Moonwalking, page 2
from Alina
Joe Strummer said
you don’t need talent
you don’t need skill
all you need is a loud voice
an electric guitar
three chords
and a story.
MISSING ALINA
Left behind on Long Island
like our house and furniture
my board games and LEGO bricks
is my sister
Alina
who taught me to dribble a basketball
wait for my turn
punch a bully smack on the nose.
She said there’s no room for her
in Brooklyn.
The basketball team needs its point guard
the honor society its treasurer
Claire O’Keefe her best friend.
I wish I had a best friend to stay with
a full scholarship
a place on the team.
Maybe Brooklyn is your place, JJ,
she said
the day
before our night flight.
And when you’re not
just
my kid brother
you’ll become
the person you’re meant to be.
I pat down my hair where she used to ruffle it.
Even if she’s right
my family’s the chair I sit on
and leaving her behind
kicks one of the
legs
right
out
from
under
me.
SUGARLAND
there is sweetness in Los Sures
some days when the wind blows off the river
you can even taste azúcar in the air
sugar crystals crushed to dust
float on the breeze and
coat the clothes and eyelashes of
all the workers in the Domino factory
the Sugar House they call it
a tree grows in Brooklyn but
sugarcane sprouts in the Caribbean
and then leaves like we do
crosses the sea and gets ground up in this city
by machines running all day and night
just to make life a bit sweeter for everyone else
Mami says once upon a time on our island
people like us cut sugarcane by hand
with machetes sharpened by stones and
swung beneath a sweltering sun
out here
on my bloque
blades cut other things
this ain’t no West Side Story
with blanquitos pretending
to be Boricuas
it’s true—we got our own gangs
turf wars & tragedies
hearts break and bodies bleed
yet we still find reasons to dance in the street
on the way home from the store
my face on fire from the food stamps Mami used
we pass three old-timers making music
not ’cause they have to, just ’cause they can
one plays the flute, another strikes a guiro
and the third taps the bongos with wrinkled brown fingers
their tune teases a smile from Mami’s lips
the rhythm loosens everybody’s hips
and soon there’s a party right there on the sidewalk
shame forgotten I take the bag of groceries from Mami
and Pilar claps a hand over her mouth to keep the giggles inside
as a viejo pulls our mother into his arms
cradles her like she is made of glass
and then twirls her como una reina at a cotillón
meanwhile down the bloque
B-boys pop and lock
as a boom box blasts beats & rhymes
emcees flow over scratched-up tracks
and bodies bend but never break
kids not much older than me
battle on sheets of cardboard laid over concrete
I watch them wheel their legs like windmills
spin on their skullies
float over the ground as if
on the
they’re walking moon
Los Sures is full of music
it pours into the street from passing cars
and open bedroom windows
it rains down on us free as water
from a hydrant on a hot summer’s day
music brings relief, release
we soak ourselves
catch droplets on our tongues
because there is just as much sweetness
in Mami’s boleros
as there is in Pilar’s coquito
scooped cold from Jose’s creaking carrito
and for me—all the sugarcane in the world
couldn’t be as sweet as a shy smile
or secret wave from Benita
when her father looks
the other way
life isn’t easy in Los Sures
we may get beat down
ground up and sacked
but we are not defeated
life can sometimes be bitter
there is still sweetness here
PUBLIC SCHOOL
I
Middle school a number:
126
Four-story building takes up the whole block.
How will I find my classroom
change rooms before the late bell rings
avoid shoves from behind
feet outstretched?
I have no choice
no Catholic school scholarship like Alina.
It’s public school for me.
Why couldn’t I have fit in
followed the rules
even if I didn’t understand
or believe them
made a team
gotten A’s on my report cards
instead of C’s
because I read books I wanted
like The Chocolate War
instead of the ones the teachers assigned?
A book is a book, right?
Everyone here is a stranger
everyone with dark hair
like mine
but as I draw closer
I see their faces
a hundred shades
of brown
and across the street
under a tree
a tight circle
of white faces
close to each other
apart from the rest
their expressions
tough
grim
ready.
Do I go to them?
Is that where I belong?
With the faces of kids
who messed with me since kindergarten
or else stood by and watched.
I turn away from them
pass through the sea of
brown
browner
brownest
Do they see my hands shake
throat close, heartbeat stutter
knees wobble as I step inside?
Does my blood drain to my feet
no fight
no flight
face pale …
white
whiter
whitest …
ghost
II
In homeroom
the only other person
who looks like me
is the teacher.
She stumbles over
Narvaez
Ortiz-Irrizarry
Pumarejo
and the kids shout out
laugh
or argue
with her:
“My name.
Don’t tell me how
to pronounce it.”
She has no problem with
Pankowski
(even pronounces the w as v).
When she calls me
I only raise my hand
imagine she sees me.
I cannot speak
much less tell her
I go by JJ
not Joseph John.
Nobody notices me
and that’s the way
I need it.
INVISIBLE ME
One week later
they still haven’t noticed
me.
I watch them.
Black
Brown
White
from afar
grateful.
They’re a team
I won’t go out for.
A party
for which
I don’t beg
an invitation.
A universe
I dare
not
disturb.
Except for the call
that comes
to Dad
at home
in the afternoon.
His face goes
red:
“What do you mean
he hasn’t been
in class? We send him
every
single
morning.”
redder:
“Skipping classes? He’s had
his problems
but skipping class
was never
one
of them.”
reddest:
“I don’t know where he goes.
You bet I’ll be there first thing
tomorrow with him.”
Click!
Slam!
“JJ, come here right now!”
His palm smacks my cheek.
Glasses fly.
Face stings.
Teeth throb.
Eyelids burn.
No! Can’t cry
or he’ll give me
even more
to cry about.
“I went to every class
every day.” I try
not to whimper.
Wimp.
“I’ll
show
you.”
I dash to my corner
my box
flip through my notebooks
show him notes
homework
the “Do Now” that begins each class:
Write a sentence using one word
we defined yesterday.
At high latitude the nights are short in summer
and long in winter.
We live in a high latitude.
Is this my family’s winter?
This time he believes me
doesn’t hit me again
doesn’t say he’s sorry either
can’t send me to my room
because it’s Babcia’s
living room.
Next day
he shows the dean my notebooks.
“My boy was in all his classes
and your teachers didn’t see him?”
“Thirty-five in a class, Mr. Pankowski.
Sometimes it’s hard
to keep track,” she says.
My last school had sixteen.
The dean looks my way.
I avoid her eyes
cover my ears to muffle
the whirring fan
blowing nothing
except
hot air.
“Joseph John…”
“It’s JJ,” I mumble.
Gaze fixed on too-tight sneakers
duct tape wrapped across one toe.
“JJ.”
She stops.
Starts.
“Has anyone bullied you?”
I shake my head
sit on my hands
to keep from touching
my throbbing cheek.
Not here.
Not yet.
SPEAK UP
“Son, you need to speak up,”
Dad says
with a trace of the accent
he never lost
from the old country
where
Children should be seen
and not heard.
I freeze
confused
cannot speak
now
in the echoey
chipped-tile lobby
any more than
then
in the dean’s office
sweaty butt smashed against
orange plastic chair
useless fan
scrambling
all
the
words.
My mind yells out
those words unspoken
while it rummages for
my invisible list:
Things That Make No Sense
Speak up
Shut up
Put up your dukes
show bullies you mean business
Ignore the bullies
and they’ll go away
Family means everything
No one says Alina’s name
Marriage is forever
for better, for worse
for richer, for poorer
Does Babcia hear
Mom and Dad fight at night
from her bedroom like I do?
Women stay home
and take care of
their kids
Mom and Babcia
clean apartments
across the river
Men get a job
and support
their family
Dad sits home all day
can’t find a job
because he spoke up
You should start a union
go out on strike
fight for your rights
If you work for
Reagan’s government
you have no rights
Fight for freedom
unfurl your red-and-white banner
call yourself
Solidarność
Do what they tell you
don’t speak up
don’t walk the picket line
