ANALFABETA
It took awhile for Abuela to figure out that an F
on my report card did not stand for Fantástico,
her experience with school being limited to fourth grade,
back in the days of wooden rooms and rulers beating
knowledge into those bold enough to opt for ignorance.
She kept what she could from el colegio en el campo—
arithmetic, the alphabet, penmanship that wobbled long before her arthritis
set in, and she would not stand for less than the best from me,
which is why she beat my ass with her chancleta when she finally learned
I’d been lying about my ease with fractions and P.E.
You would have thought her a dignitary, the way she walked
into my 6th grade classroom, staccato heels, her good black dress
ironed crisp as a dollar, a bit much for Mrs. Dempsey,
who looked at us down the long slope of her nose and began to tear
me down in tea-time tones that did not mention how she sometimes slipped
and called me Spic under her breath, how she pounced when I spoke
to my friends in Español. Abuela caught most of the words
Dempsey lobbed her way, but didn’t say a thing, just glared at me
every second she endured the shame of my shortcomings,
which seemed as personal as the fine stitch of her heirloom DNA,
as if she alone were to blame for the thrust of my chin
and purse of my lips, the crossbones of arms I cradled against my chest
as the words too smart for her own good lingered in the air
like the bells that ruled our days, which is when Abuela rose from her chair
and said the words that set me straight: Neber too esmart, mi niña,
neber too esmart!
by Caridad McCormick
Originally published in The Green Hills Literary Lantern, xvii, 2006.
SUMMER AT THE LAKE: 1959
Every Sunday evening after supper,
the men of our family folded themselves
into station wagons, left the cabin at the lake,
disappeared in the dark to town and jobs.
The women kicked off high-heeled sandals,
peeled out of girdles, laughed out loud,
made a pitcher of highballs, put us children
to bed early. We fell asleep listening
through walls to the lilt of laughter,
the murmur of whispered secrets.
On Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday,
the women skipped lipstick,
sunbathed till their faces freckled,
feasted on paperback novels,
painted the dock, plunged open the toilet,
baited our fish hooks, taught us to swim.
They sang together over sudsy sinks,
coaching us in their close harmonies.
You Are My Sunshine, Heart Of My Heart.
At night, we played Penny-In-The-Pot,
ate popcorn, drank Vernor’s ginger ale.
On Thursday, the women shelved their books,
dragged dirty clothes to the laundromat,
filled carts at the IGA, swept the cabin clean.
On Friday, they washed off the grit
and shine of the week, shaved legs
and under their arms, plucked eyebrows.
By six o’clock when the men arrived,
we children were scrubbed and scolded,
warned to be good. Our mothers and aunts,
lipsticked, heeled and girdled again,
served pot roast and gravy on china plates.
The easy laughter of midweek dimmed
to smiles flickering between wives and husbands
over the heads of children who, like held breath,
were momentarily still. Watching. Learning
the rhymes and rhythms of this old song.
by Karen Bashkirew
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