The Moon Within Read online

  Title Page

  Dedication

  New Moon

  My Locket

  Luna

  Moon Ceremony

  Nails

  A Closet Full

  Puffer Bra

  Oakland Orange Sky

  Like a Redwood

  My Best Echo

  Boyness

  Two-Three Pulse

  Mima’s Herbs

  My Flower, Mi Flor

  Papa Drum

  Paper Walls

  Juju Bolt

  Pieces of Us

  Black-Xican

  Mama Earths

  Magda’s Drum Locket

  Iván Too?

  Slippery Everything

  A Boy Like Him

  Confession

  Aurora’s Aura

  First Quarter Moon

  On Our Drive to School

  At Amanecer Community School

  Waves

  Tulips in the Mirror

  The Plan

  Smashed Heart

  The Invitation

  The Tablet

  Mission Accomplished

  Mima’s Moon

  Puerto Rican Drum Dance

  What Pulls Us

  At Amanecer Community School Science Fair

  A Black Hole

  More Than Ever

  Showtime

  La Peña Café

  Cracked

  Tea and Tablet

  The Invitation Reversed

  Not So Secret

  The Movies

  When I Turn Thirteen

  Secrets in the Dark

  Come Over

  Not Magda

  Amifriend Del Alma

  No Bad Without Good

  Full Moon

  Echo Movement

  More Than the Other

  Betraying Sea

  The Last Days of School

  World Drums Class

  Partners

  Solstice Locust Lake

  Trágame Tierra

  On the Blanket

  Sick

  Inside Circles

  Rhythm

  Oakland to El-A

  Xochihuah in Concrete

  Hammock Limpia

  The Silent Drum

  Amiga Luna

  Summer

  Moonshadow

  Moon Has Come

  Stain

  A Wide-Open Clasp

  Hummingbird Herbs

  Chrysalis

  Talking Drum

  Anticipation

  Recital

  Last Quarter Moon

  Preparations

  Together

  At the Door

  Luna Reigns

  A Circle of Light

  The Cleansing

  The Xochitl Ritual

  Ometeotl

  First Blood Ritual

  Midnight Light

  Author’s Note

  “A Flower Song for Maidens Coming of Age”

  My Moon Within

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  There is a locket in my heart

  that holds all of the questions

  that do cartwheels in my mind

  and gurgle up to the top of my brain

  like root beer fizz.

  Questions that my journal

  doesn’t keep so my little brother, Juju,

  or other snoops don’t read them.

  Questions that Mima

  knows how to answer

  but I’m too embarrassed to ask her

  because they might

  seem stupid or gross or wrong.

  Like, why have my armpits begun to smell?

  Or how big will my breasts grow?

  Or when exactly will my period come?

  I flush bright red

  right through my amber skin

  just thinking about it.

  It was so long ago that Mima was

  eleven, maybe she wouldn’t

  remember what it is like

  maybe she’ll make me talk about it, a lot

  maybe wind herself into a lecture

  about the beauty of women’s bodies

  that I don’t want to hear from her

  sometimes cactus lips.

  Maybe she’ll just think I’m

  delirious and say,

  Celi, are you running a fever?

  while she kisses my forehead.

  My locket also keeps secrets.

  Secrets tangle in the shyness of my tongue

  even when I try to tell them

  to my best friend

  Magda.

  Instead, my locket holds quiet my crush

  on Iván who is one year older

  than me and who can do a backflip

  better than the other boys in his capoeira class.

  Or the wish that Aurora, my “friend”

  would just go away and

  not have a crush on him too.

  Or how often I sneak the tablet

  from my parents when

  I’m supposed to be practicing

  music or dancing.

  Though I’ve never seen it

  I know my locket is there.

  It keeps my questions

  my secrets

  warm

  unanswered

  and safe.

  A beam of moonlight

  squeezes through

  my window’s curtain.

  Luna is out tonight.

  My eyes wide open like doors.

  I’ll be twelve in a few months, I should

  be allowed to go to sleep later

  than seven-year-old Juju, who shares a room with me

  but I’m not.

  No matter that it is Saturday.

  Round-cheeked Juju passes

  out the moment his head hits the pillow.

  And I stare at the May moonlight.

  I watch her light up a sliver of dust

  in my room.

  Like a performance

  small specks dance

  twirl,

  bounce,

  float,

  glide,

  somersault.

  They dance like I do.

  I try to memorize their choreography

  to use during bomba dance class

  when Magda drums for me

  and I am free to improvise

  bring my own moves.

  I smile to think that specks of dust

  dance around me

  though I don’t hear music.

  Maybe they dance to the clicks and creaks

  of our little house in Oakland

  and the city crickets

  and Mima’s and Papi’s footsteps

  outside my door

  Juju’s steady breathing.

  And when Luna is gone

  and I can’t see their floating

  I know they continue to dance

  in a dream

  with Luna and me.

  Mima says judging by my body

  that soon my moon will come

  and with it

  my moon ceremony.

  It’s a period, Mima, I tell her, not a moon.

  She whips back,

  It will come every twenty-nine days

  just like the moon.

  So it’s a moon cycle.

  She doesn’t know that the moon

  is a dancer to me, not a period.

  I dread the ceremony where she will gather

  all six of my aunts

  some of my dance teachers

  a constellation of grown-up women

  to talk to me

  about what it means to bleed monthly

  and worse, I’ll have to openly share

  my body’s secret<
br />
  my locket’s secret

  as if on display

  like a ripe mango on a fruit stand.

  I just about lose my lunch and I can’t

  roll my eyes back into my head anymore.

  Mima tosses her long night-black hair

  to the side to explain for the twentieth time

  while I turn my back and imitate her words:

  Our ancestors honored

  our flowering in this way.

  It is a ritual taken away from us

  during so many conquests.

  The thought of having to talk

  to anyone

  especially adults

  about secrets only meant for my

  locket makes my insides crumble,

  I won’t do it!

  Please, Mima, please don’t make me do it.

  Embarrassment will eat me up whole!

  I shout from my heart.

  Don’t worry, Celi, she calms,

  your body will tell us when it is time.

  Long and thick and

  painted bright red

  is how I dream

  they could be.

  But they are

  little nubs at my fingertips

  small, gnarled, and crusty.

  I bite them and don’t

  think about it like when you

  eat popcorn during a movie.

  I do it mostly when I listen

  to Magda tell me a story

  or when Iván is around

  and I pretend not to stare.

  Mostly it’s a nervous habit

  like anxious ants crawling inside my fingertips.

  My parents and my dance teacher, Ms. Susana, all say,

  Celi, stop biting your nails!

  But soon, up they zoom, right to my mouth

  when I’m learning new choreography

  or waiting for my turn to dance.

  Mima says I can’t paint them

  red until after I’m thirteen

  officially a teenager

  which makes me growl

  at her under my breath.

  Plus, she talks about bacteria

  that lingers in your fingers

  and though it grosses me out

  I easily forget and I’m picking

  at the little bits of skin

  that hang from my cuticles.

  Dr. Guillermo, my dentist,

  said to put a bunch of sticky notes

  around my house or in my books

  to remind me to stop biting.

  That’s how he gets his patients to

  stop grinding their teeth.

  I do it for a week but it’s no use.

  I can’t explain it

  biting my nails

  brings me a comfort like

  drinking hot chocolate

  or eating warm handmade tortillas

  for breakfast.

  Monday morning before school, I can’t change

  in our only bathroom, Mima’s in there

  so I squeeze into the closet

  to hide from Juju.

  Papi comes in to call me for the

  breakfast he always makes

  but I stay quiet cool

  I think I’ve escaped but soon Mima

  comes looking and

  opens the door

  Ay, mija, I love it! she screams

  for the whole house to hear.

  I clutch at the new bra she bought me

  roller-coaster twisted onto my chest.

  The straps are tangled, let me fix it.

  Sh sh sh, Mima! I whisper hard.

  As she untangles, she calls for Papi,

  Amor! Come see how well this bra fits Celi!

  She shakes her head like she doesn’t believe it,

  It’s amazing, just look at this muchachita, está floreciendo.

  I hear Juju’s and Papi’s steps approach

  their footfalls, a growing heated

  pounding in my head.

  I contort into a pretzel

  inside that

  shrinking

  closet,

  Mima! No!

  Quieta, there’s nothing to be ashamed of, Celi—

  it’s cause for celebration!

  What? What’s a celebration? Papi asks.

  Breasts, our girl is growing breasts!

  Mima’s high pitch sears my ears.

  Awesome! Juju chimes in.

  When I’m eleven, will I grow some too?

  Shut up! You little … I strike.

  Celi, Papi warns, but then turns to Juju,

  It isn’t likely, mijo. They’re mammary glands designed

  to nurse young. Remember, like the mama goats we saw?

  You mean, like goat teats? Juju cracks up

  lets out his annoyingly loud goat bleat,

  Celi’s got teats!

  My skin swells with an out-of-control fire,

  MIMA! I cry, as helpless as ash.

  She hugs me so tight and kisses me

  all over my sizzling face and head.

  I’m just so thrilled for you, Celi. It really is a marvelous moment.

  I jerk away and turn my back on all three of them

  slip on my top, wishing to disappear into a flame.

  When I turn around, Mima’s got tears in her eyes!

  Vamos, Papi hugs and nudges her and Juju away,

  Let’s give Celi some privacy.

  I burst from that cramped space

  breathing a burning anger in and out of my lungs.

  My fiery eyes land on the picture

  of my family and me in front of my

  eleventh birthday cake and I take

  scissors to their smiling faces

  and mine

  until

  we

  are in

  a

  million

  pieces

  like

  my

  locket.

  At school

  I am a puffer fish

  slick new bra glistening

  beneath my blouse

  harmless

  to those who don’t know

  or don’t care what I wear

  ever

  like Magda

  but chest expanded dangerous

  to the first kid to dare ask,

  Is that a bra strap I see?

  After school, I walk seven steps ahead of Mima and Juju

  to my ballet class at the Oakland Ballet Conservatory

  only a few blocks from my house.

  As my legs grow longer

  my strides cover more ground.

  I can’t be late or I’ll lose my scholarship.

  Oakland

  b

  r

  e

  a

  k

  s

  open before me

  the sun sets brightly in this almost summer

  it unfurls an orange-gray glaze over the city.

  I pretend like I’m on my own.

  Soon I’ll be able to walk to class

  without Mima.

  What could go wrong in three blocks?

  For now, the wind brushes my curls

  I can smell the exhaust of cars

  mixed with the smell of sour grass

  broken after mowing.

  I pass a pile of baby gear

  sitting on the curb with a sign

  that says Free on it.

  I slap at blades of foxtail shoots

  and gather their feathery tufts

  as I walk.

  The man with the long ponytail

  who’s always home

  stands outside his house smoking

  and his pit bull sits on the steps, off leash.

  I hold my breath and slow my stride.

  I don’t want the dog to come chasing.

  I make a left on MacArthur

  to find a tangerine sky

  turn back to see

  if Mima is still

&nb
sp; behind

  me.

  I’m relieved that she is

  because there are kids on MacArthur

  getting loud with each other.

  They gather at a bus stop

  in their school uniforms

  a flock of crows waiting to get home.

  A teenage girl starts a fight with a boy

  she swings her arms at him

  while he walks backward into the street

  and everyone’s screaming

  phones are out.

  I can’t tell if they are playing or for real

  so, I slow down completely and grab Mima’s arm.

  A bitter citrus cielo draped over us.

  Then suddenly, they are all laughing

  and cursing like nothing happened.

  I wonder why they joke like that

  and why they aren’t going

  to a dance class like me.

  On Thursday, I wait to see him

  walk into La Peña Cultural Center.

  Iván of the shy smile

  light-bark-brown skin

  dark bushy curls on top

  that shape into a peak

  like a growing tree.

  Branch-like legs

  and arms so lanky long

  they reach for the sun

  when he plays capoeira.

  I look for him in the studio’s big mirror

  during my own dance class

  talking to his friends

  his gym bag strapped across his back

  his skateboard in one hand.

  He waits for my bomba class

  to end and file out

  and his capoeira class to begin.

  He only waves, maybe says hi

  every Thursday, no more and no less.

  He seems to be getting to the other

  side of growing up with that crackle in his voice

  and the bumps sprawled on his forehead.

  I pretend to gather my things slowly

  my eyes strain to sideways stalk him.

  In his class, he sways—a ginga—

  his hands up, ready, like a boxer

  graceful in that martial art

  of fighting camouflaged by dance.

  Last summer, we went to arts camp together

  in the Redwoods

  as far from Oakland as I go alone.

  When we were there

  we’d talk during lunch.

  Once he told me he lived

  with his mom and that his pop

  wasn’t around much and that

  even though he’s not Brazilian

  playing capoeira helps him

  keep his mind off missing his pop.

  I opened my locket

  a little too to say

  though I’m half Puerto Rican

  dancing bomba feels

  like warm Caribbean water

  swishing and swaying

  happiness inside of me.

  Which made him grin giggle

  and made me want to bury

  my blushing head in the dirt.

  Though we are away from the forest now

  I like to hear him say

  hello in that broken way

  that he does sometimes

  and remember the smell of redwoods