by Aida Salazar
with my crayons
show everyone
a few of mine
as samples.
To make a picture poem
first, close your eyes.
I tell them.
Then let your imagination
lead to where your heart is
and ask,
How are you feeling?
Now sit with the answer
and if it is sad or scary
or happy or grumpy
then ask yourself,
What does your feeling look like?
What shapes appear?
What words appear?
What story are you telling?
You don’t have to use
many words or draw
a lot of details.
The two can help
each other tell
what’s in your heart.
Never forget
to sign and date them
at the bottom.
This is exactly what I do
when I make one of mine.
A princess with a broken crown.
Papi, you told me you would bring me to the place where princesses are born.
A cargo train with people riding on top, hanging on the sides, reaching for others on the ground.
We rode La Bestia to get here. Once, some women gave us a bag of food.
Kids playing with a soccer ball in a field and men with guns spraying bullets.
I played fútbol with my friends before they came to kill us.
People riding on a raft on a river being led by a man with a coyote’s face.
Coyotes are animals that howl in the night and take your money and your soul too.
Marisel draws a girl with thought-bubble swirls all around her head.
I dream of a day when all migrants are free and I am too.
Carlos draws a boxy superhero with lightning bolts for hands.
Super Electric has arrived to knock down the bad guys.
Yanela draws a girl flying over a field of flowers.
When I am a crane, no one can hurt me.
Josefina draws a woman reaching for three children on the other side of a fence.
The day they took my children, I died inside.
Ellie draws a girl standing by the seashore, holding a smaller boy’s hand.
My little brother is gone because we were too poor to buy him medicine.
He was my best friend.
Ellie’s mom draws a crying woman holding a child in her arms.
If I could hold you one more time, my boy, if I could hold you.
We make three picture poems each
and Alas is almost out of paper
so we have to stop.
I ask Marisel if I can keep
a few sheets for myself.
Of course, kid. Maybe these
will be enough for Fernanda
to launch our campaign.
What campaign?
I thought they were for lawyers?
The world needs to see
these picture poems, kid.
She sits up to argue.
They go beyond hashtags.
They are telling the true story
of who we are, where we’ve
come from, and what we need.
That’s not what they’re for, Marisel!
Probably not to you, but if you think
about it, these drawings might
be what people need to see
to understand how much we suffer.
I don’t know.
Trust me. Please, kid.
We should at least try.
I say okay because I know
picture poems have never let me down.
Some of the kids sing their times tables
together during outdoor time.
They stopped doing it indoors
because it makes me cry
to think la escuelita goes on
without Mami.
I can hear them even though
I am on the opposite side
of the yard watching Yanela
and Ellie chase each other
around a trash can.
I don’t know if I will ever
see Mami or Papi again.
I don’t know if I will ever
meet my baby sister.
She didn’t say how or why
but she held a fat stack
of paper and a plastic box
filled with crayons
and put them on the floor
inside our cell.
Then she locked the gate
and left the smell of
her yellow hair
in the air
behind her.
Fernanda can’t
hold back the quiver
in her voice when she
finally speaks to me.
I don’t care.
I want my mami.
I want my baby sister.
I want my papi,
I say, like a recording on repeat.
I wish I could give them to you, sweetheart,
but I can’t. Your mami and your sister
both still have a blood infection. Their condition is delicate.
Why can’t I be with them?
I could help them.
I could sing to them.
They can’t be around other people and because
you have to stay here to wait with Tía Raquel.
But I haven’t even seen Tía Raquel!
I will have to look into getting you
into the same cell, in the very least.
Why can’t Papi be with Mami and the baby, then?
Because he has to stay in Mexico. I wasn’t
able to get ahold of him before I came.
But we are a family!
I scream.
I don’t get it.
¡No entiendo, no entiendo!
foams from my mouth.
I don’t understand
and Fernanda
can’t do
a thing.
Marisel paces in front of me
when she’s done with Fernanda.
I gave her
almost one hundred
of our picture poems
for the campaign.
Twenty-five of those
are some of my best.
You’re our teacher, they ARE the best!
The group she works with
is going to do an art exhibit
and they’ll hang them up and
invite people, newspeople too.
Do you think they will hang them
on a laundry line
like Mami used to do with mine?
Marisel moves one strand of hair
behind my ear as she says,
They’ll probably put them in frames, kid,
to sell them to raise money to pay Fernanda
so she can keep working for us for free.
That’s something I never thought
about. Marisel knows
another side of Fernanda
I don’t even know.
twenty days since Mami bled
twenty sunlight times
twenty more moms and kids
inside our cell crying
their hands, lips, and feet
turning cold blue.
Twenty more times I don’t
want to fly with Yanela and Ellie
or fight with Carlos.
Even baby Jakie doesn’t
make me laugh.
I count one kick in my face
while I slept, from a guard
who was looking for
someone else.
And fifteen days since
Fernanda took our picture poems
but now she is back
to tell us
our campaign is starting to go viral!
AND, people are protesting because
they saw the pictures and words
of our ni
ghtmares
and it scared them too.
Marisel and I
get called to the office
without a warning.
Marisel, what if we’re in trouble
because of the picture poems?
She rubs the top of my hand before
she holds it and pulls me to walk.
I wouldn’t put it past them. They suck.
We are taken to an empty room
except for a few chairs and
a bunch of equipment
I’ve never seen.
There are a couple of fancy clothes
there with Fernanda
who aren’t lawyers but who say
they are reporters.
We would like to talk to you both
if that is okay?
I pull Marisel’s hand away,
but she pulls me back.
I can’t. I don’t want to.
Listen, Betita, this might
be the only way to get us out
of here. Maybe someone will
see this and help us.
A woman reporter interrupts,
You don’t need to worry
we can only capture your silhouette
because you are a minor.
So I slowly sit with Marisel
in front of big lights
big cameras
in a big room
to talk about
the hunger strike
and our
picture poems
and what we’ve
been through.
When we tell the others about the interview
Josefina asks us to pray to be set free.
She says maybe this will be it.
I close my eyes and don’t pray.
All my wishes are strangled
inside a fallen sky
that only knows
this cement floor
these fences
the no-nothings that can be dones
the blood infection baby sisters and Mamis
the faraway Papis
the you stay theres
the solitas
the hunger strikes
the viral picture poems
the Alas
with only four of my own pages
left to feel and spell
with only four
pages left
of sky
to fall
into.
They are a swarm
of uniforms and suits
like a mess of wild wasps
attacking.
They are rude when
they break up our cell.
Children cry and cling to mothers
when they make a line of adults
and begin to place a thick electronic brace
on their ankles, tightly.
Anklets that mean some sort of freedom?
Marisel says these braces will track them
so they show up to court
but first they have to pay a small bail bond.
Marisel is called into that line
she begins to light up with happiness
like the others, no matter that
the suits wear scowls and stiff eyes.
Other families are lined up and told
they will be transferred
to a temporary family housing shelter
run by a charity, with beds,
fresh clothes, no cages
and they will be
together.
Yanela, Carlos, and Jackie
line up next to Josefina with
smiles so bright they shine.
Josefina doesn’t get out of line
but blows me handfuls of kisses
then lifts
her arms in front of her
and makes them round
as if her air hug
could reach
me.
Yanela pulls free
and runs to my side.
She holds both my hands
says, Cuídate mucho, Betita
as she wraps me in a hug.
Thank you for being my only
friend. Thank you for teaching me to fly.
You take good care too, Yanela.
I hold on to her extra long
before she breaks away and joins
the line, waving.
Parents still waiting for their
children to be returned will
stay in an adult cell until
they can make a connection
with their kids
their faces torn
with sadness.
The almost solitas and their kids
who have someone
waiting for them on the
outside will be released.
Suddenly, I see a face I think
I recognize walk through the gate.
My Tía Raquel has come
into the cage with me!
But she is not the same.
Her eyes are two sunken holes,
her face is so thin her cheekbones
look like sharp razor blades,
her lips are as cracked
as old pavement,
and she doesn’t speak.
Tía, it’s me, Betita! I say.
She doesn’t respond
but looks right through me
like a person eaten by despair.
I will stay right here
inside this monster
with childless parents
and parentless children
like me.
Marisel mouths words
to me I can’t make
out at first. She moves
farther away in line.
I think she says,
Thank you, kid! You did this! Thank you!
But I can’t be sure.
We did do something.
I put Alas to my chest
take a deep breath
and smile
feeling my heart
tug with happiness
for them and
collapse with
an ache as big as
a mountain
for my family
too.
I have no update to give you, Betita.
I haven’t been able to get in touch
with anyone with a brain
at the prison hospital.
Fernanda is calmly worried.
I know.
You should feel so proud for making
things really change here, Betita.
Yeah.
Your picture poems have gone
across the country and have helped
so many people understand.
They were everyone’s work.
But they didn’t help me.
That’s because I can’t ask for a court date
until I know your mother’s condition.
But once I do and we show the judge
your drawings, I have a good feeling
you will be able to get asylum.
I shrug because I don’t believe her, but I don’t say so.
I have some things for you, Betita.
A new notebook with better paper
and some new crayons.
Thank you, Fernanda, I say,
my seriousness
swallowing
the truth of what I really want.
And this envelope here
is from your father, in Mexico.
Papi?
Yes, sweetheart, your papi.
It has been opened because
it needed to pass inspection.
A guard hands me Fernanda’s gifts.
My hands shake
as I reach for the envelope
and begin to open it
so slowly
my palms sweat.
When I lift the flap
I can s
mell Papi again!
The smell of him is mixed
with the scent of plants and earth
I don’t recognize.
But I close the lid and ask,
Can I take these?
Absolutely!
I thank her and
say goodbye so quickly
I trip over my words.
I hope that when you read this letter, we are one day closer to being together again. It is so difficult to try to explain to you why we are apart. I have trouble understanding it myself. I have been so worried, amorcito, because Mami and the baby are so sick, and worried you are all alone in that place. I don’t know how things got so mixed up. I don’t know how this will all turn out. All I can say is, I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry, Betita. I hope one day you will find a way to understand and to forgive me.
Fernanda tells me how brave you have been and about how you taught people to fly into the beauty of their suffering, like I’ve always reminded you to do and how that has changed things for so many. You’ve always been so good at flying.
I am especially grateful for the crane poems you sent me. I don’t know which one is my favorite. Each one made my heart soar, made me feel so close to you, but also, some made me cry because I cannot believe how much you have been through and I wished to be there. Flying together. Because you do, you fly like a tocuilcoyotl, inside these poems and pictures, even if you think your wings are gone.
I have tried to write crane poems to you too. Some were not so good, so I only included the best ones here. The ones with más sentimiento, like you do it. I tried, I really did. When I see you again, I will have to be a better student.
Before I end this letter, I want you to take something straight into the center of your bones. You are the daughter and granddaughter of people who work hard at all things. We work hard to love, to live a decent life, to be and do good, to be one of the many cranes that migrate, searching for a safe home. Please don’t ever forget that. Please don’t ever forget you come from this flight for freedom.
I love you from here to where the stars never end.
Amor eterno,
Tu Papi
He drew a flock of cranes flying over a big wall.
He spelled:
We are cranes.
Though we are apart
one day we will fly together again
to find Aztlán waiting.
He drew my face surrounded by clouds.
He spelled:
Across a reddish-blue sky
I see you in the
wind-swept clouds
and I miss you.
He drew a crane landing in an agave field.
He spelled:
You have been in my work
earth
rain
