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

Had to be cut out of Mami

after she’d given birth

to my twin brother, Xavier, just fine.

And my name labors out of some people’s mouths

in that same awkward and painful way.

Until I have to slowly say:

See-oh-MAH-ruh.

I’ve learned not to flinch the first day of school

as teachers get stuck stupid trying to figure it out.

Mami says she thought it was a saint’s name.

Gave me this gift of battle and now curses

how well I live up to it.

My parents probably wanted a girl who would sit in the pews

wearing pretty florals and a soft smile.

They got combat boots and a mouth silent

until it’s sharp as an island machete.

The First Words

Pero, tú no eres fácil

is a phrase I’ve heard my whole life.

When I come home with my knuckles scraped up:

Pero, tú no eres fácil.

When I don’t wash the dishes quickly enough,

or when I forget to scrub the tub:

Pero, tú no eres fácil.

Sometimes it’s a good thing,

when I do well on an exam or the rare time I get an award:

Pero, tú no eres fácil.

When my mother’s pregnancy was difficult,

and it was all because of me,

because I was turned around

and they thought that I would die

or worse,

that I would kill her,

so they held a prayer circle at church

and even Father Sean showed up at the emergency room,

Father Sean, who held my mother’s hand

as she labored me into the world,

and Papi paced behind the doctor,

who said this was the most difficult birth she’d been a part of

but instead of dying I came out wailing,

waving my tiny fists,

and the first thing Papi said,

the first words I ever heard,

“Pero, tú no eres fácil.”

You sure ain’t an easy one.

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.

Tuesday, August 28

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

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

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

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

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

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

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,

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,