his father’s stable. We gasp and cheer.
That René, he has taken plastic pipe,
electrician’s tape and bits of wood,
and made six weapons, one for each.
“These are bottle rocket rifles,” he says.
He shows us how to shoot them, to slide in the rocket,
wedge the fuse tight at the mouth of the pipe.
We flick our fathers’ lighters with glee,
quickly scattering to take deadly aim!
I dodge the missile that Joseph lets fly:
It explodes far away, flinging its sparks.
Timoteo, however, is struck in the chest
by Raúl’s perfect aim! WHOOSH! BAM!
It’s war! We rush through the brush with whoops,
a half dozen rockets shoved in back pockets.
HISS! René’s deadly dart whizzes right by,
singeing the back of my hair! OW!
Soon the battle invades the grown-ups’ domain.
All the men start grinning and egging us on,
though our mothers shout angry rebukes:
“¡Muchachos traviesos, se van a lastimar!”
But it’s not us who get hurt that night.
Clumsy me, I stumble as I lift my weapon:
With a screaming whistle, the rocket hits
the ground and hurtles toward Father García …
OH, NO! It strikes his foot and shoots up his pant leg,
exploding right above his knee. BOOM!
Oh, the squeal that he lets loose! YOWL!
The sound still echoes in my ears as I work my way
through the long list of chores my angry mother
has dreamed up for the rest of my summer.
FIRST DAY OF SEVENTH GRADE
Khakis, uniform shirt, belt—
you’d think I’d hate
going back to middle school,
but I’m super excited!
See, I hang with an unusual crowd.
Bobby Handy, the half-white Chicano;
Bobby Lee, whose parents are from Seoul;
and Bobby Delgado, dominicano moreno.
I think of us as el Güero y los Bobbys,
like we’re some famous Tejano band.
My sister Teresa calls us los Derds—Diverse
Nerds. We like comics, gaming, and books.
It seems like forever
since I’ve seen my three friends,
all busy with family this summer—
least we had Snapchat and Skype!
Dad drops me off, though I’d rather walk.
Los Bobbys are already in the cafeteria
grabbing breakfast. Fist bumps
all around. We smile and insult each other.
We compare schedules. Just a few
shared classes, but we’ll meet
in the library like always.
The bell rings. We’re off!
It’s like navigating down the
Río Grande, avoiding the lockers,
steering through the middle channel.
I get to homeroom, and lucky me.
Snake Barrera. The bully.
Looks like he’s fifteen.
My dad once fired his dad.
Now he hates my guts.
But my teachers are woke,
especially for English and band,
and a girl in social studies
glances at me twice.
When I catch her looking,
she smirks and shakes her head.
My stomach flops, and I’m shook—
I think it’s going to be a great year.
LOS BOBBYS, OR THE BOOKWORM SQUAD
If we were a team
of super heroes,
this would be
our origin story.
It was last year.
Sixth grade.
Middle school’s
kind of a shock,
especially for nerdy
little border kids.
All the tall guys
almost like grown-ups,
all the girls, even taller,
traveling in scary
Amazon groups.
I ended up
in the library.
Every day.
Before school
and during lunch.
One day, Bobby Handy
walked in. Finally
someone I knew!
We sat together,
reading and sharing
clever lines
or plot points.
After a few weeks,
we noticed another
couple of loners
creeping around
in the dusty corners
of the non-fiction
section. I approached,
introduced myself.
Bobby Handy almost
passed out laughing
when they said their names:
Roberto Delgado
and Robert Lee.
“Three Bobbys,”
I explained as they stared.
“And one Güero,”
Handy managed to add.
Here’s the mentor part.
All heroes need one.
Mr. Soria, the librarian,
all bushy hair and eyebrows,
came over to shush us.
But within a few minutes
of weird questions,
he figured out what
major nerds we are.
“Let’s talk about books,”
he suggested. “Cool ones.
I’ll show you the best.”
He was freaky and funny
and pretty persuasive.
That was the birth of
the Bookworm Squad.
Now we come together
twice a day
to swap favorite titles
and look for new greats.
Lucky us! Mr. Soria knows
all sorts of writers who look
and talk like us: Dominicans,
Koreans, Mexicans, Chicanos,
Black and Native folks, too.
It’s the perfect time for us,
for diverse nerds and geeks,
for all woke readers—
heroes whose power
is traveling through these pages
to distant times and places
to find our proud reflections.
THEY CALL ME GUERO
In my family, I have the lightest skin.
My big sister Teresa is toasty brown
and little Arturo’s the color of honey.
But I’m pasty white, covered in freckles.
Everyone’s got a nickname for me—
Tío Danny calls me El Pecas, while
Grandpa Manuel tussles my copper hair
and shouts, “Way to go, Red!”
Most folks? They call me Güero.
In fact they use that word so much
that when I was a little squirt,
I thought it was my name!
My family loves my paleness,
even Teresa, who says she’s jealous.
I look like my grandmother,
lots of Spanish and Irish blood.
But at school, it’s a different story,
as if my complexion’s on purpose.
The haters say I think I’m all that,
call me “el Canelo chafo” and laugh.
Their taunts make me wish I could box
like Saúl Álvarez, the real Canelo—
my hands ache to curl into fists
and pound my problems away.
But I swallow my pride, keep calm.
When Dad picks me up, he can tell.
“What’s wrong, Güero? Looks like
you’re ready to punch someone.”
As he drives, I explain, jaw tight.
My dad puts his hand on mine.
It’s deep brown like mesquite bark
or clay from Mexican soil.
I wish my skin were like that
not all pink and freckled,
turning lobster red in the border sun
to match my rusty hair.
“M’ijo, pale folks catch all the breaks
here and in Mexico, too. Not your fault.
Not fair. Just the way it’s been for years.
Doors will open for you that won’t for me.”
My eyes fill with tears. “But I didn’t ask
anyone to open them for me!”
Dad squeezes my hand. “No, but now
you’ve got to hold them open for us all.”
MS. WONG & THE RABBIT
This year, my English teacher
opens up a whole new world to me.
I can tell right away that Ms. Wong
will be different. For example—
she has a white rabbit in her room: Nun.
White, with floppy ears. A “lop,” she says.
(Bobby Lee says “Nun” means “snow” and
“Eye” in Korean—the bunny’s eyes are red.)
The first week of school, Ms. Wong talks about
the Moon Rabbit. In both Korea and Mexico,
people have long believed the marks on the moon
are the shape of a rabbit, placed there by the gods.
We read Aztec and Maya myths with her,
then Chinese and Korean legends, too.
My mind is totally blown. But Ms. Wong
is just getting started. She plays us a song:
“Bandal,” which means “Half Moon,”
a slow, pretty tune from her childhood.
Gliding down the Milky Way, across the dark sky.
A little white boat carries a bunny and a tree.
The lyrics of songs, she tells us, are just poems
set to music. I’d never thought of it that way.
Then we read a poem by Miguel León-Portillo
about the moon rabbit. He wrote it in Nahuatl,
the language of the Aztecs, and the paper
has both Spanish and English translations.
I could contemplate the night birds
and the rabbit in the moon at last.
We discuss it in pairs, and Bobby Lee is so excited.
All these lit languages? In English class? Whoa!
Later, Ms. Wong says something I can’t forget:
“Poetry is the clearest lens for viewing the world.”
That night, I start googling the lyrics of my
favorite songs, laid out in stanzas and refrains.
She’s right. It’s poetry, all metaphor and rhyme,
floating on music like the moon in the sky.
From then on, Ms. Wong becomes a hero to me
as she pairs up poems from past and present,
pulling back the lid and showing us the secrets,
like how Frost’s snow-filled woods symbolize death
or why Soto drops an orange, glowing like fire,
into the hands of a love-struck boy my age.
And I’m hooked. I begin to read everything
she gives me, amazing yet familiar voices,
they show me truths I recognize at once,
though I didn’t know the words before.
My mind and heart swell with all the things
I need to say, and one day it just happens:
I put pen to paper, and my soul
comes rushing out in line after line.
Trickster
Mr. Gil, our social studies teacher,
announces a “thematic unit” one day.
He and Ms. Wong are teaming up
to teach us about…masks.
People make masks around the world,
but we focus on Mexico and Korea.
We learn about ancient rituals,
plays, dances—and how newer traditions
blended with the old ways
and made different masks.
We read and write and reflect.
To me, the best thing is that masks
can either hide or reveal your identity.
You can pretend to be something else—
a god, a monster, a princess, a priest—
or you can show your true self,
your animal soul,
your skeleton.
For our final project, Ms. Wong
invites to class her friend, a Mexican artist
named Celeste de Maíz, expert mask-maker.
She shows us her work: crazy, awesome
faces carved from mesquite,
painted in wild colors.
Then she shows us how to make our own
from papier-mâché. I think long and hard.
Should I pretend or reveal? What’s inside me?
Mr. Gil looks up my birth date. He tells me
that in the Aztec and Maya calendar
the day is 11 Dog. Any canine, he says,
might be my animal soul.
Right away, I know. The Feathered Coyote.
Aztec Trickster. God of music and mischief,
wisdom and story-telling. All decked out
with orange and gold feathers
to echo my own copper hair.
The mask is straight fire!
And los Bobbys have made some, too:
Handy’s is a bright blue skull
lined with silver flowers.
Lee makes an old Korean monk
with rainbow streaks down his nose.
But Delgado blows us all away—
a carnival mask with a duckbill
and feathery horns! Savage!
That weekend, we can’t resist.
These masks can’t just go on our walls.
We walk out to the desert at the city’s edge
wearing shorts and sneakers.
Then we strap on our masks
and run through the chaparral
chasing lizards and spiders,
playing out our secret selves
to earth and sky.
BIRTHDAY MEDLEY
My brother turns seven today.
Come listen to the joyful sounds!
Dale, dale, dale—
No pierdas el tino,
porque si lo pierdes…
Boom! The piñata explodes!
The pingos flock for the candy like crows!
Bolsitas for those who move too slow!
Estas son las mañanitas
que cantaba el rey David—
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday, Arturito…
Make a wish,
then blow!
¡Mordida!
¡Mordida!
Don’t wipe the icing from your chin
till I snap a photo—come on, grin!
Give me a hug, carnalito!
Open my present primerito!
SUNDAYS
Get up early, go to mass,
get back home and cut the grass.
Take a shower, time to eat,
sit with dad to watch TV.
Read a book to stretch my brain,
then try to beat that video game.
Dinner’s next, the family talks,
more TV, an evening walk.
Practice accordion in the garage,
dreaming of fans and loud applause.
Status updates, post some memes,
text my bros till moonlight gleams.
Brush my teeth and say my prayers,
close my eyes (please no nightmares).
Sundays end without a warning—
just like that, it’s Monday morning!
RECORDS
Every week I walk down the street
to visit my Bisabuela Luisa.
She’s almost eighty, frail and slow,
but in her heart she’s lively and fun—
and she loves music!
She serves me agua de melón,
which she makes special
just for me: she knows
it’s my favorite thing to drink.
We look through her records together
as she tells me about the singers
the songwriters
the orchestras
of that old
golden
age.
Like ancient heroes,
their names echo in our hearts:
Tomás Méndez Sosa
José Alfredo Jiménez
Chavela Vargas
Jorge Negrete
Pedro Infante
Lucha Reyes
Los Panchos.
With steady hands,
my great-grandmother slides
an album from its sleeve,
sets it on the turntable,
lowers the needle.
From the hiss and crackle
emerge these old-timey
but beautiful sounds.
I watch her lean back in her chair
closing her eyes,
transported to the past.
VARIEDAD MUSICAL
Though we each have different tastes,
music has a special place
in my family members’ lives
so that we thrive, not just survive.
Grandpa Manuel prefers conjunto bands.
Tío Mike cranks the Tejano strand.
My great-uncle Juan finds rock ‘n’ roll keen.
Tía Vero thinks she’s a disco queen.
My brother streams songs
from his favorite cartoons.
My sister likes reggae
and K-pop and blues.
Uncle Danny’s into rap—
snare cracks, high-hat attacks,
smooth flow from a hip-hop soul,
phat synths and a low bass roll.
Dad and Joe like country tunes:
Guitars twang and voices croon
about dogs and trucks and fishing boats
or love among the creosote.
Mamá escucha rock en español
to balance her passion for classical.
I also mix both old and new—
boleros, rancheras, dub-step grooves.
En las fiestas hay variedad musical—
we respect one another and jam to it all!
LA MANO PACHONA
Just last week, between classes,
me and los Bobbys ducked into the restroom.
I needed to go so bad, but froze
at the entrance to the stall,
craning my neck, peering into the toilet.
“What the heck, Güero?” asked Bobby Delgado,
and my face went red with embarrassment.
“Fam, I’m just checking, okay?
Some guys forget to flush!”
The other Bobbys laughed.
That wasn’t really the truth. I was still afraid
of a supernatural threat. Eight years ago,
my abuela Mimi told us a tale
that left a lasting mark.