Land of the Cranes Read online

  Praise for The Moon Within

  “A worthy successor to Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret set in present-day Oakland.… Salazar’s verse novel is sensitive and fresh.… An authentically middle school voice and diverse Latinx cast make this book a standout.”

  —Kirkus Reviews, starred review

  “An excellent addition for upper middle grade and middle school readers, especially for maturing tweens in the midst of puberty.”

  —School Library Journal, starred review

  “With sensitivity, Salazar purports that menstruation is a source of feminine strength, inexorably and beautifully connected to the moon cycle. The broader message is one of acceptance, celebration, and resistance: a period is just a period, Salazar suggests, but it’s also so much more.”

  —Publishers Weekly, starred review

  “Salazar’s use of verse in this story adds a layer of raw emotion and honesty that makes the reading experience all the more poignant.… Salazar handles this story with beauty and grace, giving young girls a picture of what it means to stand in your own power and reclaim your own story.”

  —BookPage, starred review

  “This story is told in beautiful poems.… A lovely, relatable story.… The author reveals cultural aspects of Latinx (especially Xicana) and Caribbean peoples in rich detail.”

  —Booklist

  “Lyrical.… The characters leap to life and eloquently evoke the passion and pain of a girl’s coming-of-age. Absolutely beautiful, reverent, and intensely personal.”

  —School Library Connection

  “This is a fascinating tale that blends ancestral traditions from two cultures, while portraying modern dilemmas. Salazar’s poetry is as lovely and graceful as the dance scenes.”

  —Margarita Engle, National Young People’s Poet Laureate and Newbery Honor-winning author of The Surrender Tree

  “With conga-pulsed lyrics, Aida Salazar pulls us into the coming of age of eleven year Celi. She initiates readers into the conversation of Bomba, the girl-woman circle, divine twin energies and the many moon-tide powers of a Latina pre-teen. This is a book whose form and content, vision and depth, I find revolutionary and culturally ecstatic. In these times, here is the liberation verse our youth and all have been waiting for—Brava-Bravo!”

  —Juan Felipe Herrera, former US Poet Laureate and author of Jabberwalking

  “Aida Salazar has reached deep into our indigenous past to explore in beautiful, poignant poetry what it means to become a woman at the intersection of community and self. Rooted in ancestral lore yet vibrantly modern, The Moon Within is a touching, powerful, and important novel in verse.”

  —David Bowles, Pura Belpré Honor-winning author of They Call Me Güero

  “In a vivid, magical debut, Aida Salazar’s lyrical poetry deftly pulls you into Celi’s vibrant world as she reluctantly dances towards womanhood, adjusting to the drumbeats of first love and true friendship while exploring her ancestral roots as she finds her role within family and community.”

  —Naheed H. Senzai, award-winning author of Shooting Kabul and Escape from Aleppo

  “Lovely and amazing … a heartbreaker, in every wonderful way. Salazar’s vivid and accessible verse brings us the coming-of-age story we’ve been longing for. Poignant, funny, and deeply moving, The Moon Within is a story told with an abundance of love and respect—a gift straight from the center of Salazar’s heart to readers everywhere.”

  —Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich, author of Eighth-Grade Superzero and co-author of Naomis Too

  Praise for The Moon Within

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Aztlán

  A Soft Memory

  What I Know:

  How I Learned to Fly

  Where We Land

  Crane Poem Gallery

  We Planted Roses Too

  Virgencita Angel

  I Spell a Spell

  Jelly Ranchera Strides

  Sanctuary Breakfast

  Los Quince De Tina

  Cartel

  The Amparo Globe

  Waiting

  6:15 P.M.

  The Big House

  Walls

  A Papi in a Pillow

  No One Puts Up

  Questions

  Two Days

  Our Flock

  Brown Crane = Tocuilcoyotl

  A Muddy Nest

  Egg

  Learning Tears

  Papi in a Jar

  Broken Wings

  Safe

  Decisions

  Cajita De Tesoros

  Write Me!

  Mail

  Six-Month Scientist

  A Song

  Crane Poems to a Farm

  Community Corn

  A Secret for an Angel

  Friendship Park

  Border Beach

  Faith Exit

  Mouth Patrol

  Chichimeca Warriors

  Mictlan

  Inside the SUV

  They Drive Us Through

  A Building Made of ICE

  Silver Capes

  It Must Be Almost My Bedtime When

  Hunger

  Our Place in a Cage

  Right Next to Us

  Think of Dulzura

  Lights Out

  Between Sleep

  Josefina

  Wilted Bugs

  Offering

  The Deepest Hurt

  Frozen Food

  Cardboard Play

  A Hiss That Hides

  Open Toilet

  The Trash Near

  One Hour a Day in the Light

  Sounds of Sadness

  Almost Solas

  Almost Solas in Aztlán

  What Appears and Fades

  Yellow Hair Shower

  Sick

  The Shape of a Nest

  I Was an Egg Once

  Fake Feel Better

  Maybe

  An Itch So Bad

  Bedhead Lice

  I Blame the Claws

  All About Cranes

  Piojo Initiation

  Mami Gathers a New Flock

  Volamos

  Twisting Tooth Shoe

  Unbelievable to Sleep

  At the Root

  Throat School

  Toilet Paper Songs

  To the Offices

  The Caller

  Crowbar Blue

  Armpit Band

  The Dreamer

  Anáhuac

  Grounded

  Marisel

  Why, Mami?

  That Night

  The Wildest Crane

  Don’t Mind Sharing

  Gatekeeper

  Fernanda

  An Understanding

  My Very Own

  Hashtag Revolution!

  Up Inside

  Inside My Alas:

  Without Hope

  Strike!

  Demands

  How They Laughed

  How Long?

  A Different Hunger

  On the Third Day

  Despair

  I Cry One Hundred Miles

  Solita

  What Yellow Hair Found Out

  I Draw and Spell in Alas

  In Mami’s Outline

  New Testimonies

  How to Look Inside

  They Draw and Spell

  An Out-of-Paper Campaign

  Times Table Songs

  Paper Yellow Air

  Finally, Fernanda

  Marisel’s Fernanda

  I Count

  Request

  Hope Like a Fallen Sky

  When the Government Comes

  We Did Something

  A Mexican Gift

  M
i Querida Betita Plumita, My Little Crane,

  Papi Poems

  Winged Words

  I Find a Space

  Cyclone Dust

  A Silence

  The Egg Has a Name

  The Mountain Before Us

  A Mechanical Crane

  Author’s Note

  Preview of The Moon Within

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  My papi says,

  Long ago, our people came from a place

  called Aztlán, the land of the cranes

  which is now known as the Southwestern US.

  They left Aztlán to fulfill their prophecy:

  to build a great city

  in the navel of the universe

  a small mound in the middle of a lake

  where they saw an eagle devour a serpent on a cactus.

  They called that place Mexica-Tenochtitlán.

  It was also prophesized

  our people would return to Aztlán

  to live among the cranes again.

  I don’t remember the mountain

  where I was born

  or the place where I first crawled.

  I remember Mami’s worried mouth

  a whisper that she, Papi, and I

  would follow

  a flock of cranes going

  home

  El Norte, Los Angeles.

  There, we could be birds too—brown grullas

  where bad men could not harm us

  like they did my Tío Pedro

  and Abuelita would not worry.

  Seven years later

  I think I remember the soft wrinkles

  on Abuelita Lola’s face.

  I know my school’s shiny floors

  a broken water fountain

  and boxed chocolate milk

  I buy for fifty cents.

  I know Ms. Martinez

  and her

  happy handshakes

  at her door

  before each fourth-grade morning.

  I know how to write

  and draw the picture poems

  Ms. Martinez taught us

  to paint our feelings.

  I know to never forget

  to scribble my name and date

  on the bottom.

  I know recess on the blacktop

  and the length of my golden

  brown crane wings

  in the desert sun.

  I know my BFF, Amparo

  climbs los columpios like wind.

  I know aftercare until six p.m.

  when Papi comes to get me

  between

  his two jobs

  and carries me home

  on his

  strong shoulders

  so high I find

                                                      flight.

  Blue    sky         flight

  began

  with a                ripple

  of feathers

  tickled                by air

  on the surface

  of my dancing arms.

  Sprouting wings stumbled

  with the wind

  pushed sideways

  at first

  I heard

  Papi’s voice,

                          Encuentra la dulzura en tu lucha.

                          Find the sweetness in your struggle.

  Then, a breath

  a thought

  to spell

  my smiling name

  with my wings

  big circles to form

  Roberta, Betita

  my name like Papi’s

  Roberto, Beto.

  Then, a glide

  a laugh so loud

  looked down to see

  las casas, las yardas,

  and barking dogs

  of our vecindad

  become tiny

  dots and squares

  as I floated

  above

  with Papi flying beside me

  ready to catch me

                                          all the way home.

  Papi and I land

  on the front yarda

  of our duplex

  each day.

  He shuffles in his pocket

  for the keys to our rental

  and in we go

  to our one-bedroom casita

  plus the laundry room

  he turned

  into a mini bedroom

  with all-year Xmas lights

  for me.

  He puts down his so heavy

  worker’s belt inside his cool gray

  toolbox and fires up the comal.

  We sit to eat beans and tortillas,

  chile, with a sprinkle of cheese.

  This is when he tells me

  old stories about how we come

  from the

  people of the sun

  and how long ago

  we lived in Aztlán

  among the cranes

  and danced

  and crooned like trumpets

  about how we left

  and built our great city

  in the belly button of the universe.

  He talks with cheeks full of food

  from the side of his mouth,

  The prophecy says

                          one day

              we will fly back home

                          and croon, cry, and build

              our nests in the place

                          we once left.

  He says all of us cranes

  are giving the prophecy life.

  Then, he goes to curl into a nap

  for half an hour while I fly

  outside to play

  with Amparo

  in the tree-filled yarda

  we share with her family

  until

  brown feathered-skin Mami

  comes home

  sometimes with

  a bag of bright yellow lemons

  like a gift in her tired hands

  singing

  a sweet song in Spanish

  a swing

  from her lips

  and we crowd into

  one another

  with kisses

  and hugs

  and how-was-your-days

  before Papi rushes off

  to dip his hands

  in suds

  to make restaurant dishes

  clean.

  Before his nap today

  Papi asks to see

  my daily picture poem.

  I pull it out from my backpack

  and uncrumple the edges.

  What marvel did you make today, Betita?

  he asks in his Spanish-sounding English

  warm soft round words

  are air to me

  but so strange to others they call it an accent

  different, a little, from my own singsong East LA English

  Principal Brown tries

  to correct

  but Ms. Martinez

  never cared

  one speck

  about.

  Papi smoothes the edges

  raises the paper up to the light

  to inspect it like an X-ray

  studying first the drawing

  with a wheel-like twist of his mouth.

  He sees:

  me perched up on the rocket t
ower

  of our jungle gym at school

  my eyes closed

  wings out to my sides

  the wind drawing

  a wide grin across my face.

  Then he reads the rhyming poem I scribbled below my picture:

  Recess

  Running, sliding, climbing to reach the sky

  up so high, I almost fly.

  He traces my signature with his finger.

  It’s my best new cursive:

  Betita-September 7

  He kisses his pride right onto

  my cheek with an extra-loving push

  that makes my head wobble.

  You sign just like an artist, mi Plumita.

  I thought maybe like a poet, Papi, I say

  because Ms. Martinez just taught us about

  Juan Felipe Herrera, the poet of the nation

  who is a crane like us.

              Yes, like a poet too, amor.

  I watch him hang

  my crane poem

                          on what Mami calls

                                      my “laundry line gallery”

                                                  she strung up across

                                                             the kitchen window

                                                                  above the sink

                                                                       while she whistled.

  Papi planted trees

  along the square edges

  of our wrought iron fence

  to leave some grass

  in the middle

  for Amparo and me

  to run and for our families

  to gather and

  grill carne asada

  on the weekend.

  He planted

  guamúchil

  guayaba

  chabacano

  and plum

  pruned trees

  ripe with fruit

  perfect branches

  the best for climbing.

  Then, Mami said,

  Quiero rosas for my altar, por favor.

  So, all of our hands planted

  bald bushes at first

  with knots for roots

  that later burst into

  bold green leaves

  with big red flowers

  carrying a smell so sweet

  summer wind circles