but I’m still too shy and he’s still too . . . Aman.
Which means he never presses too hard
and I have to wonder if he’s being respectful
or isn’t feeling me like that.
But he wouldn’t be hanging out with me so much
if he wasn’t feeling me, right?
And although I still want to stay seated during Communion,
I get up every time, put the wafer in my mouth
then slip it beneath the pew.
My hands shaking less and less every time I do.
The hardest thing has been Tuesdays.
I sit in confirmation class
knowing I could be in poetry club instead,
or writing, or doing anything other
than trying to unhear everything Father Sean says.
And I do a good job of pretending.
At least until the day
I open my usually silent mouth
and decide to ask Father Sean
about Eve.
Eve,
Father Sean explains,
could have made a better choice.
Her story is a parable
to teach us how to deal with temptation.
Resist the apple.
And for some reason,
either because of what I’m learning
in school and in real life,
I think it all just seems like bullshit.
So I say so. Out loud. To Father Sean.
Next to me Caridad goes completely still.
“I Think the Story of Genesis Is Mad Stupid”
“God made the Earth in seven days?
Including humans, right?
But in biology we learned
dinosaurs existed on Earth
for millions of years
before other species . . .
unless the seven days is a metaphor?
But what about humans evolving
from apes? Unless Adam’s creation
was a metaphor, too?
And about this apple,
how come God didn’t explain
why they couldn’t eat it?
He gave Eve curiosity
but didn’t expect her to use it?
Unless the apple is a metaphor?
Is the whole Bible a poem?
What’s not a metaphor?
Did any of it actually happen?”
I catch my breath. Look around the room.
Caridad is bright red.
The younger kids are silent,
watching like it’s a WWE match.
And Father Sean’s face has turned
hard as the marble altar.
“Why don’t you and I talk
after class, Xiomara?”
As We Are Packing to Leave
C: Xiomara, if Father Sean says something to your moms
it’s going to be a hot mess—
X: So what? Aren’t we supposed to be curious
about the things that we’re told?
C: Listen. Don’t come at me like that, Xiomara.
I’m just trying to help you.
X: I know, I know. But . . . they were just questions.
Aren’t priests obligated to confidentiality?
C: That wasn’t a confession, Xiomara.
X doesn’t say: Wasn’t it?
Father Sean
Tells me
I seem distracted in confirmation class.
Tells me
perhaps there is something I’d like to discuss besides Eve.
Tells me
it’s normal to be curious about the world.
Tells me
Catholicism invites curiosity.
Tells me
I should find solace in a forgiving religion.
Tells me
the church is here for me if I need it.
Tells me
maybe I should have a conversation with my mother.
Tells me
open and honest dialogue is good for growth.
Tells me
a lot of things but none of them an answer to anything I asked.
Answers
After Father Sean’s lecture, he seems to expect answers from me.
I stare at the picture behind his desk.
It’s him in a boxing ring holding a pair of gold gloves.
“You still fight, Father Sean?”
He cocks his head at me, and his lips quirk up a bit.
“Every now and then I get into a ring to stay in shape.
I definitely don’t fight as much as I used to.
Not every fight can be fought with gloves, Xiomara.”
I stand. I tell Father Sean I won’t ask about Eve again.
I leave church before he asks me something I can’t answer.
Rough Draft Assignment 2—Last paragraphs of My Biography
And that’s how Xiomara,
bare-knuckled, fought the world
into calling her correctly by her name,
into not expecting her to be a saint,
into respecting her as a whole grown-ass woman.
She knew since she was little,
the world would not sing her triumphs,
but she took all of the stereotypes
and put them in a chokehold
until they breathed out the truth.
Xiomara may be remembered
as a lot of things: a student,
a miracle, a protective sister,
a misunderstood daughter,
but most importantly,
she should be remembered
as always working to become
the warrior she wanted to be.
Final Draft of Assignment 2 (What I Actually Turn In)
Xiomara Batista
Monday, October 15
Ms. Galiano
Last Paragraphs of My Biography, Final Draft
Xiomara’s accomplishments amounted to several key achievements. She was a writer who went on to create a nonprofit organization for first-generation teenage girls. Her center helped young women explain to their parents why they should be allowed to date, and go away for college, and move out when they turned eighteen . . . also, how to discover what they wanted to do in life. It was an organization that helped thousands of young women, and although they never built a statue outside the center (she would have hated that) they did hang a super-blown-up selfie of her in the main office.
Since her parents were distraught that the neighborhood had changed, that there were no more Latino families and the bodegas and sastrería were all closed down, Xiomara used her earnings to buy them a house in the Dominican Republic. Although she was never married and didn’t have children, Xiomara was happy with a big pit bull and a brownstone in Harlem not too far from the neighborhood where she was raised. Her twin brother lived down the street.
Hands
In bio
Aman’s hand has started
finding mine inside the desk.
I hope I don’t sweat
as his finger fiddles
across my palm.
I wonder if he’s nervous
like me. If he’s frontin’
like me.
Pretending I’ve played
with someone’s hand,
and done even more.
And even though
I’ve dreamt about him before,
there’s something different
about touching a guy
in real life. In the flesh.
Inside a classroom. More than once.
His hand lighting a match
inside my body.
Fingers
In bed at night
my fingers search
a heat I have no name for.
Sliding into a center,
finding a hidden core,