“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,