Noun. Wilma’s been to Washington. I been to a mental institution. This gets me to thinking.
Music therapy. They play a lot of things I never heard of. Makes me think of being back with Miss Black. I go get her record and hand it to the music lady. She knows what I want without me having to ask.
“Well, as a matter of fact.” She pulls out a damn record player. It has a handle to carry it around like luggage. The brown leather has survived many trips. It got stickers from Alabama to Wyoming on it. I don’t touch it. I don’t want to ruin it.
Music therapist: “Wilma is tough.” She points to the record player, which apparently has a name. “Feel that leather. Go ahead.” I do real quick.
She teaches me how to work it. I set Miles Davis’s’sss “Kind of Blue” in motion. I feel like whoever put the planets where they go and watched them start to spin. But I can’t move. Nobody makes me, even after music therapy. I get up when the sky turns into the record, the moon a silver needle scratching each track.
X
X is where I sign my name on my release papers from the hospital. X is where I sign my name to prove that I know why I’m being taken into the custody of CPS and to a temporary shelter. I’m being taken because my mom was caught dealing my pills and her boyfriend’s drugs by none other than 3211. I’m being taken because my dad got my letter, then got on probation, and when he got home he beat the living shit out of my mom.
Yolanda
Noun. A PERSON.
Music therapy. Last time before I leave. I bring John Coltrane. “Ascension.” It sounds like every instrument I ever heard of falling down a flight of stairs. Like my life. I want to play it again but a lady dressed as a Christmas tree—with like bulbs and shit—starts to scream because the music is so weird. “No! No! Feliz Navidad! No!” Her ornaments shake back and forth.
I’m about to say something. For the first time in months.
Music Therapist catches my drift. “Macy, I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we set you on the computer. I’ve been meaning to tell you, but I might as well right now. I have an iPod and a gift card for you, for a going-away present.”
Me, voice gravel and glass: “How?”
Music Therapist: “How? Uh. I just got them?”
“You rich?” My voice cracks like I’m a thirteen-year-old boy. I look down at her shoes. Basic. “You don’t look rich.”
Music Therapist laughs. “No.”
“What’s your name?”
“It’s Miss Yolanda.”
I write her name down in my dictionary. Start working on my playlist. My fingers hit the keys like they’re pressing the button for a nuclear bomb. Time to set it off.
Yasmin
Noun. My mother. Me?
I want to see her. CPS takes me to the hospital. I walk in. There’s a bed hooked up to machines just like in a movie. She’s asleep. I stand close to her for longer than I probably have in years. The only way I can tell the woman laying in the bed is my mother is by the red lipstick. I put some on. Go into her bafroom and look in her mirror. There is my mother in the mirror.
Her hair is growing back in, thick on one side. The other side is freshly shaved. All her piercings have been replaced. She has pierced her nose like a bull. She is . . . She is beautif—she is me.
I walk to the sink. I look in the mirror and say, “I will make it up to you, Mom. And to Alma.”
I face her. “I’m sorry.”
“You . . . YOU!”
My mother is trying to sit up. She can’t scream right because her mouth is all swollen. Her eyes are all swelled up so she points all over the room trying to find me.
“YOU!”
A nurse runs in. “What’s going on here?”
“YOU!!!” She holds her face with the tips of her bruised fingers.
She knows what I did. And she will never forgive me for it.
You
Pronoun. Anti-noun.
She meant: YOU did this. It’s YOUr fault.
I never want to see YOU again. YOU are dead to me.
Z
Z is not for zebra, motherfoe. Z is for Zimmerman. No, not that Zimmerman.
Zimmerman is the name of the family that’s taking me in. I’m sitting in a car stinking of McDonald’s on the way to their house. I take the bag and stuff it through a open window. I open up my brown bag, carefully move my records, and grab my muffins. No, stupit. Not those muffins. Those things is like three months old. Nasty. (Okay, I still have them but like not to eat them.)
Miss Black came back with her husband. She’s going to have a baby. I hate the baby. (What? You thought I was cured? Puhlease. There is no cure for me. I’m the cure, bitch.) Anyway I hate the baby only cause it’s not me.
Z is for zip. As in I’m not going to say zip to any Zimmerman or anyone about anything. As in, every word that CPS has been saying to me for three days has gone in one ear and zip! out the other. As in, that name I signed on the dotted line don’t mean zip and the minute I have the chance I’m out the door.
Z is for zero, which is what I have to my name. I don’t have any money. I don’t have any clothes accept the sweatshirt, my dad’s boxers, and the flip-flops on my feet. One of my flip-flops is torn. Got just this brown bag with the records and the lipstick I took from my mom’s hospital bed.
Z is for the bolt of lightning that is my life. Z is for the crack in my broken heart. Z is for the little boy I left in a hospital bed a year ago who is now standing on the Zimmermans’ porch. The boy who has his hair cut and combed. The boy who smiles with white teeth. He looks at the Zimmermans and they nod their heads and he runs right toward my car. He opens my door and reaches out his hand to help me onto the curb. This boy who I once walked like a dog walks me up the steps arm in arm.
Z is for Zane.
Zombie
Noun. Look up the Cranberries. Trust me.
I tell Mrs. Zimmerman if she don’t give me access to a computer and a phone I will set her house on fire while she sleeps. Just kidding, stupit. What am I, loco? They keeping a bed open for me at the nut house. (But I do tell her I will piss her floor at her next dinner party.) I think of negotiating for the newest iPhone, but I got my dignity.
Miss Black added me to a group of kids she keeps in touch with on FB. I see George’s name.
I message her: Yo. Miss Black. Because my life. I can’t even. But. Yeah.
Miss Black: I feel you, Macy.
Me: Thanks, Miss B. Cuz it’s like that. You and me.
Miss Black: No question.
Me: How is George?
Miss Black: Macy, girl. I can’t even.
Me: I’ma be cool, Miss B. I can handle it. (But it’s the first time I want to sit down.)
Miss Black: Who’s with you?
Me: Zane.
Long Pause . . .
Me: Please. (I hold my breaf.)
Miss Black: George told the school counselor he kept cutting school because of a zombie. Turns out his mom had a stroke. Child was trying to take care of her on his own.
I breathe. I HEART George.
Miss Black: His mom’s in a state facility now.
Me: And George?
Miss Black: George disappeared after CPS showed up. He was spotted a couple of times. Working at a gas station. Sleeping at a shelter. I left him a message at the shelter once—left him my number. He messaged me a dancing bear. LOL.
I type in hearts around a dancing bear.
Miss B sends me two numbers. One for her. One for the shelter.
Me: Thanks, Miss B. I’ll be in touch. I’m out.
To the man taking a message at the shelter: “Tell George March 15.” I give him the Zimmermans’ address.
And I wait for the dancing bear to show up in my FB inbox.
Agüeybaná II
Verb. Here comes the Sun, motherfoes.
Agüeybaná’s name means Great Sun. He ruled over all the tribes of Puerto Rico. One day Ponce de León and his squad shows up. The Taino people think they’re gods. Agüeybaná II pl
ays it cool and tries to keep the peace. But Ponce de León’s got goals. He makes all the Tainos slaves to work the gold mines. Most of the Tainos die. Agüeybaná II says eff these motherfoes. He and his squad rise up against them. His macana is no match against Ponce de León’s guns, but he goes down fighting.
I still have my machete. It took my lawyer going to court for me to keep this bitch in my possession. I have it in a lockbox in a bank. The Zimmermans had the account number and ID. Yes, had. Zane wrapped the info in foil and gave it to me for my birfday. No matter what’s his last name, Zane is on Team Macy 4eva. My machete will see the light of day again soon.
The Zimmermans are fighting in the next room. They fight funny. They do it in whispers like pissed-off snakes. They fight when they wash the dishes because they think I can’t hear over the running water. The first time I figured out they was fighting I thought—oh shit, and those are some nice dishes too. But not one china cup or dish flew. They was mad, though. It’s kind of like a boxing match with no boxing, just walking around the ring and pushing each other against the ropes.
“She didn’t flush the toilet again,” Mrs. Zimmerman says to Mr. Zimmerman.
“Now, Sylvia,” Mr. Z says.
“I mean that log, just sitting there, it’s disgusting! And it’s no wonder, she’s eating enough for two grown men!”
“Now, Sylvia,” Mr. Z says. “She’s only been here three months . . .”
Mrs. Z says, “Three months too long. I can’t live like this. She’s nothing like her brother.”
“Well,” Mr. Z says, “that may be true, but he was barking like a dog when he first got here. Just standing on two feet was an improvement for him . . .”
My brother. What a small fucking world. He was about a hour away the whole time. I think about that a lot. How close and far away Zane has always been. And not just Zane. My dad, Alma, Alma’s uncle.
Alma’s uncle’s on FB. He tweets. His sick ass is actually from New Jersey.
Alma? I know she made it to the hospital. George finally messaged me last week. Told me he went back to the Palace Apartments alone to check up on Alma.
I HEART George.
He found out what hospital she was at. Tried to visit her even though the nurses wouldn’t let him through. By the time he was able to sneak in, she was checked out. A nurse told him her uncle brought some of her friends and took her home. The nurse was like, “That girl, what a shame, what happened to her face. It made me cry to look at her. But when she saw how scared and nervous her friends looked seeing her scars? She stood up and took those girls’ hands. Told them it was going to be all right. I’m praying for her.”
Her friends. More of Uncle’s girls. I dreamed Uncle locked Alma way up high in a apartment like a treehouse. She dresses the girls for their johns. Puts ice on their bruises when they come back. I call out to save her, to let down her hair, but of course, she can’t.
Fuck hair. Fuck using the stairs. I’ma cut that motherfucking tree down.
From my bed, I watch Zane reading a newspaper. He’s definitely a Zimmerman. He goes to a special school. He speaks French and . . . drum roll, please . . . Yiddish.
Now the Zimmermans are talking about the vacation they’re taking this summer. They’re going to Canada!
Mrs. Zimmerman: “We’ve got to put her in respite, Arty. Are you kidding?”
(Respite, for all you ignorant motherfoes, is when you send your foster kids to another foster home when you’re sick and tired of their ghetto asses and you have somewhere to go.)
Mrs. Zimmerman: “She spit on my Oriental carpet yesterday. Just like she was standing in the street!”
Sorry! Dang! Spit happens.
Mr. Z: “Sylvia . . . Take Zane and leave Macy? How would that look?”
The Zimmermans are going to officially adopt Zane this May. I’m happy for him. Mrs. Zimmerman said they were worried he was retarded—she uses the words intellectual disability—but then they found out he had Asperger’s and were so relieved. I guess here in suburbia, Asperger’s is in style. Obviously having a emotionally disturbed kid ain’t.
I hold up my pen between sentences. I’m writing with Mrs. Zimmerman’s pen and I’m sure it’s a antique. It’s silver, and the tip is sharp enough to cut out someone’s heart. It slips nicely inside a pillowcase or in the pocket I sewed inside my sweatshirt. Nobody even needs to know I carry it. Not unless they deserve to know. Nobody knows what a girl like me can do with a pen.
Agüeybaná II, The Great Sun, had his macana. My great-grandmother had her machete. I laugh and stick my secret in my pocket. I check my backpack. iPod (thanks, Yolanda). Play “Point of No Return.”
Hit Repeat.
Listen for a motorcycle horn. Look for the Ninja Turtle helmet. I’m ready. I have my map of New Jersey . . . and Canada. And my pen against my chest like a arrow shot from my heart.
Macy Cashmere’s
Dope Playlist
“The Ghetto” by Donny Hathaway
“Mi Machete” by Grupo Niche
“Straight Outta Vagina” by Pussy Riot
“A Love Supreme” by John Coltrane
“The Lonely Ballerina” by Michele McLaughlin
“Funeral” by Band of Horses
“Darkness” by Leonard Cohen
“Back to Life” by Soul II Soul
“The Day Women Took Over” by Common
“We the People” by A Tribe Called Quest
“The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” by Gil Scott-Heron
“Renegades of Funk” by Rage Against the Machine
“Point of No Return” by Immortal Technique
Shoutout
To the Woman Who Always
got My Back
Miss Black
One day I’ma give you more
than M&M’s to pay you back.
Acknowledgments
To my seventh- and eighth-grade English and history teachers, Ms. Brisson and Mr. Phelan, from St. Dominic’s Elementary School in the Bronx, now closed down: Oh, what I would give to find you and tell you both in person how much you meant to me.
Thank you, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, for rescuing me from the Dead White Men’s Literary canon, for awakening the voices and cultivating the soil for future works. Everyone needs diverse books, and we need them written by diverse writers now and forever.
To the University of Notre Dame MFA program that changed my life, with shoutouts to William O’Rourke for helping me put an engine in my airplane and to Steve Tomasula for not caring if my airplane had an engine.
Props to Emily Keyes, my agent extraordinaire at Fuse Literary, for finding the perfect home for our Macy (and her machete). Thank you to Amy Fitzgerald and Alix Reid at Carolrhoda Lab, for choosing my project. To Amy Fitzgerald, my brilliant editor, thank you for your expertise, insight, and guidance.
Much love to Titi Matilde for the entire set of Little House on the Prairie books that I pulled all-nighters to read, and to Titi Jessica for interviewing me about my poetry and my love of dictionaries (LOL) on Elizabeth Seton Hall College radio.
Thank you, my dear Uncle Joel, for reading works I wrote in my twenties, perhaps the absolute worst children’s books of all time.
To my mother for Coliseum Books, Jane Eyre, Alice in Wonderland, The Little Princess, and Heidi, and Greek Mythology. I keep the candles lit.
Eternal gratitude to those who have loved, rescued, and empowered me to write throughout my life: shoutouts to Titi Carmen and Titi Clarissa, my godfather Richie, and my godmother Susan.
To my Michael/Mickie/Miguel: genius, brilliant professor, phenomenal Chief-of-Staff, gifted poet and writer, bestest dad, soulmate. You have provided me ten MFAs with your knowledge and expertise of the craft and everlasting faith. You are the antecedent to my pronouns, the spell check to my Teeshirt and TV, my Cliff Notes, My SparkNotes, my EVERYTHING.
Dear Dad, thank you for never doubting that I would be in *THIS MOMENT.* You treasured my Post-It-Note metaphor quilt and bou
ght me my first (and second) Smith and Corona. Thank you for the Christmas gift of every Stephen King book you could fit in the Macy’s box. Thank you for always having a book in hand wherever you go. I have the confidence to talk to any rabbit I please now. ;) “No defeat! No surrender!” XO Your gold, Sugar Bear
Topics for Discussion
School is sometimes portrayed as an antagonistic place and sometimes as a safe haven for Macy. Compare how Macy behaves in Miss Black’s class and how she behaves in Miss Black’s lunchtime detention. Why is there a difference? What sort of classroom atmosphere might help students like Macy do well?
Hunger and neglect are recurring themes in many of Macy’s experiences. How is Macy affected by her hardships? Why won’t Macy eat the food her mother offers her? In what ways do you think Macy would be different if she hadn’t gone through these experiences?
Why does Macy decide to tape her breasts? How does Macy feel about her body? In contrast, how does Alma feel about hers?
How are the male characters (such as George, Macy’s dad, Mr. Guest, and Alma’s uncle) portrayed in the book?
In the “Blessing” chapter, Zane acts like a dog and Macy treats him like one. Why do you think he does this and why do you think Macy goes along with it?
What does Macy mean by “I’m still somewhere between today and yesterday”? Discuss an incident in Macy’s life that you think relates to this quote.
Macy knows that Zane may have a better life with his foster parents, but she insists that he should stay with their family. Why does she think he should stay? How does Macy cope with her brother being taken away?
What does the machete represent for Macy? Why does she refuse to let the police take it away?
Macy’s encounter with the police reminds her of other, fatal encounters between police officers and people of color. In what ways does Macy identify with the victims of these incidents? What do you think would have happened to Macy if Velvet had not distracted the police?
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