They Call Me Güero Read online

  THEY CALL ME

  GÜERO

  THEY CALL ME

  GÜERO

  A BORDER KID’S POEMS

  by DAVID BOWLES

  They Call me Güero: A Border Kid’s Poems. Copyright © 2018 by David Bowles. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written consent from the publisher, except for brief quotations for reviews. For further information, write Cinco Puntos Press, 701 Texas Avenue, El Paso, TX 79901; or call 1-915-838-1625.

  “Border Kid” first appeared in Here We Go: A Poetry Friday Power Book (Princeton, NJ: Pomelo Books, 2017), edited by Sylvia Vardell and Janet Wong. It was then reprinted in the Journal of Children’s Literature, 43(1), p. 16, 2017.

  FIRST EDITION

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Bowles, David (David O.), author.

  Title: They call me Guero : a border kid’s poems / David Bowles.

  Description: First edition. | El Paso, Texas : Cinco Puntos Press, [2018] | Summary: Twelve-year-old Guero, a red-headed, freckled Mexican American border kid, discovers the joy of writing poetry, thanks to his seventh grade English teacher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018027137| ISBN 978-1-947627-06-2 (cloth : alk. cloth)

  ISBN 978-1-947627-07-9 (paper)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Novels in verse. | Mexican Americans—Fiction. | Poetry—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.5.B69 Th 2018 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018027137

  Designed by Michelle Lange, Whack Publications

  Front and back cover illustrations by Zeke Peña, zpvisual.com | @zpvisual

  Moving up with the big boys in Boston now. Don’t forget home.

  CONTENTS

  Border Kid

  Borderlands

  Checkpoint

  Our House

  Pulga Pantoum

  Fingers & Keys

  Lullaby

  Learning to Read

  Nagual

  Bottle Rocket Battle

  First Day of Seventh Grade

  Los Bobbys, or the Bookworm Squad

  They Call Me Güero

  Ms. Wong & the Rabbit

  Trickster

  Birthday Medley

  Sundays

  Records

  Variedad Musical

  La Mano Pachona

  Mischief

  Confession

  Thoughts at Mass

  The Newcomer

  Christmas Concrete

  Uncle Joe’s History Lessons

  Tamalada

  Food for Each Season

  The Gift

  Answering the Bully

  Joanna la Fregona

  Neighborhoods

  Valentine Texts

  Movies

  Remedios y Rarezas

  Cascarón War

  La Lechuza Outside My Window

  Ballad of the Mighty Tlacuach

  Playoff Game

  Spanish Birds

  Mis otros abuelos

  Wedding in Monterrey

  Losing Puchi

  Wheels

  Carne Asada

  Father’s Day

  Teresa’s Quinceañera Waltz

  A Sonnet for Joanna

  The Refuge on the Ranch

  Glossary

  To my family, friends, teachers, and community—without you, I am nothing.

  BORDER KID

  It’s fun to be a border kid, to wake up early Saturdays

  and cross the bridge to Mexico with my dad.

  The town’s like a mirror twin of our own,

  with Spanish spoken everywhere just the same

  but English mostly missing till it pops up

  like grains of sugar on a chili pepper.

  We have breakfast in our favorite restorán.

  Dad sips café de olla while I drink chocolate—

  then we walk down uneven sidewalks, chatting

  with strangers and friends in both languages.

  Later we load our car with Mexican cokes and Joya,

  avocados and cheese, tasty reminders of our roots.

  Waiting in line at the bridge, though, my smile fades.

  The border fence stands tall and ugly, invading

  the carrizo at the river’s edge. Dad sees me staring,

  puts his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, m’ijo:

  “You’re a border kid, a foot on either bank.

  Your ancestors crossed this river a thousand times.

  No wall, no matter how tall, can stop your heritage

  from flowing forever, like the Río Grande itself.”

  BORDERLANDS

  Sixty miles wide

  on either side

  of the river,

  my people’s home

  stretches from gulf

  to mountain pass.

  These borderlands,

  strip of frontier,

  home of hardy plants.

  The thorn forest

  with its black willows,

  Texas ebony, mesquite,

  huisache and brasil.

  Transplanted fields

  of corn and onion,

  sorghum and sugarcane.

  Foreign orchards

  of ruby red grapefruit

  white with flowers.

  Native brush

  rainbow bright

  with purple sage,

  rock rose, manzanilla

  and hackberry fruit.

  Beyond its edges spreads

  the wild desert,

  harsh and lovely

  like a barrel cactus

  in sunny bloom.

  CHECKPOINT

  On our road trip to San Antonio

  for shopping and Six Flags,

  Dad slows the car as we approach

  the checkpoint, all those border patrol

  in their green uniforms, guns on their belts.

  Mom clutches los papeles—our passports,

  her green card. She’s from Mexico. A resident,

  not a citizen, by her own choice. At the checkpoint

  a giant German Shepherd sniffs the tires

  as the agents ask questions, inspect our trunk.

  My little brother squeezes my hand, afraid.

  My rebel sister nods and says her yessirs,

  but I can tell she’s mad, the way her eyes get.

  We’re innocent, sure, but our hearts beat fast.

  We’ve heard stories.

  Bad stories.

  A cold nod and we’re waved along,

  allowed to leave the borderlands—

  made a limbo by the uncaring laws

  of people a long way away who don’t know us,

  a quarantine zone between white and brown.

  I feel angry, just like my sister,

  but I hold it tight inside.

  We just don’t understand

  why we have to prove every time

  that we belong in our own country

  where our mother gave birth to us.

  Dad, like he can feel the bad vibes

  coming from the back seat, tells us to chill.

  “It won’t always be like this,” he says,

  “but it’s up to us to make the change,

  especially los jóvenes, you and your friends.

  Eyes peeled. Stay frosty. Learn and teach the truth.

  Right now? What matters is San Antonio.

  We’ll take your mom shopping,

  go swimming in the Texas-shaped pool,

  and eat a big dinner at Tito’s.

  Order anything you want.”

  And he slides his favorite CD

 
into the battered radio. Los Tigres del Norte

  start belting out “La Puerta Negra”—

  “Pero ni la puerta ni cien candados

  van a poder detenerme.”

  Not the door. Not one hundred locks.

  Ah, my dad. He always knows the right song.

  OUR HOUSE

  Our house wasn’t ready all at once.

  Our house took years to grow,

  like a Monterrey oak gone from acorn

  to tall and broad and shady tree.

  My parents saved for years,

  bought a nice lot on the edge of town,

  drew up the plans with Tío Mike.

  One year the family poured the foundation,

  then the next these concrete walls went up.

  At last my father built a sturdy roof,

  and 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—

  none of the other kids could read.

  She was going to teach us the alphabet

  one letter per day! Not me! No way!

  I dropped out of kindergarten,

  little rebel that I was.

  Instead, my mom took me

  to the public library

  every day, all year long.

  I read book after book after book

  delighting in the new tales,

  the strange and mysterious places.

  And when first grade rolled around

  (not optional like kinder),

  the school was so amazed at my skill

  they put me in a third-grade reading class!

  I got picked on, sure, but I was pretty proud

  and didn’t care when kids called me nerd.

  The school counselor told my folks

  I can already read at college level!

  And I’ve found lots of answers,

  but also many new questions.

  Of course I pass all the state tests

  with super high scores.

  Learning in class is easy for me.

  Dad says all those books

  rewired my brain,

  got me ready

  for study.

  Just think—

  I owe it all to those stories

  my abuelita used to tell us

  sitting in her rocking chair

  as we shivered and thrilled.

  Even then, words were burrowing

  into my brain and waiting,

  like larvae in a chrysalis,

  to unfold their paper wings

  and take me flying into the future.

  NAGUAL

  Late one summer night

  at the ranch,

  we all gather ‘round the fire

  as the dark wraps around us,

  Uncle Joe tells us of the nagual—


  magical trickster shaman

  who shakes off his human form

  to reveal the beast within—

  coyote, wolf or dog—

  and raids ranches

  to feast on cows and sheep.

  Wow!

  I wish I knew that magic,

  could say some spell

  or perform some ritual

  so I could slip my skin

  like that fabled shapeshifter

  and feel the freedom,

  running beneath the stars,

  night wind in my fur,

  eyes bright with glints

  of moonlight

  and wild animal joy!

  BOTTLE ROCKET BATTLE

  Like every other Fourth of July,

  we gather to celebrate out on the ranch.

  My father and uncles light the mesquite

  as they sip on cervezas and talk about sports.

  While our mothers prepare the feast,

  my cousins and brother shoot BBs at birds.

  But Teresa and me, we just huddle inside

  and enjoy a new video, laughing at jokes.

  Our abuela’s invited the new parish priest:

  He flies back and forth like a black Chachalaca.

  I guess it gets boring hearing confession,

  so now he’s all busy, sharing the gossip!

  When the carne asada is ready, we eat.

  I stuff quesadillas with fajitas and beans,

  guacamole as well. Then I grab a coke

  from the ice. It’s apple, my favorite flavor.

  The music is loud, lots of cumbias and salsa

  streamed from our Tía Isabel’s phone,

  mixing with laughter and shouts and singing

  as the sleepy red sun slips its way from the sky.

  Soon it gets dark. Since our bellies are full,

  all us kids group together and open the fireworks.

  The little huerquitos get bags of snapdragons.

  Others light strings of black cats and laugh.

  Now Grandpa Manuel, a Vietnam vet,

  gives a moving speech about the U.S.,

  the country he loves, the friends he lost,

  and his dreams for us all. A moment of silence.

  Then Isabel pulls up Grandpa’s favorite playlist,

  and to the beat of patriotic songs,

  Uncle Joe and Tío Mike

  set off the bigger, brighter bangs!

  The national anthem fades. Then sparklers slash

  the dark in the hands of pingos, like Jedi

  who face a horde of deadly Sith.

  My cousin René gives a sinful grin.

  “Are you ready for bottle rocket battle?”

  he asks us older boys with a wave.

  We all nod and follow as he leads us behind