The Lightning Dreamer Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Historical Background

  Part One: Suns and Rays 1827

  Part Two: The Orphan Theater 1827

  Part Three: The Marriage Market 1828

  Part Four: See Me as I Am 1829

  Part Five: The Hotel of Peace 1836

  Historical Note

  The Writing of Gertrudis Gómez de Avellaneda

  References

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Footnotes

  Copyright © 2013 by Margarita Engle

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  Harcourt is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

  www.hmhco.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file.

  eISBN 978-0-547-80747-8

  v2.0314

  For young writers in search of words

  El esclavo ha dejado volar libre su pensamiento, y su pensamiento subía más allá de las nubes en que se forma el rayo.

  The slave let his mind fly free, and his thoughts soared higher than the clouds where lightning forms.

  —Gertrudis Gómez de Avellaneda

  Historical Background

  In the United States, Northern abolitionists were able to speak out against slavery in public. The Spanish colony of Cuba was different. With no part of the island free of slavery, censorship was harsh and penalties severe. The most daring abolitionists were poets who could veil their work with metaphors. Of these, the boldest was a young woman named Gertrudis Gómez de Avellaneda. Her childhood nickname was Tula.

  Tula

  Books are door-shaped

  portals

  carrying me

  across oceans

  and centuries,

  helping me feel

  less alone.

  But my mother believes

  that girls who read too much

  are unladylike

  and ugly,

  so my father’s books are locked

  in a clear glass cabinet. I gaze

  at enticing covers

  and mysterious titles,

  but I am rarely permitted

  to touch

  the enchantment

  of words.

  Poems.

  Stories.

  Plays.

  All are forbidden.

  Girls are not supposed to think,

  but as soon as my eager mind

  begins to race, free thoughts

  rush in

  to replace

  the trapped ones.

  I imagine distant times

  and faraway places.

  Ghosts.

  Vampires.

  Ancient warriors.

  Fantasy moves into

  the tangled maze

  of lonely confusion.

  Secretly, I open

  an invisible book in my mind,

  and I step

  through its magical door-shape

  into a universe

  of dangerous villains

  and breathtaking heroes.

  Many of the heroes are men

  and boys, but some are girls

  so tall

  strong

  and clever

  that they rescue other children

  from monsters.

  Manuel

  My big sister tells

  bizarre fantasy tales,

  acting them out in whispers

  beneath a jungle of leaves

  in the shady garden.

  Her stories of powerful giants

  and terrifying beasts

  turn the evening

  into a forest

  of secrets.

  I leave the garden feeling

  as if I have traveled

  to a distant land.

  If only our real lives

  could be as heroic as her tales

  of courageous giants

  one hundred heads high.

  Tula

  I’ve trained my little brother

  to be a brave smuggler of words.

  He hides his schoolbooks

  under my embroidery hoop

  one

  forbidden

  volume

  at a time

  so that our frowning mother

  and scolding stepfather

  hardly ever grow

  suspicious.

  When no one is looking,

  I seize one of Manuel’s books

  and flee to the garden,

  where words

  glitter

  and glow

  in starlight.

  Tula

  I am thirteen now, so close

  to the age of forced marriage

  that invented worlds

  made of words

  are my only

  comfort.

  I try to explain my fear

  of a loveless wedding

  to Mamá, but her mind

  is busy with greedy

  visions . . .

  If only she could dream

  of her own future

  instead of mine.

  Mamá

  Thirteen! It is the age for dreams

  of sparkling jewels and silken gowns

  in elegant ballrooms . . .

  not hideous fantasies

  about ferocious beasts.

  Everyone knows that girls

  who read and write too much

  are unattractive. Men want

  quiet females who listen,

  not loud ones who offer

  opinions.

  Tula

  Thirteen is the age for dreams

  of changing the world

  by freeing my own heart.

  Thirteen is a barefoot rider

  on a naturally graceful horse,

  with no fierce spurs, heavy saddle,

  iron bit, or vicious reins

  to control the mouth

  and the mind.

  People assume that men

  make all the rules, but sometimes

  mothers are the ones who command

  girls to be quiet

  while they arrange

  for us to be sold

  like oxen

  or mules.

  Tula

  I feel like a new person

  when I play make-believe games

  in the garden, inventing tales

  of monsters and heroes.

  Mamá commands me to hush,

  and my stepfather grumbles,

  so I try to be quiet,

  but silence feels

  like an endless

  echoing

  hallway

  of smooth

  shiny mirrors

  that reflect

  my ragged

  impatience.

  I end up growling and roaring

  like a beast.

  Mamá

  Why does my stubborn daughter

  bellow and howl each time I tell her

  to stop being so loud

  and so rude?

  I’m just doing my motherly

  duty—why can’t she listen to a voice

  of sensible reason?

  Doesn’t she see that her future

  is my future, and little Manuel’s?

  Without Tula’s help in achieving

  a successful marriage for herself,

  no one in this family will ever

  possess the sheer power r />
  of great wealth.

  Tula

  On lonely nights, I remember

  my father, who allowed me to read

  as much as I wanted.

  While he was alive, I felt

  like my brother’s equal. I felt human.

  I never had to challenge absurd rules

  by smashing a glass bookcase,

  just to steal a glance

  at hidden pages.

  Now, when Mamá catches me

  with a book in my hands and shards

  of glass on my shoes, she sends me

  to my silent room, where I spend

  quiet hours remembering

  the freedom

  to read.

  Tula

  Shortly before my birth, Papá saw

  the head of a rebellious slave

  paraded on a stake. The poor man’s

  hands were nailed to trees; his limbs

  tumbled outside

  churchyard gates . . .

  The sight made Papá furious.

  He was a soldier, but he’d learned

  to detest violence,

  growing ill with sorrow

  each time he heard rumors

  of warfare.

  Without slavery, he concluded,

  there would be no more fighting,

  no anger or dread.

  He dreamed of returning

  to his birthplace in Spain,

  and in preparation,

  he freed our old cook,

  paying her a fair wage

  instead of keeping her in chains.

  Caridad

  I’ve been the only cook, maid,

  seamstress, gardener, and nanny

  in this family

  for at least a thousand years.

  Vaya—oh well, it certainly feels

  like a thousand, even if it’s only

  thirty or forty. Some years feel

  so much longer than others—slower,

  deeper, more powerful.

  The year when Tula first began

  telling me her far-fetched stories

  was one of those times.

  She was only nine.

  Now we sit together often,

  dreaming of heroic giants

  who can defeat bloodsucking

  vampires.

  Tula

  When Caridad and I peer

  through the bars of a window,

  we see weary slave girls trudging

  along the rough cobblestone street,

  with enormous baskets

  of pineapples and coconuts

  balanced on their heads.

  Sometimes I feel as if

  I can trade my thoughts

  for theirs. Are we really

  so different, with our heavy

  array of visible

  and invisible

  burdens?

  Tula

  When fever

  took Papá,

  I folded

  my sorrow

  into words,

  one tiny

  leaf

  of paper,

  my first

  raging poem

  of loss.

  Now each glimpse

  of a slave girl’s suffering

  turns into one more

  hidden

  verse.

  Tula

  Mamá does not permit me

  to attend school like Manuel,

  so a tutor comes to the house,

  instructing me in music and art.

  For lessons in embroidery

  and saints’ lives, I go to the convent,

  where veiled nuns permit me

  to read mysterious tales

  of hermits, martyrs, and beasts,

  like the story about Santa Margarita,

  who was swallowed by a dragon.

  Each day, after my lessons, the nuns

  let me visit their marvelous library,

  where I feel as if I have entered

  heaven on earth.

  Caridad

  The poems Tula recites

  fall onto my ears

  like shooting stars

  or flowers

  in a storm wind,

  plummeting toward earth

  instead of drifting.

  Each verse is an arrow

  piercing my past—the years

  of bondage that prevented me

  from learning to read

  while I was young.

  Tula says it’s never too late,

  but I’m old, and I’m so very tired,

  and I have too much work . . .

  The Nuns

  We read all manner of verse and prose

  forbidden to other females.

  For Tula to gain the freedom to enjoy

  unlimited reading later in life,

  she will have to take vows and join us.

  Beyond these convent gates, books

  are locked away

  and men

  hold

  the keys.

  For now, Tula seems content

  to roam our peaceful library,

  growing breathless

  with the excitement

  of a youthful mind’s

  natural curiosity.

  Tula

  In a dusty corner

  of the convent library,

  I discover the banned books

  of José María Heredia, a rebel-poet—

  an abolitionist and independista

  who was forced into exile.

  His verses show that he believes

  in Cuba’s freedom from Spain,

  as well as liberty for slaves.

  When I take the verses home

  to Caridad, she weeps.

  I cannot tell if her tears pour

  from a fountain of hope

  for the unknowable future

  or sorrows left over

  from an unchangeable past.

  Caridad

  Certain poems

  help me feel young

  instead of old.

  Powerful

  instead of weak.

  Brave

  instead of fearful.

  Their words are like wings,

  helping me fly away

  from this kitchen,

  this mop,

  these filthy pots and pans,

  my endless chores . . .

  The Nuns

  Heredia’s verses are banned

  by the Crown, not the Church,

  so we feel free to read them.

  We knew him well.

  He was already a poet while he

  was just a young boy. Some people

  are born with words flowing

  in their veins.

  At fifteen, Heredia wrote a play.

  At nineteen, he became a founder

  of los Soles y Rayos—the Suns and Rays

  of Bolívar, a secret society of poets

  and artists who hoped to establish

  a democratic nation of equals,

  with no masters or slaves,

  and one vote per man,

  dark or light.

  Tula

  I will never grow tired

  of exploring Heredia’s poetry.

  Here is a verse

  about being at sea

  alone

  in a storm.

  And here is one about hiking

  beside an immense waterfall

  called Niágara.

  And listen to this poem

  about refusing to accept

  the existence of slavery

  and refusing to see all of nature

  as good and beautiful,

  with the sole

  exception

  of human nature.

  Caridad

  Heredia is pale

  and has always been free,

  just like Tula.

  Somehow, with words

  from wild poems

  floating br />
  all around me,

  I feel certain that words

  can be as human

  as people,

  alive

  with the breath

  of compassion.

  Tula

  Whispered words

  about the Suns and Rays

  continue to fascinate me.

  The nuns tell me that Heredia’s

  secret society had even designed

  a flag—deep blue, with a gold sun

  at the center, and a human face

  on the sun, to remind us that people

  can glow.

  Each ray of the round sun

  is just a narrow sliver,

  but together

  all the tiny rays

  join to release

  a single

  enormous

  horizon of light.

  Tula

  Heredia’s poems haunt me.

  From my room, I watch the march