Land of the Cranes Read online

Each house pushes out

  its own smell

  of homemade

  sopa or carnes or salsas

  or the scent of

  Pine-Sol mop water

  emptied on a driveway.

  But my favorite is the smell

  of geraniums when

  I snap a leaf and rub

  it into my hands

  make one into a cup

  up to Mami’s nose

  to make her smile.

  At the clinic

  crane chisme

  fills the waiting room

  like a band of pots and pans

  until we roll into the clean quiet

  of the checkup room.

  You and the baby are both doing great!

  Twenty weeks and you’re right on schedule,

  Nurse Sandra says as she show us

  the ultrasound of our egg.

  It’s kicking its little legs, sucking its

  little thumb, and turning

  away from us like I do

  when I’m in bed

  and I don’t want

  to wake up.

  Mami pays one hundred dollars for the visit

  because we don’t have that insurance

  we’d have if we weren’t cranes.

  Estoy feliz, she says, the baby is okay.

  Mami and I almost bounce back out

  into the cold sun of the morning

  that pours itself

  onto my East LA

  like liquid gold

  the color of corn.

  St. Rose of Lima is super crowded.

  It’s La Virgen de Guadalupe’s day.

  But we wiggle our way

  up to the big statue of

  La Virgen, who has

  more flowers than

  a garden.

  I give her angel

  a secret crane poem.

  My wish for dulzura for Papi.

  I fold it into

  a tight origami triangle

  and cram it between the angel’s

  hairy head and the crescent.

  It’s almost a secret because

  you can see a big chunk of my

  name and date on the triangle fold.

  ita-December 12

  I need to see mis amores,

  Papi says when he calls.

  The achy feeling

  of wanting to be with him

  splits        my heart        just a little more open.

  Mami’s eyes flood with tears

  when she says,

  And we need to see you, cariño.

  A crane told me

  there is a way for us to meet

  at a place called Friendship Park

  at the Tijuana / San Diego border.

  Though, we would be divided

  by a fence.

  Really, Papi?

  Maybe we can at least hold your hand?

  Maybe you can touch Mami’s nest!

  Maybe we can hug you!

  I don’t know for sure

  but wouldn’t that be sweet, Plumita?

  I wish we could do that.

  Wait, could we?

  Well, I could take a Friday-night bus

  to Tijuana and be there by Saturday

  when the park is supposed to open.

  Mami jumps in up.

  I could ask your brother, Juan, to drive us there?

  Is Tijuana far, Papi?

  Not as far for you as it is for me.

  Please, Papi!

  Please, Mami!

  Could we try?

  We could! Why not, mi’ja?

  Papi, do you think it would be safe?

  I ask, suddenly remembering

  how ICE took him.

  Not at Friendship Park, they say

  that place is made for meeting!

  My wings begin to wiggle when he says,

  Let’s talk to Tío Juan

  and see what he says.

  Tío Juan plays Norteñas

  nonstop in the car

  as we drive to meet

  Papi in San Diego.

  Tío Juan’s, Tía Raquel’s,

  Tina’s, and Mami’s heads

  bounce to accordions and horns.

  My jittery mind does jumping jacks.

  Mami brought Papi homemade gorditas

  filled with picadillo and her too-spicy-for-me salsa.

  I brought him a new crane poem

  and his pillowcase

  so he can put it in his shirt

  while we visit

  and give his feathered scent

  back to me.

  The freeway is crowded with cars

  and too many trucks traveling

  big and wide and blocking the views

  of all I’ve never seen

  outside of East LA …

                                          Cities, green grassy hills, open skies

  with hawks flying

                                          and swooping down

  landing on the telephone wires

  that look like a necklace

  lining the road.

  Tina’s got the GPS

  fixed on Friendship Park

  though the signal goes

  in and out.

  Are we close yet?

  I ask Tío Juan and Tina every few minutes

  and he sighs real deep

  but then he gives me a job.

  Tell us a story, Betita.

  From the back seat where I sit

  squished between

  Tina and Mami

  I tell him about how Amparo

  and I play Chichimeca warriors

  because of the stories Papi once told us.

  Papi said the bravest fighters

  pushed the Spanish away for centuries.

  They would not be conquered.

  Just then Mami gets a call from Papi, she says,

  He arrived! He said Friendship Park is near a beach!

  I can see him now

  behind the fence

  his bright face

  with his broken wings

  standing where

  the earth meets the ocean

  waiting to hold our hands.

  My GPS is jammed, Tina says

  looking down at her phone

  while more stories pour out of me,

  There are places with huge pyramids

  across the Americas

  where our people

  followed the paths of stars.

  A hundred times bigger than these trucks.

  I point to the big rigs we are sandwiched between.

  Pa, I think we’ve gone too far, Tina shouts over me.

  I’ll get off on the next exit. He moves right,

  but a truck’s in the way and he can’t

  so he tries to go around it.

  Just as we pass, I read aloud a sign that says,

  “Last US Exit.”

  Tío Juan’s neck twists like an owl’s

  to see the road behind him.

  ¡Hijole! We missed the exit!

  ¿Qué? We did what? Can we make a U-turn?

  We all fling questions at him like rubber band shots.

  Ay dios, I’m afraid we have no choice but to go through.

  He shakes his head and grips the steering wheel

  like we are about to head

                                          off a cliff.

  But we don’t.

  The car slows with traffic

  and we cross what looks

  like a gigantic gas station

  with an oversized sign that reads,

  M E X I C O.

  Tío Juan’s words run a marathon.

  I’ve got to get back i
n line. I’ve got to tell

  them it was a mistake. It will be okay. We’ll

  be okay. We’ve got our papers. You’ve got

  Fernanda’s, right?

  Mami nods quickly and holds the bump of her belly.

  Are we okay, Mami? What about Papi? I ask.

  She reaches for me and says,

  Everything will be alright, Betita.

  Be patient. La Virgencita is with us.

  She takes my hand and wraps

  a string of rosary beads around it.

  We have to have faith

  that everything will be alright.

  We join the lines of slow-moving cars.

      It’s like rush hour in LA! I blurt.

      Is that the US border ahead now, Mami?

  Ya, Betita! Tía Raquel shouts. You’re making me nervous.

  Tina pokes me with an elbow.

  Mami hushes me by tapping her finger on my lips.

  I’m not sure what I said wrong

  but I turn off the faucet of my mouth.

  As we approach a guard station

  the quiet grows in our car.

  A man in uniform with the words

  “CBP Border Patrol” on his vest

  looks in and demands, Passports, please.

  I’m so relieved it isn’t ICE.

  Mami hands him the paperwork

  Fernanda gave us, and Tío Juan

  gives him his and Tina’s passports

  but he has nothing for Tía Raquel.

  The agent looks them over and motions for us

  to go park off to the side for inspection.

  We get out and Tío Juan’s mouth is running again

  talking up two more agents who’ve come

  to look through the car and our papers.

  I can’t make out all they say but I know

  Mami’s hand

  trembles hard

  in mine.

  Tío Juan’s face grows

  red as he argues

  helicopter arms

  moving in every direction.

  Suddenly one of the agents

  takes Tía Raquel by the arm

  and walks her over to an SUV.

  Tía Raquel begins to cry

  turns back

  to scream at Tío Juan and Tina,

  Please don’t let them take me. Please!

  Before I know it, an agent has Mami

  by the arm too, but Mami shakes free.

  ¡Espera! Wait, no, no no!

  We need asylum, that’s what the papers say!

  He grabs her arm again and says coldly,

  This isn’t enough, you’re going in.

  I run to hold Mami around the waist

  and shout loud at him,

  I am a brave

  Chichimeca warrior!

  You will not take my mami too!

  Mami clutches me close.

  But my daughter? she begs.

  She’s going in with you, he cuts.

  Tina’s and Tío Juan’s shock spills

  off their faces, their eyes bounce

  wild across us.

  Tina lifts a quick hand

  with her phone to record it.

  I swing an angry arm

  like a sword

  at him.

  I repeat louder,

  I am a brave

  Chichimeca warrior!

  But the angry-faced agent

  slaps my hand away.

                                              I spread my wings to fly

                              but before I take flight

                  they drag us

  into the SUV

  with Tía Raquel

  clipping our wings

  when the door

  slams

  shut.

  They’ve tied Mami’s and Tia Raquel’s

  wings behind their backs

  with thin plastic strips.

  They force-buckle me

  to the seat.

  I push

  them away, screaming.

  I hear Mami’s worried voice,

  Do what they tell you, Betita!

  ¡Por favor, amor, por favor!

  Mami’s and Tia’s tears

  collide

  with mine as we watch

  Tío Juan and Tina drive away

  and others slowly fill the SUV.

  Then we finally drive too.

  They don’t talk to us.

  They don’t tell us

  where we are going.

  They don’t respond

  when Mami pleads

  like Fernanda told her

  for “political asylum”

  because there is

  danger waiting for us

  in the mountain.

  They speak only to tell us,

  You have been detained for

  breaking United States immigration laws.

  You will be processed and

  taken to a detention facility.

  Detention, like for being

  bad at school?

  Processed?

  Mami prays Tío Juan will

  reach Fernanda and that she will

  know where to find us

  that someone’s called Papi

  or Amparo’s family

  to tell them

  they’ve taken us.

  Virgencita, protect us, por favor, Mami says.

  Though we are

  strapped down

  I touch Mami’s crying face

  with one hand.

  With the other

  I hold our egg

  resting in her nest.

  I am afraid

  it might crack.

  a desert to the

  “detention facility,”

  not cranes, criminals.

  When we arrive, a big frozen

  concrete monster

  swallows us up

  through its heavy mouth.

  Doors made of painted iron.

  We walk slowly into rooms

  one after the other, as cold as stones.

  I’ve heard about this place,

  la hielera, an icebox we’ve seen on the news

  that holds cranes in a chill, trying to find home.

  We line up with other mothers

  and children cranes here too.

  Being “processed” like us.

  Tía Raquel is taken

  to another line with no children.

  Could it be because Tina is not with her?

  I hold on to Mami’s belt loop

  as we walk into a room

  where they finally release the plastic ties

  around her almost-bleeding wrists.

  Instead of reaching to rub them

  she reaches to fold me

  into her warm arms.

  She doesn’t let go.

  Then, her ojos, wet from crying

  look to me as if to say,

  Be brave, mamita, be brave.

  They make her empty her pockets

  though all of her things

  are in her purse

  which they already have.

  She holds her breath when

  they take the medalla

  of La Virgen from around her neck.

  She helps me empty my pockets

  and what I have, I don’t want

  to give to them either.

  Fifty cents for chocolate milk

  a shiny concrete rock that glimmers in the sun

  a dried dead bee I collected in the yarda

  and a folded crane poem

  I made just for Papi.

  It shows flying Chichimeca warriors

  gliding above my school

  and reads:

  Warriors swarm

  like bees above us.

>   They keep us safe

  while you are away, Papi.

  Betita-February 4

  I don’t show them Papi’s pillow square

  stolen away and warming my chest

  for no one but me and maybe Mami

  to ever smell.

  We walk into the ice monster’s maze

  of chain-link skirts

  cages filled with cranes

  more shades of tan and brown

  than I’ve ever seen.

  Families captured

  sad faced

                                                      worried faced

                                                                              crying faced

                                          distant faced

                                                                              some lying down

  some standing, arms crossed

                                                      others            sitting

  no longer wearing wings

  but silver capes

  that crinkle crackle

  each time they move

  or pull the capes closer to their bodies.

  Coughs

  babies crying

                                          people speaking

  quietly

  all a stir in my ears.

  The capes

  shuffling and sounding

  so loud inside and outside

  their murmurs.

  Is this where we are headed

  when Mami and me are handed

  a folded cape each?

  Some of them see us                and I can tell

  they feel sorry for us. Some stare

  away from us, maybe wondering

  when they will be free.

  Others close their eyes

  and clench their fists

  like I sometimes do

  when wishing for a nightmare

  to be over.

  we’re locked into a

  chain-link cage made for cranes

  with our silver capes.

  My panza grumbles

  like trash can opossums

  growling in the dark.

  I’ve been too scared to notice

  until now.