She was going to teach us the alphabet
one letter per day! Not me! No way!
I dropped out of kindergarten,
little rebel that I was.
Instead, my mom took me
to the public library
every day, all year long.
I read book after book after book
delighting in the new tales,
the strange and mysterious places.
And when first grade rolled around
(not optional like kinder),
the school was so amazed at my skill
they put me in a third-grade reading class!
I got picked on, sure, but I was pretty proud
and didn’t care when kids called me nerd.
The school counselor told my folks
I can already read at college level!
And I’ve found lots of answers,
but also many new questions.
Of course I pass all the state tests
with super high scores.
Learning in class is easy for me.
Dad says all those books
rewired my brain,
got me ready
for study.
Just think—
I owe it all to those stories
my abuelita used to tell us
sitting in her rocking chair
as we shivered and thrilled.
Even then, words were burrowing
into my brain and waiting,
like larvae in a chrysalis,
to unfold their paper wings
and take me flying into the future.
NAGUAL
Late one summer night
at the ranch,
we all gather ‘round the fire
as the dark wraps around us,
Uncle Joe tells us of the nagual—
magical trickster shaman
who shakes off his human form
to reveal the beast within—
coyote, wolf or dog—
and raids ranches
to feast on cows and sheep.
Wow!
I wish I knew that magic,
could say some spell
or perform some ritual
so I could slip my skin
like that fabled shapeshifter
and feel the freedom,
running beneath the stars,
night wind in my fur,
eyes bright with glints
of moonlight
and wild animal joy!
BOTTLE ROCKET BATTLE
Like every other Fourth of July,
we gather to celebrate out on the ranch.
My father and uncles light the mesquite
as they sip on cervezas and talk about sports.
While our mothers prepare the feast,
my cousins and brother shoot BBs at birds.
But Teresa and me, we just huddle inside
and enjoy a new video, laughing at jokes.
Our abuela’s invited the new parish priest:
He flies back and forth like a black Chachalaca.
I guess it gets boring hearing confession,
so now he’s all busy, sharing the gossip!
When the carne asada is ready, we eat.
I stuff quesadillas with fajitas and beans,
guacamole as well. Then I grab a coke
from the ice. It’s apple, my favorite flavor.
The music is loud, lots of cumbias and salsa
streamed from our Tía Isabel’s phone,
mixing with laughter and shouts and singing
as the sleepy red sun slips its way from the sky.
Soon it gets dark. Since our bellies are full,
all us kids group together and open the fireworks.
The little huerquitos get bags of snapdragons.
Others light strings of black cats and laugh.
Now Grandpa Manuel, a Vietnam vet,
gives a moving speech about the U.S.,
the country he loves, the friends he lost,
and his dreams for us all. A moment of silence.
Then Isabel pulls up Grandpa’s favorite playlist,
and to the beat of patriotic songs,
Uncle Joe and Tío Mike
set off the bigger, brighter bangs!
The national anthem fades. Then sparklers slash
the dark in the hands of pingos, like Jedi
who face a horde of deadly Sith.
My cousin René gives a sinful grin.
“Are you ready for bottle rocket battle?”
he asks us older boys with a wave.
We all nod and follow as he leads us behind
his father’s stable. We gasp and cheer.
That René, he has taken plastic pipe,
electrician’s tape and bits of wood,
and made six weapons, one for each.
“These are bottle rocket rifles,” he says.
He shows us how to shoot them, to slide in the rocket,
wedge the fuse tight at the mouth of the pipe.
We flick our fathers’ lighters with glee,
quickly scattering to take deadly aim!
I dodge the missile that Joseph lets fly:
It explodes far away, flinging its sparks.
Timoteo, however, is struck in the chest
by Raúl’s perfect aim! WHOOSH! BAM!
It’s war! We rush through the brush with whoops,
a half dozen rockets shoved in back pockets.
HISS! René’s deadly dart whizzes right by,
singeing the back of my hair! OW!
Soon the battle invades the grown-ups’ domain.
All the men start grinning and egging us on,
though