The Moon Within Read online

  and us together

  for just a second.

  Magda is better than my best friend

  strange maybe

  because we aren’t anything alike.

  I wear my curly hair

  cola de caballo long

  or pulled back in a bun

  and love the flowing cotton skirts

  girls have to wear to dance bomba.

  She wears her bright brown hair

  short

  T-shirt, jeans, and high-top Vans

  skater boy style

  and hardly dances.

  She only drums.

  She is a smaller

  eleven-year-old than others

  maybe because her growing

  hasn’t kicked in yet.

  But the power in her hands is so big

  the sound bounces off the drum

  fills the room

  and sinks into your bones.

  She’s by far the best drummer in our

  bomba performance group, Farolitos,

  and the best at smiling.

  Magda knows how to work up

  the crowd at shows

  with a quick flash

  of her wide white teeth.

  I think I dance the best

  when she drums.

  When I make a move

  and mark it with my twirling skirt, a piquete,

  she hits the drum right at that moment.

  Like an echo, but better because it’s as if

  she can read my mind and finds

  my next move before I do.

  She is my best echo.

  Before our last performance

  a couple of weeks ago

  Magda waited for one of the

  bathroom stalls to be free.

  Auburn-haired Aurora says,

  You can’t really be in the girls’ bathroom.

  Magda chuckles back. Course I can. I’m a girl.

  She knew what Aurora was hinting at

  because others often asked her

  about how much boyness

  she had versus girlness.

  Mima was in the bathroom too

  brushing my hair into a tight bun

  that stretched my eyes

  like rubber bands

  and we quietly looked on.

  Aurora raised her screechy voice and blurted,

  My mom says you hate yourself and that’s

  why you want to be a boy.

  Magda flushed red

  to the tips of her ears.

  She turned her back to Aurora

  rubbed her hands in her face

  as if to stop tears from coming

  all of us stood silenced, in shock.

  Wait a minute, Aurora!

  Mima lets my hair go

  and marches over to the girls.

  Magda has more love for herself

  than any of us.

  She knows herself so well

  she can be anyone she wants.

  And you can tell your mami

  I said that.

  It was a good thing Mima was there.

  Thoughts stalled in my mind

  like a broken-down car

  but my uneasy thoughts

  wanted to drive off

  and think of happy things

  like how fun it is

  for Magda and me

  to learn to ride skateboards

  or

  hold our tongues so that normal words

  sound like bad words

  or

  play echo when we perform.

  Magda smiled big

  grabbed Aurora and hugged

  her with one arm

  gave her a little nudge

  on the head as if to say,

  You booger—knock it off.

  I looked to Magda

  when we were alone

  in the bathroom.

  Scanned her

  for what she must be feeling.

  The right words blocked in my boca

  by my bitten nails.

  Couldn’t describe how bad I felt

  for having stayed quiet

  for letting Mima speak for her

  for not knowing how to

  defend her from Aurora la rudeness

  who has chisme caught in every breath.

  Of all people, Aurora, whose light skin

  makes that big brown mole

  at her temple look

  like it’s a third eye

  and who squeals each time

  she sees Iván like some loca.

  I found Magda’s two dark brows

  lifting like umbrellas

  Oh, I just learned this hambone

  two-three rhythm like in clave.

  You wanna learn?

  I squeaked,

  You okay, Magda?

  She didn’t answer, instead

  she grabbed my hands, and our

  eyes locked like a pinky swear

  in a never-mind-Aurora kind of way.

  We both grinned like two weirdos

  each ounce of discomfort

  smacked away

  in a hand-warming hambone

  two

  then three

  then two

  then three

  pulse …

  Mima says yerbitas can heal us.

  Drunk or eaten herbs

  can cure what bugs you:

  fever, sniffles, headache, nerves,

  cramps, bellyache, toothaches,

  and growing pains.

  She learned this from her mother, Yeya,

  who learned it from her mother

  who learned it from her mother

  like that

  all

  the

  way

  down

  a long line of herbal women in Mexico

  and she teaches me too.

  She grows them

  in the garden.

  Sometimes in little pots out back.

  This is how I love them best

  so I pick at them

  with the tips of my

  nail-less fingers.

  Snap a tender twig

  right from the plant

  and eat it in the sun.

  I watch Mima make tinctures

  strong teas, and salves

  for friends and clients who are sick.

  Funny thing, they do get better.

  She got rid of my

  molluscum contagiosum—warts on my chin and feet—

  by smothering each wart

  with dragon’s blood—a stinky red sap

  from a Mexican tree

  that smells like a cross

  between feet and barf.

  She gave Luis, Magda’s dad,

  a tea so strong, it stopped

  his flaming bowel from making

  him fold over in pain.

  Tonight, I’m working on a list of all the herbs

  I know and what they’re good for

  and typing them right into my tablet

  in case I can use it for a science report:

  Yerba Buena—bellyache and foggy brain

  Arnica—bruises and sprains

  Rosemary—poor eyesight and dandruff

  Lemon Balm—jumpy nerves and cold sores

  Manzanilla—bellyache and insomnia

  Dragon’s Blood—warts, moles, acne, and other wild bumps

  Maybe one day, aside from a dancer

  I’ll be an herbalist too.

  Flor is the name Mima

  has called my down-there girl parts

  since I was very little

  when she taught me to wash myself.

  She held a mirror between my legs

  let me inspect between the petals

  and ask questions:

  Why does it look like that?

  Why is this button here

  and opening there?

  This little one here is for your pee—remember to wipe front to back to keep it healthy.r />
  This one here is your birth canal—the place where babies pass as they are born—which leads to the uterus where they grow.

  And this button here is only for you—it’s your happy button. You get to choose when to push it.

  Our flores are women’s most magical parts, mija. Aren’t we lucky?

  I didn’t think too much

  about it all back then

  and am only sometimes reminded

  when I feel a sparkly tickle in my flor

  when we go down a big hill

  or I’m on a carnival ride.

  Lately, the tingle happens

  when I think of Iván.

  Butterflies flutter first in my panza

  and then they make their way down

  in a

  trickle

  to

  my

  flor.

  I wonder if anyone can tell

  that my flor is sparkling?

  But then I remember

  what Mima said,

  It’s only for me.

  I’m relieved that

  nobody can.

  My father is a drum.

  Big barrel chest

  that he uses to practice the rhythms

  of his congas when he’s not near them

  where a big barrel voice pops out

  when he sings or yells for me to come.

  Gentle as earth beneath my feet

  when I curl up to him when

  Juju gets me so mad I could cry

  or when I can’t find the drum in me.

  He says,

  Sing from your breath and from your heart.

  Kae, Kae, Kae, Yemayá olodo

  Kae, Kae, Kae, asesú olodo

  And when I do, it is better.

  My drum’s in tune.

  Hands so rough and calloused

  you’d think he pounded nails

  for a living but he is

  a conguero.

  His living is music.

  Percussive pak, pok, dum, dim

  fills our house daily.

  Probably why I came out

  dancing.

  From the start

  Mima’s heartbeat

  Papa Drum’s music

  like my soundtrack

  and so I dance and sing along.

  Up late on a Saturday night.

  Juju sleeps.

  Luna wanes.

  The dancers come into

  our room again

  not dressed as brightly.

  As I watch them pirouette

  I can hear Mima and Papi

  speaking in the dining room

  outside our bedroom.

  Their voices vibrate

  harmonica-like

  through paper walls.

  I can tell it is something

  intense because of the

  singsong way that their

  voices climb and fall

  whisper and punch

  and I tune in.…

  Mima, please slow down with her. She’s too young to be dealing with all of this grown women’s stuff.

  Are you blind, amor? Haven’t you seen how her body is developing?

  You should be encouraging her to be a better artist, a better dancer, a better student, not a grown woman.

  She can be all those things and still celebrate the healthy development of her body.

  I guess I just don’t want my little girl to go. Can’t you let her come to it on her own and not because you want it a certain way?

  Her changes are going to happen whether we like it or not. Es la ley de la vida.

  But don’t you think she needs her privacy? A little space?

  Yes, but she can only get so much when she and Juju are crammed into that room.

  I mean from you and this moon ceremony.

  From me? Wait one second, amor. I’ll be damned if MY daughter comes into her womanhood in ignorance of her body and her connection to the universe.

  But she’s just a little girl, Mima.

  Yes, a BLOSSOMING little girl who is almost twelve and very soon will be a woman. She is going to need all of her power, all of her self-knowledge, and all of her community when it comes.

  I hear a bang

  like someone slammed the dining room table

  and I can’t tell if it’s Mima or Papi.

  I hear scrambling and complaints about

  a glass of spilled water.

  Then they are quiet.

  Though I wish Mima

  would listen to Papi

  I wonder what all of my power looks like

  and how much of me there is left to know.

  Juju was born

  with a broken heart

  and blue eyes.

  He came the night of a big storm

  so tiny he looked brittle

  and was sort of ugly.

  Mima said he looked

  like a baby bird who’d fallen from its nest

  or more like a viejito ruso, a Russian old man

  with his white skin, bald head, and light eyes.

  No one could explain exactly why

  he was so fair, so unlike

  the bronze of our skin

  except for Mima, who said that

  five hundred years of colonization

  gave him those colors

  and that he would brown up in no time.

  And he has, though that was never the worry.

  The doctors said only

  open-heart surgery could repair

  his tetralogy of Fallot—a heart br o k en

  in

  four

  places.

  Mima cried so much

  partly because her herbs

  couldn’t fix him

  mostly because there was a risk

  that he could die on the table.

  But he didn’t.

  He came back like a

  little bolt of lightning.

  I would sing songs to him

  to stop him from crying

  and because Papi says

  that music can heal us too.

  I like to think that it worked

  because now his heart is all sealed.

  He is as dorado as me

  though still has those crazy blue eyes

  and his mouth moves faster than

  any lightning strike could ever catch.

  Sunday morning

  I come into our bedroom after breakfast.

  Mima’s got the trash can turned upside down

  and everything’s scattered on the floor

  like fallen flower petals on the ground.

  She and Juju search for something

  like they often do for his lost Lego pieces

  but this time, Mima is crying quietly.

  What’d you break now, Juju? I begin to scold

  but she looks up and freezes my words

  with a cold how-could-you look.

  Then I see that she’s got the tiny

  pieces of our faces in her palm—

  our eyes and smiles,

  hair, bodies,

  my eleventh birthday cake—

  cut into strange triangles,

  wonky squares, and rhombuses.

  I didn’t think you hated us so much, mija?

  Then I begin to tear apart

  to see Mima so upset because

  of my moment of flaming coraje.

  I manage to tremble quietly,

  I was just mad.

  At what, Celi? What did we ever do?

  I can’t bring myself to tell her

  what I really want to say at first.

  Answer me, Celi—qué?

  I close my eyes

  too heavy with tears now

  and the words stumble from me:

  I don’t want to share

  what happens to my body

  with the whole world!

  It’s nobody’s business.

  You have no right, Mima.

  It’s my bod
y!

  I crack open my eyes

  to see a gash of hurt rip across

  the onyx of her wet eyes,

  But, mija, you should have nothing to hide

  from Papi and Juju and me.

  It is a beautiful thing, what’s

  happening to you.

  She mutters sweetly with lots of spaces

  between each word, which collide inside of me.

  She comes to hold me

  but I push away.

  Juju’s mouth drops open

  and Mima’s pierced heart

  drains the softness from her cry.

  Her weep deepens

  but I don’t care.

  Mima kneels down

  picks up a piece of the torn photo—

  it’s half of her face—and shows it to me,

  We are a family, Celi. You came from my blood.

  There is no use in trying to cut us out or push me away

  because nothing will ever change that.

  She begins to move toward the door

  but swoops up my tablet

  and takes it with her.

  I fling myself

  onto my bed and

  scream

  into my pillow.

  I feel a Lego piece

  hit

  my back

  when Juju leaves

  to go look for Mima.

  Magda catches me hiding as I watch Iván

  do skateboard tricks outside La Peña.

  Luckily Aurora the pest is not around

  drooling all over him.

  So Magda settles next to me

  to follow him as

  he swishes

  glides

  skips

  scratches up the concrete planter.

  Iván is Black-xican—Black and Mexican

  mixed like me.

  A little different than my

  Black-Puerto Rican-Mexican-ness

  but with the exact same deep amber in our skin

  and reddish-brown honey in our eyes.

  Painted on the underside of his skateboard deck

  is an Aztec calendar on one end

  and a Black Panther on the other.

  We hear him tell his friend

  that he and his Mexican dad

  painted that board

  together

  before his dad left.

  Mima and Magda’s mom, Teresa,

  sit and talk in La Peña’s café

  while they wait for our bomba class to end.

  They are friends since college

  from their Xicana Power organizing days

  when they started to learn about being Mexica

  about our Aztec ancestors

  and lost history.

  Teresa’s a chiropractor

  easy harmony with herbalist Mima.

  They reconnected when they went for

  their doctorate degrees at NCHU—

  Northern California Holistic University—

  while pregnant with us and studying in their fields.