Onward. Always onward.
I blow her a kiss
across the linoleum, &
whisper blessings under my breath,
divide a piece of God
from my heart
for her to carry.
I know she does the same for me.
As the plane from DR
begins down the runway
I reach for Camino’s hand.
She has her head pushed
into the backrest, her eyes clenched,
mouthing prayers.
But our fingers intertwine
& don’t let go until
the pilot hops on the loudspeaker.
He assures us the flight path is clear.
Tells us to enjoy the beverage service.
My heart stops beating quite so hard.
Camino opens her eyes,
staring at the water
endless & blue beneath us.
I tell her that when we land
some people on the plane might clap.
She turns to me with an eyebrow raised.
I imagine it’s kind of giving thanks.
Of all the ways it could end
it ends not with us in the sky or the water,
but together
on solid earth
safely grounded.
Author’s Note
MY FIRST MEMORY OF VISITING THE DOMINICAN REPUBLIC IS ALSO my first memory of being on a flight. I was taken to visit my mother’s family, many of whom I had met only once when I was six months old, and none of whom now, at eight years old, I had any memories of. I was escorted on my flight by a neighbor, Doña Reina, and while I was excited, I was also so nervous, having no family I was familiar with nearby. My mother dressed me formally: a scratchy tweedlike dress and a big hat with a sunflower around the brim. This was a big deal. The flight itself scared me: Why were we in the air so long? If I slept, would they forget to collect me from the plane? What would happen if the whole thing fell?
My favorite moment was when the plane landed and the other passengers clapped. Instinctively I joined them. Even if the exact performance we were applauding was unclear, it was understood; it was praise for a higher being for allowing us to arrive safely, as a reaction to the pilot’s performance, applause for ourselves at having finally returned—I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now, the exact reason for that spontaneous reaction, but I know I was enamored with the many ways Dominicans celebrate touching down onto our island.
When I was thirteen years old, two months and one day after September 11, 2001, flight AA587 crashed to the ground in Queens, New York. It was on its way to Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. Two hundred sixty people, plus five people on the ground, died. More than 90 percent of the passengers were of Dominican descent. Many were returning home. It completely rocked the New York Dominican community. It is the second-deadliest aviation crash in United States history.
There was so much confusion around the November crash; I remember the special mass held at church, the bewilderment my father expressed as he read Dominican newspapers for more information, the candlelight vigils held outside the apartment buildings where passengers on that flight had lived. I also remember how little this crash was remembered when it was determined the cause was not terrorism. How quickly the news coverage trickled off, how it seemed the larger societal memory had moved on, even though the collective memory of my community was still wrestling with the loss.
Throughout the years, I’ve circled back to the details of that flight. Knowing I wanted to remember. Knowing I wanted a larger narrative that commemorated that moment in time. My research led me to so many stories of individuals who were returning to the Dominican Republic to retire, to open grocery stores, to help a sick relative, or to celebrate their military leave. My research also led me to stories of people with multiple families, with large secrets, with truths that were exposed publicly and without pomp after their death.
Most families are messy; most parents will fail to live up to the hero worship of their children. In Clap When You Land, I wanted to write a story that considered who matters and deserves attention in the media, as well as a more intimate portrayal of what it means to discover secrets, to discover family, to discover the depths of your own character in the face of great loss—and gain.
Acknowledgments
I WANT TO GIVE THANKS TO MY EDITOR, ROSEMARY BROSNAN, and my fantastic team at HarperTeen, including, but not limited to: Courtney Stevenson, Erin Fitzsimmons, Sari Murray, Shona McCarthy, and Ebony LaDelle. Thanks for helping me tell stories that deal in tenderness and immense love of my community.
I want to give thanks to Joan Paquette for believing in this book, and to Alexandra Machinist for her thoughtful guidance.
I had fantastic beta readers who showed this story so much early love that I felt brave enough to tell it. Thanks to my bestie, Carid Santos, a million times over. She sat with this story through so many drafts and continuously gave an example for the sisterhood I wanted to forge here. Special thanks to readers Yahaira Castro, Safia Elhillo, Clint Smith, Daniel José Older, Phil Bildner, and Limer Batista. Camino and Yahaira are truer because of your keen eyes and big hearts and kinship. And shoutout to Ibi Zoboi, who listened to my idea about this story when it had only one main character and said, in no uncertain terms: you need to voice the other sister.
I had two mothers who helped midwife this story. Thanks to my momma, Rosa, who answered all my questions about Hora Santas, and holistic healing, and comadronas, and curanderas, and prayed—literally prayed—when I told her I was stuck: the answer to writer’s block, in my case, seems to be my mother’s supreme faith. And special thanks to my mother-in-law, Ms. Sarah Cannon-Moye, who talked me through so many sticky points when I was ready to throw my laptop out the window. Her patience and belief in me, as well as her tough questions, were critical to my undoing the knots in the narrative.
Thank you to my family, the Amadis and Acevedos, the Paulinos and Minayas. Thank you for welcoming me in Santo Domingo and letting me be one of your own. Special thanks to the Batistas—meeting you all at eight years old felt like finding sisters.
Shakir Amman Cannon-Moye: you’re my favorite. Thank you for standing beside me through both the applause and the crash landings.
Ancestors, as always, I write to you / for you / with you, carrying the utmost love and reverence. Thank you for wedging open so many doorways that have led to my wildest dreams; I promise to continue walking through them.
About the Author
Photo credit Denzel Golatt
ELIZABETH ACEVEDO is the author of The Poet X—which won the National Book Award for Young People’s Literature, the Michael L. Printz Award, the Pura Belpré Award, the Boston Globe–Horn Book Award, and the Walter Award—and a second novel, With the Fire on High. She is a National Poetry Slam champion and holds an MFA in creative writing from the University of Maryland. Acevedo lives with her partner in Washington, DC. You can find out more about her at www.acevedowrites.com.
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Copyright
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
CLAP WHEN YOU LAND. Copyright © 2020 by Elizabeth Acevedo. All rights reserved. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this t
ext may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Cover art © 2020 by Bijou Karman
Cover design by Erin Fitzsimmons
* * *
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020933571
Digital Edition MAY 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-288278-3
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-288276-9 (trade bdg.)
ISBN 978-0-06-301670-5 (special edition)
* * *
2021222324PC/LSCH10987654321
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