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,