Book Read Free

They Call Me Güero

Page 4

by David Bowles


  poco tiempo en la cocina, Güerito. Go on,

  check the score. My Cowboys best be winning!”

  I head to the living room, hear encouraging cheers,

  think about the gossip I’ve heard. It might sound

  mean, but it’s just for fun. They love us, their men and

  boys, warts and all.

  After the game, the whole clan sits down to eat,

  smiling and hungry, offering prayers and replays.

  The tamales are more delicious than ever,

  bursting with flavor, full of rich fillings, sure,

  but also so much history,

  hard work, great fun,

  and family magic.

  FOOD FOR EACH SEASON

  EIGHT HAIKU

  San Marcos blanket—

  only the sound of bacon

  can make me emerge.

  Sipping atole,

  folks search their piece of rosca

  for baby Jesus.

  Hazy spring morning—

  stopping for breakfast tacos

  on the way to school.

  South Padre Island

  teeming with college students,

  the warm Gulf with shrimp.

  Fragrant white flowers

  on a sea of glossy green—

  Red Ruby grapefruit.

  The smell of pizza

  in the hallways of my school—

  summer’s almost here.

  Cold and juicy red—

  the watermelon awaits

  its chile dusting.

  White-hot, pitiless,

  the sun bakes the earth bone-dry…

  where’s the raspa man?

  THE GIFT

  This whole semester I’ve moaned and groaned,

  “All of my friends have got a cell phone!”

  while I begged my parents for one of my own.

  “You’re way too young,” my mom calmly said.

  “They’re way too expensive,” added my dad,

  “It would put our budget far into the red!”

  Grandpa Manny argued they make kids lazy.

  Abuela declared I would drive her crazy:

  Eyes glued to the screen, sight going hazy.

  No phone till high school begins, it seems.

  But as presents pile up under the tree,

  I examine each bag and box carefully.

  A daily ritual until Christmas morning,

  when we rip off the wrapping in front of adoring

  adults. I’m a bit disappointed until, without warning,

  Dad hands me a gift that fits in my palm,

  I tear the thing open, forgetting all calm.

  It’s a cheap pulga knock-off, but I do not groan—

  I hug both my parents, shouting,

  “Thanks for the phone!”

  ANSWERING THE BULLY

  First I hear

  Snake’s voice.

  “Think you’re all that,

  güero cacahuatero?”

  Then his hand

  grabs my head,

  slams me into a locker.

  I stumble, turn.

  “What the—?”

  He sneers at me

  and everybody

  in the hallway

  laughs.

  “Fancy house,

  teacher’s pet,

  stupid poems,

  all these freckles—

  you’re just a gringo nerd.”

  I can’t think.

  The bell’s about to ring.

  I rush to class.

  Ms. Wong frowns

  at the red blotch

  on my face.

  My friends whisper

  encouragement,

  but my ears are

  full of rage.

  He’s too big,

  too mean,

  too ignorant.

  I yank out

  my journal

  and answer Snake

  with words

  instead of fists.

  Ms. Wong watches,

  concern on her face,

  as I scratch

  furiously.

  And when her timer

  dings

  she asks me to

  stand and read.

  Yo, bullies: lero, lero

  I’m the mero Güero

  a real cacahuatero,

  peanuts and chile

  all up in this cuero,

  this piel, this skin—

  it’s white, that’s true

  but I’m just as Mexican

  as you and you and you.

  My voice shakes

  but I meet their eyes.

  In the back,

  Snake’s friend

  El Chaparro

  shakes his head,

  puts his phone away.

  He’s recorded

  every word.

  I head for my seat.

  Bobby Lee bumps my fist

  before whispering

  “That was lit,

  but he’s gonna kill you.”

  Probably.

  Still, it felt good

  to stand my ground

  and clap back

  with rap.

  JOANNA LA FREGONA

  Even when I was a little boy

  still thinking girls were gross,

  Abuela Mimi gave me romantic advice:

  “Find yourself a fregona, Güerito,

  a tough one who doesn’t need you at all

  but wants you anyway.

  Así como María Félix o Frida Kahlo,

  a woman who will be your companion,

  your equal in life and love.”

  Now I know what she meant.

  There’s a girl in my social studies class,

  Joanna Padilla. Can’t get her off my mind.

  She’s kind of pretty, but that’s not

  what matters to me.

  She’s smart and rude,

  takes judo classes after school,

  helps her dad in his body shop,

  loves superhero films and video games.

  Okay, I’m a little obsessed, I’ll admit.

  But I have zero luck. When I ask her

  to be my girlfriend, she just laughs.

  I even write her a long poem,

  which she just sticks in her back pocket

  like a restroom pass. Nothing works!

  After school that bully Snake Barrera

  decides to rearrange my face, just as

  Joanna goes walking by. “Help me!”

  I call. “Help me, Joanna.” She turns

  and tells him to leave me alone.

  When he laughs and tries to hit me again,

  she grabs his arm and throws him down.

  “Took guts to ask a girl for help,”

  Joanna says as she pulls me to my feet.

  “I liked your poem. Funny and sweet.

  Okay, Güero. You can be my boyfriend.”

  I wipe blood from my lip

  as the kids who’ve gathered

  Go “ooh” and “aah.”

  Then my fregona smiles.

  “You got any money?

  We can go to Rosy’s.

  Fighting makes me hungry.”

  NEIGHBORHOODS

  When school’s out each day

  I walk home with my bros and girl,

  stopping at Rosy’s Drive-Thru

  for Takis preparados

  and agua mineral.

  There, Handy’s mom

  picks him up in her hybrid.

  Like all the older families,

  they live closer

  to the heart of town.

  Sometimes Lee catches a ride with them

  to his family’s store.

  The rest of us keep walking.

  Andrés peels off toward the south,

  waving goodbye

  as he enters his colonia—

  caliche streets, mobile homes,

  wooden shacks.

  His dogs
rush to greet him.

  Rising slow across the street

  come cinderblock shells of houses,

  partly finished and partially roofed,

  promised futures looming.

  Joanna squeezes my hand

  and heads that way with Delgado

  licking Taki dust off her fingers.

  A subdivision

  sprawls a little farther down—

  big residences

  bought ready-made by families

  who come with plenty of cash.

  On days when Lee has piano practice,

  he slaps me on the back

  and hurries along those well-paved streets,

  past manicured lawns

  to his parents’ fancy home.

  Our house, though,

  stands by itself,

  on a half-acre lot

  in the shade of mesquite,

  ebony, anacua trees.

  I pause on the porch

  and look back up the road.

  We were one of the first families

  here on the northernmost side.

  Dad helped build a bunch

  of these neighborhoods

  as new moms and dads arrived

  from Mexico and even further south.

  Everyone works hard, tries to make

  a better life for their families.

  I feel safe on these caliche streets,

  among these humble houses—

  I hear little kids laughing

  in the distance

  and I smile.

  VALENTINE TEXTS

  me:

  bae u want roses

  or candy for valentines?

  im shopping for something nice

  her:

  roses die, wero

  candy gives me zits. mejor

  hold my hand, write me a poem

  MOVIES

  We’ve got a plan.

  One Saturday me and los Bobbys

  get dropped off at the movies

  by our parents.

  Joanna’s already there

  with three of her cousins.

  We buy popcorn and coke.

  My friends make stupid jokes.

  The girls just roll their eyes and giggle.

  We grab seats in a middle row:

  Boys on the left, girls on the right,

  me and Joanna in the middle.

  The plan is working perfectly.

  At least for me. Los Bobbys?

  They keep stealing glances,

  but Joanna’s cousins

  act like they don’t notice

  my weird and desperate friends.

  The movie takes forever to start.

  Fifteen minutes of commercials,

  followed by trailers that spoil

  all the cool scenes and jokes

  of the spring’s big releases.

  Finally the lights dim.

  It’s the latest superhero film.

  I try to pay attention

  but it’s not all that intense.

  Besides, I feel Joanna’s presence

  like electricity crackling beside me.

  A moment of suspense comes—

  she jumps, grabs my hand.

  Our fingers lock and the film fades.

  All I can think about is the pressure

  of her arm against mine,

  the scent of her hair

  as she leans against me,

  putting her head on my shoulder.

  Then the credits roll.

  The lights come on.

  We untangle ourselves,

  and I feel a little weird.

  Me and Joanna,

  we don’t look at each other.

  But somehow each boy

  is sitting next to a girl!

  How did that happen?

  I laugh with los Bobbys.

  Joanna talks with her cousins.

  We all try to act

  like nothing has changed.

  REMEDIOS Y RAREZAS

  SUPERSTITIOUS SENRYU

  Me and los Bobbys

  compare all the strange beliefs

  our families share.

  Red rags around chair legs

  so tricky little devils

  don’t make moms forget.

  If you hiccup,

  Abuelita licks a red thread,

  sticks it to your forehead.

  For the worst migraines,

  rolling an egg on your head

  takes away the pain.

  Sweep a girl’s feet

  and she’ll never get married—

  my sister grabs the broom!

  When nothing goes right,

  bundles of burning sage

  drive bad vibes away.

  Chamomile tea

  (to judge from how much we drink)

  must cure everything.

  At dinner tables,

  you never pass the salt—

  it’s just bad luck.

  My tías’ purses

  have never touched the floor—

  they think they’ll go broke.

  I wore red chones

  on New Year’s—a gift from Mom.

  Love was on its way!

  CASCARON WAR

  After Easter Mass,

  we head to Tía Vero’s house

  to hunt for bright eggs

  amid blooming citrus trees.

  Half-acre dotted

  with specks of vibrant color:

  Huercos rush with joy,

  baskets swinging in their hands.

  Some eggs are plastic,

  stuffed with candy, jangling coins.

  I want the others,

  los cascarones!

  These are the true prizes!

  Hollowed out, confetti-filled

  or heavy with flour,

  sealed with tape and loud pastels.

  Cousins jostle me,

  competing for this ammo,

  these small gaudy bombs

  we collect in plastic bags.

  Even young uncles

  snatch a few from little kids

  and the war is on

  like mock combats in ancient times.

  Teresa gets me,

  smashes the shell on my head

  rainbow dandruff falls,

  but I don’t chase her. Patience.

  Instead, I lob eggs

  at Joseph and Álvaro,

  duck down so pingos

  like Arturo can reach me.

  I crack a pink shell

  in the air over mom’s hair

  (would never hit her)

  and let vivid fragments fall.

  The yard’s a riot

  of squeals and screams and laughter.

  Little bits of construction paper

  drift among the flowers.

  I see my sister. Time for payback!

  I stalk her like a hunter,

  keeping out of sight,

  circling behind the grapefruit trees.

  I heft the flour-packed cascarón,

  sneaking up behind her, then

  CRASH! against her cranium:

  Dust her ghost-white in revenge.

  LA LECHUZA OUTSIDE MY WINDOW

  Last night I stayed up late

  watching a horror movie on my tablet.

  It was hard to get to sleep—

  I lay there tossing and turning

  for a while, squeezing my eyes shut,

  but the moonlight streaming in

  was too bright on my face,

  so I got up, sighing, to close the blinds.

  There,

  on a thick limb

  of the mesquite tree

  just outside my window,

  perched the biggest lechuza

  I have ever seen, a bone-white

  screech owl with inky black eyes

  and demon-horn tufts high on its head,

  which swiveled toward me at that very moment.

  I could hear Mimi’s voice<
br />
  echoing in my fluttering heart:

  “Not all lechuzas are simple owls, Güerito.

  Some are witches in disguise

  using the cover of feathers and darkness

  to carry out bad deeds. Así que ojo,

  be on your guard. If it stares, not blinking,

  then lets loose a horrible screech,

  it might be the end of you!”

  I don’t believe her legends anymore,

  I’m not a little kid, shivering in fear

  that a witch owl could come crashing

  through the window, into my room,

  and fly away with me in its talons.

  But still

  I thought,

  why tempt fate?

  I closed the blinds,

  drew the curtains shut,

  and got back under the covers.

  Now I struggled even more

  to drift off, but finally I did,

  Durmiendo con los angelitos.

  Till I woke up with a start

  around 3 am,

  covered in sweat,

  panting,

  the screech of an owl

  echoing in my ears.

  I leaped from bed

  and pulled back the curtains

  of the south window,

  peering through the blinds.

  Nothing.

  I laughed weakly

  at my own foolishness

  and turned back to bed.

  That’s when I saw it,

  silhouetted against the curtains

  of the west window,

  the one with no blinds at all.

  The owl had flown to a different tree,

  sat there in silence, staring at me.

  Without hesitation, I grabbed my pillow

  and my blanket, hurried down the hall

  to my little brother’s room

  and squeezed beside him on that narrow bed.

  It’s strange how safe

  another person’s presence makes us feel.

  He couldn’t do a thing to stop the owl,

  but his gentle breathing calmed my fear.

  I closed my tired eyes at last,

  glad to be next to my little brother.

  Better to be safe than sorry, I thought

  as I fell back into deep sleep.

  BALLAD OF THE MIGHTY TLACUACHE

  The big opossum clambered down

  the knotted old mesquite;

  as night had fallen thick and dark,

  it was now time to eat.

  The humans’ garbage can was close,

  he followed that sweet smell.

  But then he caught the briefest whiff

  of evil scents as well—

  The prowling cat, his nemesis!

  Invader of this land!

  Whose ancestors had crossed the sea

  along with the white man!

  It leapt into the space between

  Tlacuache and his meal;

  it arched its back and puffed its fur

 

‹ Prev