The Wild Book (3 page)

If a boy makes eye contact
it means he will marry you,
so all the boys are careful,
while the frowning
old chaperones
remain cautious
and wary.

Girls just daydream
and smile.

Mamá loves verses
as much as I love
guess-me riddles
and strolling
daydreams.

She loves poetry so much
that she named two
of my little brothers
Rubén and Darío,
after a Nicaraguan poet
who writes about towers
of hope.

When I listen as Mamá reads
OUT LOUD, I imagine
the height of my own
wild hopes.

Sometimes I wonder
if Mamá would have liked
to be a poet, instead
of a farm wife.

When my parents met,
she was only fifteen,
but Papá was all grown up.
He rode by on his horse
and saw her playing a game,
pretending that banana leaves
were a green wedding dress.

He asked her father
for her hand, and soon
they were married.

There were babies,
and more babies,
and then my mother
finally finished
growing up.

I don't want to be married,
with babies and worries,
until I am fully grown.
Even then, I would love
to live without the worries.

I will live far from the farm,
in a city with electricity,
where my husband and I
can dance and stroll
beneath cheerful lights.

I will own at least one
lacy dress with a hem
that is never torn
or muddy.

My brothers interrupt
my daydreams.
They whisper Josefa, Fefa,
Fefa
la fea.
Fea.
Ugly.
Certain slimy
froglike words
can do a lot more
than jump and tease.

So when a wild parrot
lands on the red tile roof,
I teach it to call out
feo, feo,
ugly, ugly, hoping
my brothers will understand
that the bright green bird
is talking about them,
not me.

Feo, feo.
The chattering parrot
is no longer wild.
It lives on our roof
and calls everyone ugly,
even grownups
and honored guests.

I am in trouble
for teaching insults
to such a smart bird.

While I am in trouble,
I daydream
to keep my thoughts
bright like the parrot,
instead of hideous
like my fears.

I imagine escaping
on Papá's fastest horse.
Where would I go?
To the tower,
just like my sisters.

The tower is on a farm
where long ago,
two wealthy brothers
competed to see who
was stronger.

One built a tower,
and the other dug a well
just as deep as the height
of the tower.

A wandering woman
poured magic into the well,
but she cursed the tower
with evil enchantments,
because it was said
to be used as a watchtower
for catching runaway slaves,
or as a prison tower
for punishing
rebellious wives.

When I daydream,
I feel certain that I will never
marry a man who keeps captives.
But there are so many types
of men, and types of towers—
how will I know?

Can a tower of fear
ever be transformed
into a tower
of hope?

When I am finally allowed
out of the house, I walk
down to the green river,
where my brothers
are trying to wrestle
a huge
caimán
that looks like a crocodile
or a bumpy green dragon
with sharp, vicious teeth.

I wander too close,
and the beast snaps
at my ankle.
One swallow could take
my whole leg!

My brothers shout,
and instantly I know
that they will tell Mamá,
and I will be in trouble
all over again.

I am so scared that later,
when I am alone
with my wild book,
I pay attention
to all the tiniest sounds
as I struggle to write a list
of the long names
of all my beastly
brothers and sisters.

José de Jesús is the oldest.
He swears he will kill
the
caimán.

Pedro Eulogio brags too,
but Julio Alberto
and Darío Leonelo
are far too young,
and baby Rubén
can't even talk yet.

He just chirps funny tunes
like a new-hatched bird.

Mariana
and María del Carmen
and Juana Quirina
and Leonila Hortensia
and Etelvina María
never brag
about courage
or battling
dragonlike beasts.

All they do is taunt me:
Fefa, Fefa, blind, stupid,
fea
...

Tame sisters
can be even crueler
than wild brothers.

Trying to forget my troubles,
I sit alone, jotting another list
of complicated names
in my wild book.

I spell my own long name:
Josefa de la Caridad Uría Peña.

I sound out the name of our farm:
Goatzacoalco.

I pour out the name of the river:
Manatí.

I print the name of the town:
Trinidad.

I whisper the name
of my favorite daydream:
Happiness.

As soon as I realize
that I have written my own
long name, along with those
of all my brothers and sisters,
I begin to wonder—how
did I learn?

When I write slowly,
learning just seems to grow
out of patience.

The loops of my letters
are almost beautiful!

They look like the tendrils
of a garden vine as it climbs
over a tall fence
to go exploring.

School vacation!
Time off.
No dreaded books.
No shameful teasing.
No reading OUT LOUD.

I have time to make jewelry
from the foamy white hearts
of green reeds that I pluck
from the banks of the river.

I have time to weave crickets
from strips of palm leaf.
The crickets are called
esperanzas
—hopes.
When I give one to Mamá,
she tells me the little insect
will bring her great luck.
She gives me a hug
in return.

Every
caimán
hunt begins
with a huge party.

My father roasts a pig
spiced and wrapped
in banana leaves,
then lowered into a pit
in the deep red soil,
where wood and flames
will transform it
into
un guateque,
a farmer's feast.

When the cousins arrive,
we start dancing and singing
funny liars' songs.

Later, while boys race horses
and girls cook, cousin Carmen
helps me invent new riddles.

The old folks play dominoes.
Young women fan their faces
while men fight a poetry duel,
battling in powerful voices
to see who can claim
the verse victory,
as each man strives
to recite the most
dramatic
heart-pounding
emotional
poem!

To please my mother,
the poems are Rubén Darío's
verses about swans
and flying horses,
and a strange one about
mental earthquakes,
and an angry poem
for world leaders
who try to bully
the future
with bullets.

There is a drumbeat
verse about loving
your own rhythm

and the encouraging one
about God's towers
of hope

and a joyful little verse
about eggs in a warm nest
in a warm tree.

There is even a poem
that helps me feel normal,
a comforting verse
about feeling blinded
by daydreams.

When Mamá stands up
and recites a LOUD verse—
just like a man—
she chooses the one
about gold seashells
that look like hearts.

That is how I know
that she must be dreaming
of the peaceful beach
where we camp
only once
each summer
even though we live
so close
to the rolling blue sea
that there is nothing
to stop us
from living like mermaids.

We could be discovering
undersea treasures
each day,
gold shells that resemble
wave-washed
hearts.

After my mother
finishes her seascape,
one of my uncles recites
a long poem about the sky,
where sun spirits
ride glowing chariots,
and there is someone
who knows how to fly
toward the truth
of dreams...

I don't understand
the whole thrilling verse,
but I love the way poetry
turns ordinary words
into winged things
that rise up
and soar!

My big brothers drink rum,
and then, just to frighten me,
they sing an ugly rhyme
about sneaky spiders
and slimy frogs.

They laugh and laugh
while they take turns
admiring a new rifle
that one of our uncles
brought for the hunt.

The rifle is long and shiny.
José de Jesús brags
that the bad
caimán
does not stand a chance.

He holds the ominous gun
backwards, sideways,
and upside down.

He flips it and spins it,
showing off like a girl
with a fancy new dress.

The rum makes him childish.
The gun makes him dangerous.
He dances a wild rumba,
pretending that the rifle
is his partner.

The explosion
is like nothing
I have ever heard—
thunder and lightning
all rolled into one
stormy burst
of terror.

My brother's eyes
open wide, and then
they slowly sag shut
while my heart flies
rapidly back and forth
between fear
and grief.

Rum and bullets
are such a deadly
combination.

Why didn't anyone see
that the dragonlike
caimán
was our wild farm's
least dangerous
beast?

Patience defies me.
How can I sit quietly
while my brother's life
seeps away?

I tremble and weep
as Mamá binds
the ghastly wound
in a frantic effort
to slow the savage
waterfall
of bleeding.

Papá mounts a horse
and races all the way
to town.

Agonizing hours later,
he finally returns
with another
galloping horseman—
the same hissing doctor
who once called me
word-blind.

This time, the doctor
ignores me, working swiftly
to save my brother's life.

All I can do is wait
and watch, hoping
the doctor knows
more about bullets
than blindness.

The parrot on the roof
wails and shrieks, copying
Mamá's desperate prayers
as she begs for a miracle
of healing.

Tear-streaked and silent,
I feel so useless, so helpless—
until an imaginary wild book
opens up, inside my mind.

Quietly, I begin picturing letters,
syllables, and invisible wings,
sending a trail of bird-words
soaring toward heaven.

My silent voice feels
powerful and LOUD.

José has survived!
He needs peace and quiet.
I bring him herbs and soup.
I bring him silent smiles.
I receive only frowns
in return.

The doctor advises me
to be patient.
He tells me that my brother
will need plenty of time
to heal.

The doctor's tired voice
no longer sounds like a hiss.

Perhaps my way of hearing
has somehow
changed.

The bullet missed José's heart,
but it crushed a bone.
His shoulder will always be stiff.
Farm work will be impossible.