The Poet X – WINNER OF THE CILIP CARNEGIE MEDAL 2019

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,

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

is that reputations last longer than the time it takes to make them.

So I walk through metal detectors, and turn my pockets out,

and greet security guards by name, and am one of hundreds

who every day are sifted like flour through the doors.

And I keep my head down, and I cause no waves.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, this place is a place,

neither safe nor unsafe, just a means, just a way to get closer

to escape.

Ms. Galiano

Is not what I expected.

Everyone talks about her

like she’s super strict

and always assigning

the toughest homework.

So I expected someone older,

a buttoned-up, floppy-haired,

suit-wearing teacher,

with glasses sliding down her nose.

Ms. Galiano is young, has on bright colors,

and wears her hair naturally curly.

She’s also little—like, for real petite—

but carries herself big, know what I mean?

Like she’s used to shouldering her way

through any assumptions made about her.

Today, I have her first-period English,

and after an hour and fifteen minutes of icebreakers,

where we learn one another’s names

(Ms. Galiano pronounces mine right on the first try),

she gives us our first assignment:

“Write about the most impactful day of your life.”

And although it’s the first week of school,

and teachers always fake the funk the first week,

I have a feeling Ms. Galiano

actually wants to know my answer.

Rough Draft of Assignment 1—Write about the most impactful day of your life.

The day my period came, in fifth grade, was just that,

the ending of a childhood sentence.

The next phrase starting in all CAPS.

No one had explained what to do.

I’d heard older girls talk about “that time of the month”

but never what someone was supposed to use.

Mami was still at work when I got home from school and went

to pee, only to see my panties smudged in blood. I pushed Twin off

the computer and Googled “Blood down there.”

Then I snuck money from where Mami hides it beneath the pans,

bought tampons that I shoved into my body

the way I’d seen Father Sean cork the sacramental wine.

It was almost summer. I was wearing shorts.

I put the tampon in wrong. It only stuck up halfway

and the blood smeared between my thighs.

When Mami came home I was crying.

I pointed at the instructions;

Mami put her hand out but didn’t take them.

Instead she backhanded me so quick she cut open my lip.

“Good girls don’t wear tampones.

Are you still a virgin? Are you having relations?”

I didn’t know how to answer her, I could only cry.

She shook her head and told me to skip church that day.

Threw away the box of tampons, saying they were for cueros.

That she would buy me pads. Said eleven was too young.

That she would pray on my behalf.

I didn’t understand what she was saying.

But I stopped crying. I licked at my split lip.

I prayed for the bleeding to stop.

Final Draft of Assignment 1 (What I Actually Turn In)

Xiomara Batista

Friday, September 7

Ms. Galiano

The Most Impactful Day of My Life, Final Draft

When I turned twelve my twin brother saved up enough lunch money to get me something fancy: a notebook for our birthday. (I got him some steel knuckles so he could defend himself, but he used them to conduct electricity for a science project instead. My brother’s a genius.)

The notebook wasn’t the regular marble kind most kids use. He bought it from the bookstore. The cover is made of leather, with a woman reaching to the sky etched on the outside, and a bunch of motivational quotes scattered like flower petals throughout the pages. My brother says I don’t talk enough so he hoped this notebook would give me a place to put my thoughts. Every now and then, I dress my thoughts in the clothing of a poem. Try to figure out if my world changes once I set down these words.

This was the first time someone gave me a place to collect my thoughts. In some ways, it seemed like he was saying that my thoughts were important. From that day forward I’ve written every single day. Sometimes it seems like writing is the only way I keep from hurting.

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

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

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

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.

Tuesday, September 11

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

If Medusa was Dominican

and had a daughter, I think I’d be her.