The Wild Book Read online

  an album for friends to write in,

  giving me poems that I might never

  be able to read.

  All my big sisters have albums

  filled with verses from admirers.

  How will I ever manage to read

  the sweet poems, if any boy

  is ever foolish enough

  to admire me?

  Imagining

  When I ask Mamá why

  Santa Mónica has failed

  to grant me patience,

  she says not to worry,

  because now I am eleven,

  so I must have at least

  eleven thousand invisible

  guardian angels, all dancing

  on my shoulder.

  I am afraid that next year,

  when twelve thousand

  invisible angels

  dance beside my ear,

  they will just laugh

  and mock me,

  or get tired

  and go to sleep.

  Wishing

  Is it possible to grow weak

  with fear?

  All my efforts are failing.

  Sometimes I almost feel dizzy,

  and even though Mamá insists

  that I am just anxious,

  I feel absolutely certain

  that the scary white pages

  in a blank book

  can make a word-fearful

  eleven-year-old girl

  just topple over

  and faint.

  I wish I knew how

  to become word-strong

  and word-brave.

  Questioning

  Some of my brothers and sisters

  have such long, complicated names

  that I can't write them all,

  but I can write the names

  of my aunts and uncles,

  because there are just a few,

  and most of the names are short.

  My mother's brothers are Abelino,

  Miguel, Arcadio, and Félix.

  Her sisters are Ana Luisa,

  Sarita, and Leonila.

  When all the cousins visit,

  the astonishing abundance

  of long, complicated names

  seems absolutely impossible

  to spell correctly,

  but I do truly, truly

  try!

  Fortunately, my favorite

  best-friend cousin is Carmen,

  with her short, friendly name.

  She is the daughter of Tío Miguel

  and Tía Lucía, his smiling wife.

  Before the wars, Lucía's

  African parents were slaves.

  My cousin Carmen is free,

  but we have to attend different

  church schools,

  and when we volunteer

  to help the nuns

  at the convent in town,

  Carmen has to enter the church

  through a hidden back door.

  Why?

  ¡Ay!

  Why?

  Bird-pepole

  When I ask Papá to explain,

  he says if you don't have blood

  from one tribe, you have it

  from another—El que no tiene

  sangre del Congo

  tiene del Carabalí.

  He tells me that his own

  daring Basque ancestors

  voyaged to Cuba

  by way of Colombia.

  Mamá says she is a mixture

  of native Cuban indios

  and musical Canary Islanders,

  people who once knew how to talk

  like birds, whistling their words.

  I am glad to know

  that I am part bird-person,

  because birds come in all colors,

  and they belong to many tribes.

  Maybe I should just sing

  pretty bird songs at school,

  instead of struggling to read

  OUT LOUD.

  Insults

  Rumors of danger fade.

  We still have to be careful,

  but we no longer stay home.

  Reaching the village school

  means hitching a wagon to oxen,

  or riding a horse, or walking

  and walking, until I finally arrive

  with red mud on my ankles,

  marking me as a guajira,

  a country girl who has never

  ridden in a horseless carriage

  or a steaming train.

  Stupid guajira, the girls taunt,

  even though it's not a real village,

  just a rickety old sugar mill

  where all the other children

  are also guajiros, part indio

  and part bird.

  Schoolbooks

  There are two textbooks.

  One is Cuban,

  with colorful pictures

  of pineapples, parrots,

  and ox-carts, ordinary things

  that I see each day.

  The other book is northern,

  with gray drawings

  of woolly sheep and snowmen,

  strange things that no one

  on this tropical island

  has ever encountered.

  The Cuban book has poems

  about jungle flowers

  that are like hands

  opening in sunlight.

  When a flower is closed,

  its fist is asleep.

  The northern book

  has old English poems

  about eagles on cold

  mountain crags.

  I dread both books,

  except for the friendly pages

  with Cuban adivinanzas,

  guess-me riddles

  like this one:

  Two girls at a window

  tell all without speaking.

  Who are they?

  Eyes!

  If only I could answer

  all the questions

  in my own life

  as easily

  as the riddles.

  Wildflowers

  Town is even farther

  than the village.

  The streets are cobbled

  with smooth, rounded stones.

  There are elegant shops,

  and an orchestra that plays

  in the park, where rich girls

  stroll and smile

  in pretty clothes.

  Every weekend from Lent

  until the Feast of San Juan,

  guajiro boys gallop into town

  with flowers on their saddles.

  The country boys toss

  wild orchids

  to the pretty town girls

  in their fancy dresses.

  I am sure that no boy

  will ever give me flowers.

  My dress is too old,

  and my eyes are red,

  red and swollen

  from crying

  while I struggle

  to write

  and read.

  Celebrations

  This is the pattern

  of each year in the lively town—

  contests to see whose caged birds

  are the best singers,

  then Holy Week, and flowers

  for the Virgin of the Sea.

  San Juan's Day, San Pedro's Day,

  and the feast day of Santiago

  on his white ghost horse.

  Summer carnival, hurricanes,

  yellow clothes for the Virgin

  of Charity.

  All Saints' Day and the Day

  of the Loyal Dead,

  Christmas, Three Kings' Day,

  Fat Tuesday, Lent,

  Palm Sunday, Easter,

  and once again, wistful

  caged songbird

  contests.

  This is the pattern of my year

  on the farm—find a string,

  grasp a crochet hook,

  make las
t year's lacy shawl

  a little wider, so it will fit me

  like a wraparound wing.

  I wish the wing-shaped shawl

  could carry me away

  to any place where no one

  would ever ask

  if I have finished

  my homework.

  I gaze at a page.

  I am so weary of trying

  to fill my blank mind

  with wisdom.

  I close my schoolbook,

  discouraged.

  Where does courage go

  when it is lost?

  Finally, I open my wild book,

  and write a bold word:

  Valentia.

  Courage.

  Maybe if I claim

  my own share of courage

  often enough, it will appear.

  Imagine the celebration

  I will enjoy someday,

  if I ever manage

  to read one entire book

  OUT LOUD!

  Word Hunger

  Is it possible that I am

  no longer completely

  discouraged?

  I do still dread reading,

  but I dread it a little bit less

  each day.

  When I consider

  the happy possibility

  that maybe someday

  I will feel smart,

  I grow a little bit hungry

  for small, tasty bites

  of easy words.

  Word Freedom

  My big sisters spy.

  They read my wild book.

  They laugh and laugh,

  because each stream

  of rippling words

  looks like a crazy poem

  that doesn't even

  try to rhyme.

  Why can't they understand

  that rhymes are hard for me

  to see and hear?

  My drifts of verse

  are free words,

  wild and flowing.

  The world is filled

  with things that flow,

  like water, feelings,

  daydreams, wind...

  The ugly poem

  My Saint's Day album has finally

  received its first verse!

  Fausto the farm manager

  is old, but he gives me a poem

  that he wrote in my honor.

  His handwriting is jagged

  and sloppy, but the poem

  calls me a rose in a garden.

  From now on, should roses

  be my favorite flowers?

  No!

  I will study, so that someday

  I can read a lovely poem

  from a younger admirer

  with graceful handwriting

  that does not resemble

  the claw marks

  of a beast.

  Fragrant Chores

  I keep thinking about poems

  while I work in the kitchen,

  making scented decorations.

  I pierce oranges with cloves,

  sprinkle them with cinnamon,

  and set them on the table

  in a nest of jasmine petals,

  where they look like gold eggs

  and smell like perfume.

  While I do my fragrant chores,

  I vow that I will improve

  my own handwriting.

  I don't want to scrawl words

  that look like Fausto's

  ugly poem.

  Gardens of Thought

  When Mamá says go

  to the pharmacy, I know

  she means the garden,

  so I wander past sleepy herbs,

  whispery ones, and mariposas—

  flowers with flute-shaped centers

  and outer petals that resemble

  butterfly wings.

  The wives of rebel soldiers

  used to hide secret messages

  inside these flowers

  during the wars.

  While I think of battles

  and my own struggle

  to read, I begin stringing

  a bright necklace

  of shiny red and black

  chocho seeds,

  even though I know

  that the prettiest

  parts of wild plants

  are often the most

  poisonous.

  Gardens of thought

  are not always

  peaceful.

  Guessing

  I memorize all the little

  guess-me riddles

  in my schoolbook:

  A bird has a little white

  treasure chest

  that everyone knows

  how to open

  but no one can close.

  An egg!

  Why does an unlucky shrimp

  swim backwards?

  To return to a time

  before he lost his luck!

  I dream up new riddles

  and write them all down

  in my wild book.

  My slow handwriting

  with its careful swirls

  and loops

  has almost grown

  beautiful.

  Am I patient?

  What has changed?

  When I write riddles,

  the pen in my hand

  feels mysterious.

  I feel as powerful

  as a girl in a fairy tale,

  a brave girl who climbs

  dangerous towers

  and sips water

  from magic wells.

  Is this how it feels

  to be smart?

  Strolling

  Rumors of the danger chain

  are quiet now, so we enjoy

  Sunday outings to town.

  After church, I walk

  around the lively plaza

  with my cousin Carmen.

  We are chaperoned

  by one of our stern,

  black-clad aunts.

  Girls promenade

  clockwise, while boys strut

  counterclockwise.

  If a boy makes eye contact

  it means he will marry you,

  so all the boys are careful,

  while the frowning

  old chaperones

  remain cautious

  and wary.

  Girls just daydream

  and smile.

  Towers of Hope

  Mamá loves verses

  as much as I love

  guess-me riddles

  and strolling

  daydreams.

  She loves poetry so much

  that she named two

  of my little brothers

  Rubén and Darío,

  after a Nicaraguan poet

  who writes about towers

  of hope.

  When I listen as Mamá reads

  OUT LOUD, I imagine

  the height of my own

  wild hopes.

  Growing Up

  Sometimes I wonder

  if Mamá would have liked

  to be a poet, instead

  of a farm wife.

  When my parents met,

  she was only fifteen,

  but Papá was all grown up.

  He rode by on his horse

  and saw her playing a game,

  pretending that banana leaves

  were a green wedding dress.

  He asked her father

  for her hand, and soon

  they were married.

  There were babies,

  and more babies,

  and then my mother

  finally finished

  growing up.

  I don't want to be married,

  with babies and worries,

  until I am fully grown.

  Even then, I would love

  to live without the worries.

  I will live far from the farm,

  in a city with electricity,

  whe
re my husband and I

  can dance and stroll

  beneath cheerful lights.

  I will own at least one

  lacy dress with a hem

  that is never torn

  or muddy.

  Ugliness

  My brothers interrupt

  my daydreams.

  They whisper Josefa, Fefa,

  Fefa la fea.

  Fea.

  Ugly.

  Certain slimy

  froglike words

  can do a lot more

  than jump and tease.

  So when a wild parrot

  lands on the red tile roof,

  I teach it to call out feo, feo,

  ugly, ugly, hoping

  my brothers will understand

  that the bright green bird

  is talking about them,

  not me.