’s been the head priest at La Consagrada Iglesia as long as I been alive, which means he’s been around forever. Last year, during youth Bible study, he wasn’t so strict. He talked to us in his soft West Indian accent, coaxing us toward the light. Or maybe I just didn’t notice his strictness because the older kids were always telling jokes, or asking the important questions we really wanted to know the answers to: “Why should we wait for marriage?” “What if we want to smoke weed?” “Is masturbation a sin?” But confirmation class is different. Father Sean tells us we’re going to deepen our relationship with God. “Of your own volition you will accept him into your lives. You will be sealed with the gift of the Holy Spirit. And this is a serious matter.” That whole first class, I touch my tongue to the word volition , like it’s a fruit I’ve never tasted that’s already gone sour in my mouth.

Haiku Haiku Father Sean lectures I wait for a good moment whispering to C: