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

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.

Tuesday, September 4

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

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

Father Sean lectures

I wait for a good moment

whispering to C:

Boys

X: You make out with any boys while you were in D.R.?

C: Girl, stop. Always talking about some boys.

X: Well if you didn’t kiss nobody, why you all red in the face?

C: Xiomara, you know I didn’t kiss no boy.

Just like I know you didn’t.

X: Don’t look at me like that. I’m not proud of the fact

that I still ain’t kiss nobody. It’s a damn shame, we’re almost

sixteen.

C: Don’t say damn , Xiomara. And don’t roll your eyes at me

either. You won’t even be sixteen until January.

X: I’m just saying, I’m ready to stop being a nun. Kiss a boy,

shoot, I’m ready to creep with him behind a stairwell and let him feel me up.

C: Oh God, girl. I really just can’t with you.

Here, here’s the Book of Ruth. Learn yourself some virtue.

X: Tsk, tsk. You gonna talk about this in a church,

then take his name in vain. Ouch!

C: Keep talking mess. I’m going to do more than pinch you.

I don’t know why I missed you.

X: Maybe because I make you laugh more than your

stuffy-ass church mission friends?

C: I can’t with you. Now, stop worrying about kissing and boys.

I’m sure you’ll figure it out.

Caridad and I Shouldn’t Be Friends

We are not two sides of the same coin.

We are not ever mistaken for sisters.

We don’t look alike, don’t sound alike.

We don’t make no damn sense as friends.

I curse up a storm and am always ready to knuckle up.

Caridad recites Bible verses and promotes peace.

I’m ready to finally feel what it’s like to like a boy.

Caridad wants to wait for marriage.

I’m afraid of my mother so I listen to what she says.

Caridad genuinely respects her parents.

I should hate Caridad. She’s all my parents want in a daughter.

She’s everything I could never be.

But Caridad, Twin, and I have known each other since diapers.

We celebrate birthdays together, attended Bible

camp sleepovers with each other, spend Christmas Eve

at each other’s houses.

She knows me in ways I don’t have to explain.

Can see one of my tantrums coming a mile off,

knows when I need her to joke, or when I need to fume,

or when I need to be told about myself.

Mostly, Caridad isn’t all extra goody-goody in her judgment.

She knows all about the questions I have,

about church, and boys, and Mami.

But she don’t ever tell me I’m wrong.

She just gives me one of her looks,

full of so much charity, and tells me that she knows

I’ll figure it all out.

Questions I Have

Without Mami’s Rikers Island Prison–like rules,

I don’t know who I would be

when it comes to boys.

It’s so complicated.

For a while now I’ve been having all these feelings.

Noticing boys more than I used to.

And I get all this attention from guys

but it’s like a sancocho of emotions.

This stew of mixed-up ingredients:

partly flattered they think I’m attractive,

partly scared they’re only interested in my ass and boobs,

and a good measure of Mami-will-kill-me fear sprinkled on top.

What if I like a boy too much and become addicted to sex

like Iliana from Amsterdam Ave.?

Three kids, no daddy around,

and baby bibs instead of a diploma hanging on her wall.

What if I like a boy too much and he breaks my heart,

and I wind up angry and bitter like Mami,

walking around always exclaiming how men ain’t shit,

even when my father and brother are in the same room?

What if I like a boy too much

and none of those things happen . . .

they’re the only scales I have.

How does a girl like me figure out the weight

of what it means to love a boy?

Wednesday, September 5

Night before First Day of School

As I lie in bed,

thinking of this new school year,

I feel myself

stretching my skin apart.

Even with my Amazon frame,

I feel too small for all that’s inside me.

I want to break myself open

like an egg smacked hard against an edge.

Teachers always say

that each school year is a new start:

but even before this day

I think I’ve been beginning.

Thursday, September 6

H.S.

My high school is one of those old-school structures

from the Great Depression days, or something.

Kids come from all five boroughs, and most of us bus or train,

although since it’s my zone school, I can walk to it on a nice day.

Chisholm H.S. sits wide and squat, taking up half a block,

redbrick and fenced-in courtyard with ball hoops and benches.

It’s not like Twin’s fancy genius school: glass, and futuristic.

This is the typical hood school, and not too long ago

it was considered one of the worst in the city:

gang fights in the morning and drug deals in the classroom.

It’s not like that anymore, but one thing I know for sure