Heh-heh. Laugh a little through
my lips. Chinachinelas. Heh-heh. So bugged out.
But . . . gotta save the voices.
Zakooo, I say with
my mouth dry going slower than the words.
Help meee, save-save
voicesssss.
Zako stares into the wall,
talks to himself, weaving a web
of cutouts, words torn in half that don’t mean
nothing.
He lays down and whimpers and almost cries
by the gray-blue stairs in the hot loud morning.
His cries drip into the ash and slice into the hairs
on my arms.
Itchy, itchy.
Rip out papers from my backpack, hold on,
a neat brick of letters from the cereal box, heh-heh,
maybe if I read them, I can go to sleep, heh,
just for a little while, heh . . . and when I wake up
Zako will be gone and
Rezzy will be back . . .
July 12, 00
Dear uncle DJ,
It’s sooo hot in Iowa. And muggy. I am still not used to it.
I remember the first thing Mamá and me did when we got here from New York—this is embarrassing—
was stop at a gas station and go to the bathroom. Guess
what was growing on the corner by the gas pumps?
Corn! Papi said, No matter where we go, the earth
makes miracles. I dunno, heh. Here’s a postcard
of the Amana Colonies—whatever that is. Bye.
Love con papayas,
Your only niece.
Y
August 25, 00
Dear uncle DJ,
School started last Monday.
West Liberty, Iowa . . . heard of it?
My school is sooo-sooo old! Longfellow School.
No middle school, no elementary—
we’re all piled up like masa!
And the town is as small as my backpack. One main street, one theater and one Mexican restaurant. Lots of Mexicans, at least, Papi said—at least there’s somebody I can talk to. Sure. I just get on the phone and talk to all my friends, well, a couple. This place sucks.
Adios arroz,
Love con plátanos,
YO’
P.S. Mamá wants to go to an antique shop.
What’s that? By the way it is West Liberty,
not West Liver. Ha!
March 27, 01
Dear uncle DJ,
Papi says that if I want to go to San Francisco—
he calls it San Pancho—I have to get good grades.
Lately, he’s been calling me matraca or maraca or
something like that because I am always dancing
and singing in our house or talking on the phone.
Did I tell you I have lots of boy friends?
Gotta run—in the rain.
Love con mambo,
Canela
P.S. Do you Hip-Hop?
March 28, 01
Dear uncle DJ,
Totally bored. Booored. Booored!1
How do you say bored in Spanish? I should ask Mamá.
Borro? Sounds like burro! Mamá’s always reading books
from Bell’s Used Book Store and newspapers in
Spanish that she gets from Tía and even in English
even though she only went to third grade back
in Aguas Buenas. But she needs to work out. Maybe,
I’ll take her to the Field House in Iowa City—
it’s a really cool gym by the river. They even have a
running track above the basketball court, near the ceiling.
Went there last weekend with my friend Miguela. Well,
that’s what Mr. Rolodex calls her at school. My name is SKY,
she tells everyone. She’s the más güapa girl in the world.
Sky’s white as the moon and has pure black long hair
like a dark waterfall, all the way down to her butt
and all the guys at Longfellow are crazy about her.
And guess what? She gets everything she wants
without ever saying a word. Chévere, huh?
She’s like a mystery goddess.
Love con chili fries
and chili beans,
Y
P.S. Am I a mystery goddess too? Dunno.
April 9, 01
Dear Canelita,
I called you last night. Where’s everybody?
So, I am sending you this letter express,
if that’s possible in the Mission District.
Your tía Aurelia is very ill.
She’s got pneumonia. Poor old señora.
Gladys took her to emergency at St. Luke’s last night.
I was playing at the Galería de la Raza on
Twenty-fourth street for an AIDS benefit. When
I got home no one was there. Now, you guys.
What’s happening? But, don’t worry. And tell
my sister Mercedes that everything is going to be ok.
I hope. Light a veladora. And call me.
Love con familia,
Your tío Beto
Still can’t go to sleep.
Zako’s mumbling faster.
April 14, 01
Dear uncle DJ,
Like I said on the phone a couple days ago,
I went out with my friends. Well, I was with Sky.
And I don’t know where Mamá and Papi were.
Whatever, dunno. Me and Sky went to the 620 Club
in Iowa City. Really cool place. Sky goes all the time.
It’s for teens. Nobody knows Hip-Hop around here.
And they play music and we crack up. I hope
tía Aurelia is feeling better. Got two candles going.
Love for Tía,
Y
P.S. Sky says it doesn’t matter if I am
a Puertorican because she is a Mexiowan.
Shhh. What was that?
Don’t know what’s going on.
Can’t tell if it’s a letter I am hearing
Or a voice made of dust.
April 20, 01
Dear Canelita,
What’s happening to you?
This morning your mamá was crying on the phone.
She doesn’t know what to do with you?
Why didn’t you tell me you’ve been coming home so late?
At four in the morning? This thing with Sky.
Remember what Tía says—
Dime con quien andas, y te diré quien eres.
If you hang out with losers, you’re a loser too.
Don’t know what to tell you. Feel like you lied to me.
You said you didn’t know where your mother
and father were last week. They were looking for you!
The 620 is a bar, puro bochinche, just a crazy place,
your mamá said. Please think about what you are doing.
Can’t believe it. I am very hurt. I wish your father
would speak up. I hate doing this.
Love always,
Uncle Beto
P.S. The doctor says tía Aurelia will be ok, bendito—
in about ten days. We’re gonna get back to Noba’ Yor
soon after that. I visit her in the hospital when
I can. Maybe, should visit more often.
Uncle DJ, where are you?
Feels like you are right here.
April 25, 01
Dear Canelita,
What’s going on in your head?
Last night when we talked you sounded like, well,
like your words were all knocking against each other.
Your voice was all sloppy. Have you been drinking?
Tía Aurelia is getting worse, I think. She’s hooked up
to a machine, a blue hose taped across her mouth. Just
opens her eyes and nods when I talk to her. Gladys says
that as soon as they ge
t her off the máquina she will speak
a mile a minute. My chest feels like a slab of concrete,
heavy, sad and numb at the same time. Gotta get back
to Loisaida. But, I am still giggin’. It helps me forget
about the little white room full of hoses and machines
and the smell of Jergen’s Lotion and mashed
whoknowswhat kinda food inside plastic bags and IVs.
I hope I am wrong about you.
Yeah, I probably am. Forgive me.
It’s all in my head, ando esbaratao’. I am falling apart here.
Lov4U,
Uncle DJ
What if uncle DJ woke up?
What would I tell him?
How could I talk about all this?
April 29, 01
Dear uncle DJ,
I guess I messed up—but it was my birthday.
Thirteen! Didn’t even get a card! Mamá and Papi,
they’re so out of it. I mean, we don’t celebrate anything.
Go to church and take walks, that’s all. Or they talk about
the old days. Papi tells the story about the nights in Caguas
when he would dive in the waters under a full moon
for the 100th time.
And Mamá says she was better off en la islita,
en el batey bajo el cielo or she goes on about el Parque
de las Palomas en San Juan, the Flamboyan trees and the
water springs in Coamo. Embarrassing. Then she says
“Aqui en América, things are betta.” Makes my head feel
like a roller coaster. Anyway, here kids go to bars and they
don’t ask for IDs. It’s not like New York. And Sky
is cool, she looks out for me. You know? And this boy
I just met, Cheyenne, he’s so cool too. Well, he’s a runaway
from Oxford in Pennsylvania. On his way to California.
Can you believe that? Mamá made him pollo frito
con habichuelas. Yesterday. Cheyenne’s really a nice boy
and bien güapo. He’s not mean or bad. He told me a lot
of his secrets, just like Sky. We are all tight friends.
Cheyenne was showing Sky and me how to hitchhike
last night, on the road to Iowa City. You know, like,
how to tell if the driver is alright or if he’s a weirdo,
you know, a paquetero. Cheyenne says he’s been to
Miami too!
Love,
Canela
P.S. Hurry up, summer!
Where does this letter go?
May 16, 01
Dear uncle DJ,
When are you going to start that RadioSabor
tía Gladys talks about? Last night on the phone
she said that you want to build a radio studio
on the tenement roof back in Alphabet City.
I don’t know if that’s what she said. All the words
are swirling in my head like Mamá’s asopao’.
There’s so much to tell you. Mamá wants me to go out
with one of my class friends, Dana Barlow, you know
her dad teaches at Grinnell College, in the African American
Studies Program. Sometimes we do our homework
assignments in Iowa City. Go to visit the bookstores and
bum around too. I’d rather be with Sky. If Papi lets me.
He’s so grouchy. I wish he had a real job. Everything
is chickens and turkeys for him. Can you believe that.
He says he’s going to make mole mexicano for
Thanksgiving. That means he’s going to swing that animal
around by the neck like a lasso and slap it on the porch
wall like he slams chickens. Sick. And he says that
God put turkeys on earth for us to eat. Oh. Excuse me.
He’s so gross and embarrassing. Maybe I’ll become
a vegetarian. Sky’s a vegetarian. But, what will I eat?
Oh, that’s Sky tapping at my window. Bye.
Love con moondust,
Canelita
April 17, 01
Dear uncle DJ,
Maybe’s Papi’s right, I am a maraca.
I don’t have time to write poems anymore. Mamá
just lays around all day and says, Tengo hoflash,
I am so hot, hotty-hot! And fans herself with both hands,
as if she’s got little chicken wings instead of fingers.
Sóbame con alcohol, rub my neck with alcohol, rub
my back, get the ruda. Then make her te de yerba buena
for her stomach. Tráeme el mentolato, Get the VapoRub,
so she swallows it! Ugh! And what’s a hoflash? Mamá
says it’s like el desarollo for me when I get my period,
but for her it’s el cambio. I don’t get it. I might as well
open a botica! Then she talks about the new Mexican
restaurant right across from the Strand theater where
she says she has a good chance of getting a job. Sure.
And Papi, he’s always at the chicken factoría or with
his friends drinking beers under a tree by the colmado
or betting on gallos. When Sky can’t come
over there’s nothing to do. So, I go window shopping
and walk the four blocks of the city. Over and over.
There isn’t a store sale I haven’t seen. Baseball gloves are
sixty dollars! Can you believe that? This Saturday there is
a Watermelon Jubilee in Conesville a few miles south.
And Casey’s Tenderloin Burgers which is run by a
Vietnamese woman has a twofer special on Fridays.
Twofers are when you get two for one. I hate this place.
Well, the only things that I do like are the cicadas in
the trees and the fields. They have electric bellies
and are as big as walnuts, they’re purple with fuzzy
eyelashes. And they sing in secret extraterrestrial
languages. At night, they rule the planet. You can’t
see them but everything is dripping with their sound,
their violin songs. Chévere, huh?
Love con cicadas,
Canelita
April 18, 01
Dear uncle DJ,
Just want to tell you that you are the only one
I can talk to. Hope you like this card. I drew it
with all my favorite colors. Sky blue, emerald
green and wicked ruby red, red like Mamá’s purses
and scarves and hats. My favorite is sky blue.
Did you know that the sky above your head is
the purest blue, an infinite ocean of sky upon
sky. And the sky farthest from you is a milky-way sky,
a sky mixed with the rainy clouds, a faint see-through sky.
Am I an artist, uncle DJ?
Love con marimas,
Canela
April 26, 01
Dear Canela,
Your tía Aurelia is doing much better at home.
Just left her and Gladys watching a telenovela this
afternoon. Went straight to the Muni Pier next to Cannery
Row, well, that’s just a name for the tourist trap by the
Wharf. Went all the way to the end of the pier, past the
crab-netters and an old Chinese woman fishing up an
eel. Turned to the City and guess what I heard bouncing
through the waves from the concrete benches of
Aquatic Park? Guess.
Amor del mar,
Uncle DJ
P.S. Be good. Pray for tía Aurelia.
April 30, 01
Dear uncle DJ,
Sky says you heard someone jump into the water
to save a baby from a great white shark.
Just kidding. Dunno.
It’s kinda cold here. Heard of “freezing rain”? Sky tell
s me
in the winter it’s like glass everywhere.
Was it firecrackers?
Love con ice congas and snowball guayavas,
Canela
P.S. Isn’t the Muni Pier where Mamá and Papi met?
What’s Aquatic Park, a place to park your pools?
Did you know that I keep all your letters
in a cereal box that Papi gave me? Under my bed.
May 3, 01
Dear Firecracker Canelita,
Yeah, my sister met your dad at the pier.
Ain’t that a wild one. A Puertorican from the Big Apple
visiting the City and a Puertoriqueña straight off
the island staring at Alcatraz. ¡Bendito!
Love con Mexican salsa,
Uncle DJ
May 7, 01
Dear Canela,
Contestant number three?
Ready with your answer?
Please press the correct button! Ha!
It wasn’t some guy or a shark or
a circus juggler throwing balloons
into the water. Come on, nena.
Use your maraca. I’ll tell you.
There was a row of congero brothers
sitting on a little theater facing the sea,
they call it Aquatic Parque and man,
they were blowing sofrito with their souls,
puro tumbao’—in front of the ocean,
now that’s what I call a Puerto Rican symphony.
Love con bongo magic,
Uncle DJ
P.S. Like this postcard, the cable cars?
May 13, 01
Dear Yolanda,
Tía Aurelia is home now, in her little hotel room with her
window facing Mission Street. Watching the jevos passing
by the junkies all strung out. Man, wish I could get her out
of here. Went to look for a place for her in Noe Valley. $800.
For a square box with a carpet and a heater. That’s it.
Almost as bad as Loisaida. At least it had a heater.
Problem is all she’s got is my uncle Ismael’s pension check.
Please call or write me right now.
Stop whatever you are doing and send me a little note. Hurry.
Maybe you can come and help your tía Gladys while I
find tía Aurelia a cozy place.
Did you get my letter about Aquatic Parque?
Love from this island to yours—on a windy day.
Uncle DJ
May 20, 01
Dear Canelita,
Why don’t you answer my letters, the phone?
Your mom says she hasn’t seen you in four days.
What’s going on? She says you’re not at school either.
Just when I need you, nena. Please, por favor, answer.
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