by Aida Salazar
Yellow Hair and Snake Eyes
surrounding us every minute
no Papi
no Tía Raquel
no school
no doctor
no Fernanda
no Virgencita
no way to make a picture poem
and no way to send it.
Mami and I
have learned
how each crane
in our cage
was trapped here
and they know
about us, Tía Raquel,
and Papi too.
Mami has made friends
with the almost
solitas
some who have cried
in her arms
after a little more
conversation.
Some are
just eighteen
and scared
to be treated
like adults.
They don’t know
how to be parents
all of a sudden.
At night
they quietly gather
to sleep near Mami.
I think they feel
like me,
safer
when she is around.
Yanela and I push
through the gate
when it is outdoor time.
We chase each other
inside this barbwire desert.
I yell as I run beside her,
Open your arms like this, Yanela!
Can you feel the wind tickling?
Can you feel your plumas?
Her laugh is as big as the sun.
We are cranes, Yanela, somos tocuilcoyotl!
We are flying home!
We run and run
eyes sometimes closed
our feet just barely
touching the ground.
Today while outside
Carlos is twisting on
the pavement next to Josefina,
who rubs, rubs, rubs
his arm and back
while he wails
and wails.
Yanela tells us
he has a toothache
when we approach
to see if we can help.
He sees me and growls
plus, throws his shoe at me!
Josefina says,
Perdón, es que he’s in a lot of pain.
As I back up from him
he starts sucking his mouth
into a tight little knot
grimacing and making
the angriest grunt
until it reaches a high pitch.
Then, suddenly, he opens
his ojos wide
and spits up blood.
Josefina swoops up Carlos
into her arms, looks at Mami
then at baby Jakie and Yanela.
Mami understands and says,
Sí, Josefina, descuida, run!
Yanela runs after her mother
and baby Jakie starts to cry loudly
though Mami is now holding her.
From the other end of the yard
we can see Josefina yelling for help
Yanela standing next to her, pleading too.
The guards open the gate and
only let Josefina and Carlos
through, leaving Yanela
clinging and trying to climb
the chain-link fence
crying, Mamá, don’t leave me!
Mamá, don’t leave me again!
I run over to be with her
but when I get there
she’s as broken
as glass
her heart
so shattered
and
splintered
I can’t
pick up
the pieces.
Inside the cell
minutes stretch
into hours since
we last saw
Josefina and Carlos.
Mami gathers all three of us
into her warm mama body
made of soft feathers.
There is much more
of her to share now.
She calms their cries
takes turns stroking our hair.
Everything will be all right.
A dentist is seeing your brother
and they will help him.
Your mami is making sure of it.
She will be back before you know it.
She convinces me
but by the look
of the hard quiet
of the sisters
I don’t think
they believe Mami.
Yanela stares
over and beyond us
so absent, so far.
But then, Mami starts to sing
the song about a paraíso
and the chick in the egg
starts to kick
which we feel on our faces
as we snuggle against her.
And this way
around Mami
we are all lulled
and pulled
into her song
and we sleep.
When we wake up
Josefina is asleep
with all of her children
scattered
around her.
I whisper Mami awake,
What happened, Mami?
Mami answers with closed lids.
They took him to a dentist
outside the detention center.
He’s all right now.
He had to have a root canal.
I never want to have a root canal
and have to throw a shoe at someone
because of the pain,
I think to myself.
Later that day
Mami makes an announcement
to everyone in our cell.
She is going to start
an escuelita.
A school? Why, Mami?
What else could children do here but learn?
But we don’t have any materials,
says one of the girls named Griselda.
I promise, you will not need
anything but this up here,
she says while tapping
her finger on her temple,
and this right here,
and tapping her throat.
Mami’s made enough friends
that no one says no.
Dos y dos son cuatro
cuatro y dos son seis
seis y dos son ocho
y ocho dieciséis.
Mami sings sweetly and we repeat
laughing and tripping over tongue twisters too.
Rápido corren los carros
cargados de azúcar al ferrocarril.
Her songs make the time
and the cold disappear
for a couple of hours a day.
My voice grows raspy
so Mami tells me
to turn my volume down or hum.
While we sing, Yanela and I make
more moist toilet paper sculptures
birds, turtles, bunnies, bears,
and Belle in her dress
to add to our collection
resting on cardboard trays
stained with food.
When we finish
singing our seven times tables
to the tune of “Happy Birthday”
the guard calls Mami over.
We all hold still.
Maybe she’s in trouble
for changing our cries to songs?
Mami turns back to me
to say there is a phone call waiting
but I can’t come with her.
She brings her thumb
and pointer finger together
but leaves a small space
between
which is Mexican for
wait, just a little.
/> I wonder who it is
as I stare at Mami wobbling
out of the gate and
through the maze
of fencing to the offices.
I sit near Yanela’s family
suddenly feeling
alone.
My heart jumps inside
my ribs when I see Mami
return, finally!
She is shaking her head
slowly, her face
a prune of worry.
Was it Papi?
What did he say?
No, Betita. It was the attorney, Fernanda.
When will she get us out of here, Mami?
I want to go home.
Back to our house in East LA.
We can’t go back, corazón
our house has been emptied.
Diana had to pack it up
because our rent was due.
She sold the furniture
but saved our important things
pictures and memories, your favorite teddy.
They’re with Tina and Tío Juan now.
Did they keep my crane poems?
I don’t know, mi’ja.
Mami brushes my eyelashes
to try to wipe away my almost crying.
Fernanda said she was sorry
it took her a month to find us.
She called every detention facility
but because we were moved
from Tijuana where we were taken in
it was really difficult.
What is she going to do?
She is going forward with our case for political asylum.
But it will be a while before we get a court date.
And we will have to stay here until that time.
But then, she isn’t sure if they will grant us permission.
We might be deported like many of our friends here fear.
What about Papi?
Does he know where we are?
Not yet because she only found us today.
But she’s spoken to him and told him
she was doing her best to find us.
Mami, I whisper, did you tell her
they hurt us here?
I couldn’t, Betita, they were listening.
But she will be coming to see us in a couple of days
and she’s bringing you some crayons and paper.
She wants you to draw your picture poems again
because she’ll need them as testimony.
As what?
Your own story of what has happened.
My wings tingle
for the first time
since we got here
like they used to
when I was about
to fly into the sky.
If I could draw a crane poem now
I would paint us blue
shivering in this cell
and Fernanda with a crowbar
knocking down guards
breaking open the lock
that keeps us trapped.
I would write:
Super Fernanda comes
to try
to pry
us all out.
Betita-some day in March
I teach Yanela how to make
farting noises with her armpits
like Amparo taught me.
Prrrrprtoot! Prrrrprtoot!
Carlos catches on when we practice
but its baby Jakie who cracks up first
so we keep going
like a band of musicians
trying to make music.
The more we armpit fart
the more the baby laughs
and soon
her little contagious chuckles
make everyone release
a smile and then
little laughs and
out-loud laughter
of their own
that spreads like a
wildfire
of uncontrollable joy
from every
crane in the cages!
Our laughter is an applause
the guards can’t
do anything
to stop.
A shock of loud curse words
rips through the building
in rippling punches
later that day.
We all look to see
two guards pushing
an angry young woman forward
her hands tied behind her back.
Her hair is wagging
like wild, windblown grass.
Don’t push me, you piece of scum!
I know my rights!
You’re filth! You hear me,
you get paid to be filth for the government!
But then they
push her harder!
So hard
she falls
to her
knees.
Shut up, perra! Say hello to the icebox!
But this makes her angrier, and she
screams her anger into the air
like a warrior about to charge.
You’re the animals, look at you!
Malditos sean, heartless animals!
They get her up and open the
gate to our cell, and give her a shove.
When they cut the plastic ties loose
she lunges at one of the guards.
The guard’s fist smashes into her nose
which sends her back like a rag doll.
Then the other guard rushes her
while she is down
and kicks
and kicks
and kicks
her in the stomach
and in the face
until she is still
crying
and
breathing
a heavy
and steady
pain.
She’s a broken crane
with wounded scattered feathers
the guards leave behind.
She wipes her bloody nose with her
gray T-shirt that says “#AbolishICE!”
and then bangs the concrete floor
with her open hand.
¡Malditos!
She is a heated tornado.
The fear freezes me
but I watch Mami get close.
Take your time, chiquita, Mami says softly,
helps her sit up, and then
hands her a wad of toilet paper from her pocket.
The girl stares at Mami for a
second
and then down to her big belly
and somehow, the girl’s heat fades
with a big breath.
¿Cómo te llamas?
Marisel.
I’m Gabriela and that girl
over there is Betita, my daughter.
Marisel looks at me
blinking tearfully
and shrugs one shoulder
as if to say, Who cares?
I want to make sure you are okay, is all.
Gra-gra—, Marisel stutters to say it at first
but then it comes out slowly,
Gracias.
Once the bleeding stops
I think I’ll be okay.
Mami then comes to get her silver blanket
and takes it to her.
You can cover yourself with this.
Marisel looks up at Mami
and says it again,
Thank you.
As Mami walks back to me
a guard bangs his baton
on the chain-link fence
and glares at Mami with
an I’m watching you scowl.
Why did you do that, Mami?
I cross my arms at her
annoyed.
The rest of the cell is statue still
stunned by what just happened.
Mami raises her calm eyebrows at me.
I do what I can for those who need help.
I would do it for you.
But you don’t even know her.
Beeetiiitaaa, she says, dragging the vowels in my name
while undoing the knot of my arms,
since when did we stop doing
what our hearts tell us is right?
What if the guards had come back for you?
But they didn’t and that girl
really needed someone’s help.
She holds my floppy wrists
with her caring hands and nods
like she hopes I will agree.
I hug Mami and smoosh my head
on the top of the nest
feeling so selfish
and wrong
for forgetting
what a flock
does for one another.
I try to sleep between
Mami and Yanela.
Maybe it is the lightless air
or Mami’s sleeping breaths
or what she said
about our hearts
but I get the nerve up to
ask Yanela what happened
when they took her
away from her mother.
You don’t want to know.
I do!
It’s too terrible to tell.
I still want to know.
If you want to tell it.
Yanela stares at the ceiling
taps her fingers on her chest lightly.
She begins to speak softly.
I’ll tell you because