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 beout herecheckingfor 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?”