Land of the Cranes Page 6

  How much longer will we be here, Mami?

  Mami’s worried I don’t know looks

  like a rain cloud just covered her face.

  Every day and every night

  we make different sounds for sadness

  a chorus of cranes

  sighs, whimpers,

  cries, soft,

  muffled, echoing loud.

  Wheezing. Can this be sad?

  Yes, the way it whistles into

  and out of little lungs, a rattling

  and is followed by

  coughs and hacks

  drowning

  in the

  coldest

  tristeza.

  New cranes crowd our chain-link cell

  and the chain-link cells across from ours.

  Some look like teens

  but they take care, like mamas,

  of other kids.

  Mami notices they are here

  without mothers or fathers.

  Almost alone.

  I overhear guards call them

  “practically unaccompanied minors.”

  I don’t know

  what that means exactly

  other than they are here

  almost solas.

  Their wings smaller

  more hidden

  more injured

  than the rest of ours.

  I see Mami’s schoolteacher heart

  bend into kindness for them.

  I don’t know what she might do.

  Mami gathers the stories

  about the almost solitas in broken

  bits and pieces.

  They are in charge                    of their siblings.

  They’re looking for                    their mothers.

  They’re running from                their fathers.

  They were threatened by            gangs.

  They’ve lost    their    way.

  They need to    work to send help        back home.

  Home in

  Guatemala,    Honduras,        El Salvador,        and Mexico

                                                                            like us.

  They are cranes whose

  song-like names I try

  to catch in my brain …

  Roxanne,        Mariee,        Allison,        Claudia,        Johanna.

  They don’t trust us

  so, I tell them about the prophecy

  in my best Papi Spanish.

  The Mexica people came

  from Aztlán—the place of the cranes

  which we think was an island

  on a misty lake, here in El Norte.

  Seven tribes

  including the Mexica

  traveled south like cranes

  when Huitzilopochtli—

  Who?

  The god of war

  announced his

  prophecy that they

  would move south

  to build their great

  civilization in the

  ombligo of the world.

  ¿De veras? How can this be true?

  Because my papi told me so.

  He said Aztlán is

  our ancestral homeland

  and all migrants have come

  back home.

  But they turn away

  like they don’t believe

  a little kid they just met

  like me.

  Inside those long, cold days

  I wonder what our flock

  is doing—Tío Juan, Tina, Diana, Amparo.

  I see them looking through

  our box of treasures.

  Diana, holding our pictures

  in her soft hands.

  Then, Amparo

  playing alone

  in our yarda

  with a stick

  I left behind.

  And Tina, missing her mami

  and posting a quinceañera makeup

  tutorial on her Gram page

  and getting so many likes.

  When I try to imagine

  Papi, his face fades

  into fog.

  Mami says it’s been a week since

  we were swallowed by

  this monster.

  A week?

  It feels as long as a year.

  We line up for showers

  though we don’t have

  anything else to wear.

  Some cranes are covered

  in dirt so thick it’s hard to tell

  the real color of their clothes.

  But then they give us

  a dingy towel and

  a bag of old clothes

  for us to fish for anything clean.

  We find

  T-shirts

  sweatshirts

  the biggest, boxiest underwear

  and pants.

  They want us to throw our

  old things into the trash.

  I turn to Mami and shake my head.

  I don’t want to give up my blouse.

  I want to keep Papi’s pillow square close.

  The woman guard with yellow hair

  stands above me.

  She is a tower when I look up.

  Her hand on her hips, she

  clears her throat and

  fumes,

  Now!

  I stomp my feet on her foot

  accidentally when I sass back,

  No!

  I don’t want you to take my blouse!

  Mami pleads with me,

  Betita, por favor. Don’t make trouble.

  The guard grabs me by the arm

  shakes my body like a sheet

  and starts to pull up my blouse.

  Mami steps in like wind.

  No la toques, you will not touch my little girl!

              I touch who I want!

  You will not!

  Mami snatches me away

  with mama-bear strength.

  The guard goes to hit Mami,

  but the guard only

  scratches her arm.

  Mami pulls me behind her

  and looks at Yellow Hair

  right in the snake of her eyes.

  Do as you are told, wetback!

  Mami doesn’t answer, but

  she also doesn’t move.

  Behind her, I quickly pull my hand

  into my blouse and remove

  the pin that holds my pillow square

  and sneak them into the new clothes

  that have dropped to the floor.

  When I come up, I pull off my blouse

  hold it against my bare chest

  and stare brick hard up at Yellow Hair

  until she begins to move on and says,

  That’s more like it.

  All the women and girls have to bathe

  in one big open shower.

  I want to fly away.

  I can tell Mami is crying

  though she turns me away

  so she can wash my hair.

  I hear the little gasps

  of breath she takes laced

  with the tiniest squeak.

  I have to close my eyes

  but I open my mouth

  to swallow the shower water because

  inside our cell there is no fountain

  and the handwashing sink is broken

  so we drink from the toilet tank.

  I pretend it is raining

  and Amparo and I

  are in our yarda

  tongues out

  collecting the drops …

  Then, sudde
nly, I hear Mami gag.

  I turn to see her folded over

  holding her nest

  and throwing up

  a liquid mess

  all over the shower.

  Ay, Virgencita, she cries.

  Yellow Hair comes

  in with her baton out

  grabs Mami

  by the hair and pulls

  up her head

  growling, What now, wetback?

  But Mami continues

  to throw up

  so Yellow Hair lets her go

  and laughs at her.

  When Mami is done

  I am her cane.

  I help her rinse off

  and walk her to

  the changing area.

  I look back to see

  Josefina running the water

  over the mess Mami made.

  Are you okay, Mami? I ask

  the worry and the smell making

  me want to throw up too.

  I need to lie down, mi’ja.

  I just need to lie down.

  My lap makes a pillow

  for Mami’s head while

  she lies on the frozen concrete floor.

  I tucked her in snuggly

  with both of our silver blankets.

  I stroke her head quietly

  searching for dulzura.

  Rub the pillow square against her cheek.

  I wish I knew the words to the song

  about a paraíso so I could sing it to her.

  Instead, I hum it.

  I stare at her brown crane-skin

  paler than before

  and her thick, wavy hair

  still wet and so deep brown

  it shines like ocean stone.

  I follow the shape of her body

  the way her nest makes

  her back bend into an

  S

  and her front into an

  O.

  Two months until it hatches.

  I want to ask Mami if she

  thinks we will be out of here

  by then, but she is sleeping now.

  Right before I close my eyes

  I see the O of her nest

  turn into a Q.

  I know our baby chick is moving

  and suddenly

  everything feels better.

  Before we flew across the deserts

  before we landed in East LA

  before Tío Pedro went missing

  before we found our flock here

  before I knew of picture poems

  before we were trapped in a monster

  I was an egg inside of Mami

  inside Mexico, stirred, cooked, and hatched

  right from the nesting hearts

  of a singing Mami and a dreaming Papi

  whose mountain home was filled with love.

  Is there a doctor I can see?

  Mami asks Josefina.

  She answers first

  with a big sigh, then says,

  You have to get better on your own

  or you have to fake it. They can take

  your girl from you, if you aren’t well.

  Yanela turns out her lower lip

  scrunches it against her top in agreement.

  I hear this and it scares a chill all over me.

  Mamita, will you please get better fast?

  I don’t want to be away from you.

  Please.

  Please.

  Please!

  Mami struggles to lift herself.

  Baby Jakie claps happy hands

  together to see her get up.

  Mami presses my cheeks together

  her always cariñito

  and says, Sí, mi amorcito. I will.

  Though the panic keeps

  running

  wild

  all over my head.

  I lean against the chain-link

  and watch Mami lie back down to sleep.

  I think Tío Juan

  maybe never called Fernanda?

  Maybe he was too scared to call?

  Maybe he and Papi are looking for us?

  Maybe Fernanda abandoned us too

  and we will never leave this dangerous place?

  Maybe there is no such thing

  as finding dulzura in our struggle?

  Maybe we will never see Papi again?

  Maybe I will forget the flower of his face?

  The next morning

  I’m up before everyone.

  My head itches

  so badly all I want to do is

  S C R A T C H

  S C R A T C H

  S C R A T C H!

  Oh oh! ¿Piojos?

  Mami is still sleeping

  and I’m not waking her

  to worry her more.

  So I just do it.

  I use my fingernails to dig

  into the itchy craziness in my hair

  and it makes me

  feel so        much better for

  a tiny second

  before I’ve got to do it

  again

  and again.

  I see Yanela catch me

  scratching, so I put

  my hand down quickly.

  Her eyes aren’t floating into space.

  She smiles shyly at me

  then gently waves me over

  to sit next to her.

  Maybe she wants to check

  to see if what I fear

  I have is for real.

  I’m so glad Carlos is snoring away.

  Yanela is a quiet mouse

  but moves her fingers

  through my bedhead

  parting and p u l l i n g

  parting and p u l l i n g

  what feels like one

  long strand at a time.

  I ask her,

  Do you think I have piojos?

  And she is silent.

  How do you know it isn’t the soap

  left over from the shower?

  And she is silent.

  Do you speak English?

  And she is silent.

  But when I ask the same in Spanish

  she finally answers to say,

  No.

  I have to rearrange my mind.

  My question seems stupid.

  I should have known.

  Everyone in here speaks Spanish, mostly.

  Mami and I are the few who speak both.

  Then, Yanela quickly chases

  and catches

  and crushes

  a critter between her fingers

  with the same tiny pop

  her mom made before.

  Are you ever going to say anything, Yanela?

  I use my East LA Spanish.

  And still she is silent.

  I figure, I will talk to her instead.

  I begin to tell her

  all about who we are.

  We once lived like cranes

  in a place called Aztlán

  where we were free to roam

  across the land …

  I can tell she is listening

  because she    pauses

  but when I turn my head

  she goes back to parting and p u l l i n g.

  She works on my head quietly

  and I keep going on and on

  spinning and tangling up

  all of Papi’s stories

  until I notice Mami start

  to stir awake.

  I dash over and lie next to her

  and I look at her slightly puffy

  eyes still bloodshot from yesterday.

  I want my face to be the one

  to make her well.

  I feel better this morning.

  It all caught up to me,

  Mami explains.

  I don’t blame her.

  The food has been so gray

  and what that yellow-haired guard

  did to us made me so scared

  I g
ot lice.

  Well, maybe I got it without her

  but still.

  I check Mami’s arm to see

  three

  red

  streaks

  that Yellow Hair’s awful claws

  left on her skin.

  Mami thinks that Yellow Hair

  descends from cranes, like us

  because her hair is bleached yellow

  and her last name is Pacheco.

  But she called us wetbacks, Mami?

  Then, I scratch my head, wildly.

  Mami sighs so deeply

  just closes her eyes

  and nods.

  After the breakfast Mami and I refuse to eat

  Yanela signals me over to her

  with a tiny wiggle of her pointer finger.

  Tell me again about the cranes,

  los tocuilcoyotl, she whispers

  as she turns my shoulders

  away from her and picks apart my hair.

  There once was a great migration

  brown-and-white cranes

  swept their way south.

  They flew to find the great city

  in the belly button of the universe

  which was a tiny island where they saw

  the most amazing thing—an eagle

  devouring a serpent on top of a cactus.

  So they built their city around the tiny sacred island

  and filled in the shallow water with earth.

  There they would dance, and croon rattle their songs,

  and farm, and build nests, and make magic.

  And one day, the migration was reversed

  and the magical cranes flew north

  back to the place where they began

  to dance, croon rattle their songs, farm,

  build nests, and be magical there once again.

  If our wings weren’t clipped, Yanela,

  we could fly too.

  I look over my shoulder to see

  Yanela’s itsy-witsy smile.

  When Yanela is done,

  she folds my hair into two

  pretty, long French braids.

  But then I feel a really hard YANK!

  I’m shocked

  and I turn around

  feeling so betrayed.

  Ow!

  I see Carlos laughing out loud

  with his wet thumb outside his mouth.

  Yanela whacks him on the arm.

  Hey! I’m just welcoming her

  to the piojo club. It’s her initiation!

  All I dare do is scrunch my nose at him

  while I stick out my tongue.

  I’ve just made a friend

  who I don’t want to lose

  but I could do without

  her little booger of a brother.

  I start counting the days

  two weeks now

  locked in here

  with one hour of light

  the coughing sounds of sadness