They Call Me Güero

by David Bowles

  I kind of deserved it.

  I was the smallest back then,

  sat behind my cousins as Mimi told

  the scariest stories she could muster,

  legends already old

  when she was a little girl.

  But I was mischievous for my size,

  reaching out to snatch cookies

  off my primos’ plates as they leaned forward,

  eyes wide, eagerly hanging

  on every frightening word.

  As I shoved galletas into my mouth,

  Mimi’s eyes would narrow and narrow some more,

  and I could almost hear her thinking,

  “You sneaky brat, huerco ladrón—

  just you wait and see.”

  For my grandma didn’t spank us,

  she hardly ever raised her voice.

  No, to punish little devils

  she would put us in some creepy tale,

  as I was about to discover.

  “A new story,” she announced one week,

  “about la Mano Pachona.” I shivered

  while other boys cheered.

  This legend scared me the most:

  A hairy claw that crawls through the dark.

  Mimi once told us the claw had belonged

  to a Maya wizard who long ago

  refused to renounce his people’s gods.

  So the Inquisition cut off all his limbs

  not knowing he’d cast a spell on his left hand.

  Now it seeks its revenge, waiting

  for naughty boys with Spanish blood.

  “Like each of you,” Mimi would say

  with a glint of glee in her eye

  as we gulped and gasped.

  On that day, she said she’d reveal

  the identity of one of its victims.

  “Once upon a time, there was a güerito,

  sinful and travieso, who liked to steal sweets

  that didn’t belong to him.”

  My cousins giggled. They knew

  what was coming. “But at last

  the red-haired pingo ate his final cookie.

  He swallowed that stolen, crunchy goodness

  and felt his tummy rumble. Potty time.

  “Up he jumped to run down the hall,

  singing a foolish tune to himself:

  ‘Ha, ha, ha—I stole your cookie!

  Ha, ha, ha—you didn’t catch me!’

  Then he entered the bathroom.

  “Shutting the door, he dropped his pants

  and sat down to do his business.

  But, ¡ay, pobre güerito! Big mistake.

  He should’ve looked before he sat.

  Maybe his fate would have changed.

  “For there, waiting for him

  deep in the water at the bottom

  of the bowl…WAS LA MANO PACHONA!

  It reached up and grabbed him

  and pulled him into the sewer!

  “He was never seen or heard from again.”

  My face went white as a sheet.

  Just a runt, I believed her every story

  was the absolute truth.

  So this had to be prophecy!

  “No, abuelita!” I cried, shaking,

  “Don’t let la Mano Pachona

  grab my butt!”

  You see, that was the worst thing of all.

  Not being dragged away and killed, no.

  I mean, let’s be honest. I’d be famous!

  Imagine the headlines: BORDER KID

  SLAIN BY MONSTER CLAW. Yaaaas.

  Immortality! But not BORDER KID

  HAS BUTT GRABBED BY MONSTER CLAW.

  Mimi leaned toward me as I trembled,

  snot bubbling in my button nose.

  “Then STOP STEALING COOKIES,

  you naughty little thief!”

  And so I did. Forever.

  Still, there’s a part of me—

  foolish, I know—that can’t help

  but wonder if she could see the future

  and if one day I’ll sit down

  to meet my destiny at last.

  MISCHIEF

  One night Handy—I use my friends’ last names—

  texts me to sneak out and bring my BB gun.

  “Let’s shoot snakes and stuff.” Oh, dear God,

  I actually agree. Dumbest thing I’ve ever done.

  We walk along the alleys, the four of us,

  taking shots at scurrying blurs, passing

  the rifle around. Then Handy aims for a streetlight,

  makes the world darker with a pull of the trigger.

  There’s something exciting about the effect

  and we go a little nuts, each pumping the weapon

  to smash another light. We laugh like hyenas,

  give each other fist bumps, run to the next block.

  The BB gun’s back in my hands as we walk past

  Don Mario’s back yard, his huge sliding glass doors.

  “Crack them!” Delgado urges, and I lift the barrel—

  but there sits the old man in his chair, watching me.

  I lower the rifle. My stomach does somersaults.

  Don Mario stands, opens the doors, steps into the night.

  “Córranle pa’ sus casas,” he says sternly. “Get on home,

  boys. Ain’t no reason for y’all to be prowling about.”

  We tramp home, silent. I keep seeing Don Mario’s eyes,

  his disappointment. Back in my room, I slide the rifle

  under my bed. I want to forget. Let it gather dust.

  I don’t ever want to touch it again.

  CONFESSION

  I step

  into the booth

  to confess my sins, but

  in Spanish. Father García

  just sighs.

  Heart beating fast, I realize

  I’ll never fool this priest:

  He’s heard (and seen)

  my sins.

  White lies,

  copied homework,

  that stolen comic book,

  a certain bottle rocket blast—

  chuckling,

  he assigns penance in English.

  “I know your voice, Güero.

  God knows your heart.

  Be good.”

  THOUGHTS AT MASS

  During mass, I look around.

  Most of our side of town is here,

  but not my three best friends.

  Handy is Mormon—his big,

  loving family goes to a meetinghouse

  in their ward the next city over.

  Lee is Presbyterian—he prefers “Christian,”

  though I remind him we Catholics are too.

  His folks attend a church down the road.

  Delgado doesn’t belong to a religion,

  though his mom says prayers to ancestors

  and old gods. He told me he’s agnostic.

  I googled it: “Someone who thinks

  it’s impossible to know if God exists.”

  This freaked me out a little—

  it’s obvious to me that there’s a God

  because I see Him in everything around me

  and feel Him in my heart.

  How can Delgado doubt Him?

  I spent days wondering, worrying.

  Each night I prayed for los Bobbys.

  We can’t all be right, can we?

  Three of us must be wrong—

  unless…we all are. Whoa. Impossible.

  Just now, Father García read from scripture:

  “Do not judge, and you will not be judged;

  the judgements you give are the ones you will get.”

  Well, that’s a relief! Like an answer to prayer.

  Can’t wait till this afternoon—los Bobbys and me?

  We’re going to the movies downtown.

  THE NEWCOMER

  There’s a new kid

  in math class this week—

  Andrés Palomares,

&n
bsp; quiet and shy.

  At the bell,

  he slips off to ESL

  so I know he must be

  a newcomer,

  an immigrant.

  During lunch,

  he eats by himself.

  I leave los Bobbys

  to join him.

  “¿Puedo?”

  I ask as I sit,

  and he nods.

  He doesn’t say much,

  but I learn he’s Honduran.

  Next day, I ask

  Mr. García to let me

  tutor Andrés.

  He pairs us up.

  “¿Por qué?”

  the new kid asks.

  I shrug. “Why not?”

  And I help him read

  a word problem.

  A week goes by.

  Andrés warms to me,

  joins us at lunch,

  chats with Delgado.

  Until,

  reading a problem

  in halting English,

  he whispers these words—

  “A family takes a train.”

  Eyes red, Andrés

  pushes away from the table

  and runs from the room.

  With Mr. García’s permission,

  I follow.

  At last I find him,

  tucked into a little alcove

  near the library, crying.

  “¿Qué te pasa?” I ask.

  His story comes steaming out—

  threats against the family,

  abandoning Honduras,

  risking life and limb on la Bestia,

  the black train that rattles

  through Mexico bottom to top.

  Hopeful and dreaming of new lives,

  refugees from all over cling

  to that dangerous metal.

  One terrible day, its wheels

  sliced off his brother’s leg.

  “We lost everything

  but each other

  to coyotes and cops

  and bandits,”

  he says.

  “Now we live in a tejabán

  in a colonia. No water,

  no light. But safe.

  Except when I dream.”

  I help him stand, hug him quick.

  I hadn’t realized, but there’s

  a dozen new students

  at school this year—

  like Andrés

  they crossed Mexico

  on top of trains

  through dry deserts,

  sometimes without parents.

  I see the worry

  in their eyes:

  Hunger, deportation,

  school bullies.

  Now Andrés and I

  welcome each

  with a warm smile.

  Bienvenido, we say.

  Welcome, friend.

  CHRISTMAS CONCRETE

  My father is a builder

  like his father Manuel

  and his father before him—

  “Generaciones de albañiles,”

  he says with a smile.

  Over the years

  he’s built his own business,

  a small construction company—

  steady work for abuelo

  and most of my tíos.

  It’s a family thing

  so he makes me help

  when school is out—

  “You need an oficio,

  a profession to sustain you.”

  This winter break,

  I’m assigned to Grandpa Manuel,

  plasterer by trade—

  he makes me carry wet cement

  like grey ice cream in a wheelbarrow.

  It’s cold. My hands are bleeding.

  My muscles ache. I’m sleepy.

  During a break, I groan—

  “I hate this job. Why me?

  I’m going to college, you know.”

  “Ya sé, m’ijo. But there’s value

  in manual labor, Red. Dignity, too.

  Me and your apá, we got a duty—

  can’t let you wind up useless

  with your God-given hands.”

  I guess he’s got a point,

  but believe you me,

  after I get my degree,

  no more Christmas concrete

  for this ginger güero!

  UNCLE JOE’S HISTORY LESSONS

  My uncle Joe

  is the family chronicler,

  a cowboy philosopher,

  our local expert in

  Mexican American history—

  he lived through a lot of it!

  One day we head to the river,

  set up chairs in our favorite spot,

  a shady refuge at the edge of his ranch.

  “When I was a chavalito,” he says, watching

  the water flow, “didn’t nobody teach us

  about our gente, about the Revolución.

  They made the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo

  sound like a blow struck for democracy

  instead of the violent land-grab it was!

  This should be México, m’ijo. The border?

  It crossed right over us.

  “Es más, when I was in elementary

  they didn’t let me call myself José!

  It was Joseph this and Joseph that.

  So I became Joe. And forget using Spanish.

  They caught you saying a single word, y

  ¡PAS! You got smacked.”

  Spellbound and angry, I ask Uncle Joe

  if that’s why he never went to college

  even though he’s so smart.

  “Pos, sí. Also, nobody believed in me.

  Fíjate. When I was in 7th grade like you?

  Counselor asked me what I wanted to be.

  A lawyer, I said. That white lady almost

  laughed in my face. ‘What? No, Joseph.

  You should go to a technical college,

  become a mechanic. No shame in

  Hard work!’ Vieja racista.

  “Still, I kept at it, Güero. Studied hard.

  But in high school? Turned in a paper

  for world history about the Conquista.

  I worked so hard on it, did research,

  revised and edited, todo ese jale.

  Know what I got? An F. I’m not kidding.

  Teacher said it was too good.

  Obviously plagiarized. After that, pos,

  I gave up. Gatekeepers weren’t letting

  this Chicano through.”

  Then he leans forward and looks

  at me, super serious, his eyes suddenly red

  with rage or sadness or hope.

  Even the chachalacas go quiet,

  like they’re listening, too.

  “Don’t you let them stop you, chamaco.

  Push right through them gates.

  It’s your right. You deserve a place

  at that table. But when you take your seat,

  don’t let it change you. Represent us, m’ijo,

  all the ones they kept down. You are us.

  We are you.”

  TAMALADA

  Christmas Eve Day, we gather at Mimi’s house,

  excited to make dozens of warm tamales.

  Usually the women and girls do the work

  while the men watch football. Not this year!

  Teresa, my tomboy sister, wants to see the game,

  so I take her place, happy with my small job

  of soaking the cornhusks in water.

  I love the gossip, el chisme!

  Mimi kneads the masa, of course, correcting

  everyone with a scolding voice though her eyes

  are full of mischief. My mother and her concuñas

  cook the fillings: chicken, beans, pork, sweet raisins.

  Aunt Vero and my cousins Silvia and Magy spread

  a thin layer of dough on cornhusks with silver spoons.

  “Careful!” Mimi calls. “Those are family heirlooms,

/>   last bit of wealth from before la Revolución!”

  Other teams of tías and primas spoon in

  the fillings, fold them up, tie them tight,

  and stand them neat in pots for baño maría steaming.

  The warmth of the kitchen mixes with laughter

  as great-grandma Luisa stirs the champurrado,

  and leads the rich plática: stories, gossip,

  old dichos that make us laugh with happiness

  nourishing us like good tamales!

  “You know, muchachas,” she announces, grinning,

  “Jorge never tried to kiss me when we were a-courtin’.

  As God is my witness. I kept giving him hints, pero nada.

  Well, after a while, I got good and fed up. Took matters

  into my own hands back behind his father’s barn.”

  All the women burst into laughter, and I try to picture

  my great-grandfather Don Jorge as an awkward boy.

  “A bit dense, these men,” Luisa adds with a wink.

  Mimi pulls a fist from the masa and gestures.

  “Like father, like son…con todo respeto,”

  she says to her suegra. “A fact y’all may not know:

  Manuel always cheats on his golf score.

  He figures nobody’s noticed his handicap.”

  Silvia frowns, annoyed. “And you don’t tell him

  anything, abuela?” Mimi laughs. “Ay, m’ija.

  What good would it do? I just let him win!”

  Mom chimes in at once. “Oh, and when he

  and his son get together! Güero, do you remember

  when your grandpa Manuel and your dad

  went deep-sea fishing? Well, they didn’t catch a thing.”

  My mouth falls open. “But…we ate those fillets!”

  Mom shakes her head. “That’s because they bought

  a swordfish from a beachside store. Then they lied,

  said they’d reeled it in by themselves!”

  My little cousin Silvia turns to me. “Hey, didn’t

  Grandpa Manny put beer in your bottle

  when you were a baby?” I shake off some husks

  and reply. “Yup, but I squirted that nasty stuff

  right in his eye!” The women all nod in approval.

  “Cada hombre cuerdo lleva un loco dentro,”

  mutters Tía Susana. “There’s a nutjob waiting

  inside every sane man!” They all agree.

  Tía Vero, laughing, jumps in next. “On the day

  of our wedding, Mike backed his car into a ditch,

  remember? We were already running so late.”

  Mimi groans. “Ah, sí. His brothers had to lift it out.

  Ese Mike, always in danger. You know what they say:

  Arrimarse a la boca del lobo, es de hombre bobo.

  Our men dive right into the jaws of the wolf!

  What lovely fools.”

  Luisa looks at me and shakes her head.

  “Speak of the devil. Los hombres y las gallinas,