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

The Routine The Routine Is the same every school year: I go straight home after school and since Mami says that I’m “la niña de la casa,” it’s my job to help her out around the house. So after school I eat an apple—my favorite snack— wash dishes, and sweep. Dust around Mami’s altar to La Virgen María and avoid Papi’s TV if he’s home because he hates when I clean in front of it while he’s trying to watch las noticias or a Red Sox game. It’s one of the few things Twin and I argue about, how he never has to do half the cleaning shit I do but is still better liked by Mami. He helps me when he’s home, folds the laundry or scrubs the tub. But he won’t get in trouble if he doesn’t. I hear one of Mami’s famous sayings in my ear, “Mira, muchacha, life ain’t fair, that’s why we have to earn our entrance into heaven.”

Altar Boy Altar Boy Twin is easier for Mami to understand. He likes church. As much of a science geek as he is, he doesn’t question the Bible the way that I do. He’s been an altar boy since he was eight, could quote the New Testament—in Spanish and English— since he was ten, leads discussions at Bible study even better than the priest. (No disrespect to Father Sean.) He even volunteered at the Bible camp this summer and now that school’s started he’ll miss the Stations of the Cross dioramas his campers made from Popsicle sticks, the stick figure drawings of Mary in the manger, the mosaic made of marbles that he hung in the window of our room, the one that I threw out this afternoon while I was cleaning, watched it fall between the fire escape grates. For a second, it caught the sun in a hundred colors until it smashed against the street. I’ll apologize to Twin later. Say it was an accident. He’ll forgive me. He’ll pretend to believe me.

Twin’s Name Twin’s Name For as long as I can remember I’ve only ever called my brother “Twin.” He actually is named after a saint, but I’ve never liked to say his name. It’s a nice name, or whatever, even starts with an X like mine, but it just doesn’t feel like the brother I know. His real name is for Mami, teachers, Father Sean. But Twin ? Only I can call him that, a reminder of the pair we’ll always be.

More about Twin More about Twin Although Twin is older by almost an hour— of course the birth got complicated when it was my turn— he doesn’t act older. He is years softer than I will ever be. When we were little, I would come home with bleeding knuckles and Mami would gasp and shake me: “¡Muchacha, siempre peleando! Why can’t you be a lady? Or like your brother? He never fights. This is not God’s way.” And Twin’s eyes would meet mine across the room. I never told her he didn’t fight because my hands became fists for him. My hands learned how to bleed when other kids tried to make him into a wound. My brother was birthed a soft whistle: quiet, barely stirring the air, a gentle sound. But I was born all the hurricane he needed to lift—and drop—those that hurt him to the ground.

It’s Only the First Week of Tenth Grade It’s Only the First Week of Tenth Grade And high school is already a damn mess. In ninth grade you are in between. No longer in junior high, but still treated like a kid. In ninth grade you are always frozen between trying not to smile or cry, until you learn that no one cares about what your face does, only what your hands’ll do. I thought tenth grade would be different but I still feel like a lone shrimp in a stream where too many are searching for someone with a soft shell to peel apart and crush. Today, I already had to curse a guy out for pulling on my bra strap, then shoved a senior into a locker for trying to whisper into my ear. “Big body joint,” they say, “we know what girls like you want.” And I’m disgusted at myself for the slight excitement that shivers up my back at the same time that I wish my body could fold into the tiniest corner for me to hide in.

How I Feel about Attention How I Feel about Attention If Medusa was Dominican and had a daughter, I think I’d be her. I look and feel like a myth. A story distorted, waiting for others to stop and stare. Tight curls that spring like fireworks out of my scalp. A full mouth pressed hard like a razor’s edge. Lashes that are too long so they make me almost pretty. If Medusa was Dominican and had a daughter, she might wonder at this curse. At how her blood is always becoming some fake hero’s mission. Something to be slayed, conquered. If I was her kid, Medusa would tell me her secrets: how it is that her looks stop men in their tracks why they still keep on coming. How she outmaneuvers them when they do.

Games

After

Okay?

On Sunday

During Communion

Church Mass

Not Even Close to Haikus

Holy Water

People Say

On Papi

All Over a Damn Wafer

The Flyer

After the Buzz Dies Down

Aman

Whispering with Caridad Later That Day

What Twin Be Knowing

Sharing

Questions for Ms. Galiano

Spoken Word

Wait—

Holding a Poem in the Body

J. Cole vs. Kendrick Lamar

Asylum

What I Tell Aman:

Dreaming of Him Tonight

The Thing about Dreams

Date

Mami’s Dating Rules

Clarification on Dating Rules

Feeling Myself

PART II: And the Word Was Made Flesh

Smoke Parks

I Decided a Long Time Ago

Why Twin Is a Terrible Twin

Why Twin Is a Terrible Twin, for Real

Why Twin Is a Terrible Twin (Last and Most Important Reason)

But Why Twin Is Still the Only Boy I’ll Ever Love

Communication

About A

Catching Feelings

Notes with Aman

What I Didn’t Say to Caridad in Confirmation Class

Lectures

Ms. Galiano’s Sticky Note on Top of Assignment 1

Sometimes Someone Says Something

Listening

Mother Business

And Then He Does

Warmth

The Next Couple of Weeks

Eve,

“I Think the Story of Genesis Is Mad Stupid”

As We Are Packing to Leave

Father Sean

Answers

Rough Draft Assignment 2—Last Paragraphs of My Biography

Final Draft of Assignment 2 (What I Actually Turn In)

Hands

Fingers

Talking Church

Swoon

Telephone

Over Breakfast

Angry Cat, Happy X

About Being in Like

Music

Ring the Alarm

The Day

Wants

At My Train Stop

What I Don’t Tell Aman

Kiss Stamps

The Last Fifteen-Year-Old

Concerns

What Twin Knows

Hanging Over My Head

Friday

Black & Blue

Tight

Excuses

Costume Ready

Reuben’s House Party

One Dance

Stoop-Sitting . . . with Aman

Convos with Caridad

Braiding

Fights

Scrapping

What We Don’t Say

Gay

Feeling Off When Twin Is Mad

Rough Draft of Assignment 3—Describe someone you consider misunderstood by society.