They Call Me Güero. David Bowles
in we moved,
finishing it room by room,
everyone lending a hand,
every spare penny spent
para hacernos un hogar—
a home that glows warm with love.
Now it’s like a bit of our souls
has fused with the block and wood.
I can’t imagine life without this place—
on these tiles I learned to walk.
Here are my height marks,
with fading dates,
higher and higher.
Oh, all the laughs and tears
we’ve shared at that table!
All the cool movies we’ve watched
sitting on that couch!
And here’s my room,
filled with all my favorite stuff,
sitting in the shade of the anacua tree
I once helped to plant.
A modest home, sure,
but inside its cozy walls we celebrate
all the riches that matter.
PULGA PANTOUM
Mom and I love to go to the pulga,
to get lost in the crowd that flows
between all the busy stalls,
drawn to colors, sounds, and smells.
To get lost in the crowd. That flows
from our instincts, I bet. Humans are
drawn to colors, sounds, and smells
like a swarm of bees to blooming flowers.
From our instincts, I bet humans are
happiest together. Bulging bags in hand,
like a swarm of bees to blooming flowers,
people meet for friendly haggling.
Happiest together, bulging bags in hand—
Mom and I love to go to the pulga!
People meet for friendly haggling
between all the busy stalls.
FINGERS & KEYS
My mom’s the organist
for our parish—
One of the last, she says.
When I was little, she taught me to play
on a worn-out old upright
that stands in a corner
of our dining room,
holding up family photos.
Even though I’m twelve now,
when I sit down to practice,
laying my hands
upon the keys,
I sometimes feel her fingers on mine
light as feathers
but guiding me
all the same.
LULLABY
Like lots of border kids,
my first song was a lullaby
that my abuela sang
to warn me and to mystify.
My mom says when I got home,
smiling without teeth,
she took me in her arms
and serenaded me—
Duérmete mi niño
duérmeteme ya
porque viene el Cucu
y te comerá.
Y si no te come,
él te llevará
hasta su casita
que en el monte está.
Go to sleep, my baby
sleep for me right now
to keep Cucu from coming
and swallowing you down.
And if he doesn’t eat you
he’ll take you far from me
to his little cabin
that sits amid the trees.
So I learned the dangers
of this crazy, mixed-up place—
there are monsters lurking,
but family lore can keep you safe.
LEARNING TO READ
When I was a little kid,
my abuela Mimi would ease down
into her old, creaky rocking chair
to tell my cousins and me
such spine-tingling tales
as ever a pingo fronterizo,
crazy for cucuys, could hope to hear.
I always had questions
at the end of Mimi’s stories.
What was the little boy’s name?
What did his parents do
when they found him missing
from his room?
Is there a special police squad
that tracks down monster hands
and witch owls and sobbing spirits
in order to save the boys and girls
that they’ve stolen?
“No sé, m’ijo. The story just ends.
Happened once upon a time.
Nobody knows.”
But I didn’t get it. I was so literal.
I believed every story she told was true.
So I kept asking my questions,
guessing at answers
till she broke down at last
and told me the greatest truth:
“You have to learn to read, Güerito.
You will only find what you seek
in the pages of books.”
So I began to bug my mom
to teach me to read till she did.
I was barely five at the time.
First day of kinder arrived, and I was so excited
at all the books my sister said were waiting
on the shelves for me.
But then the teacher started drawing
the letter “A” on the board, and I soon got it—